It was Wednesday night, November 27,1985. I had finally sold our house in Clyde the week before and was able to join Bill in Atlanta. We were not only celebrating our third anniversary but also the end of a very long year spent apart.
Bill surprised me with reservations at Baby Doe's--a charming, mining-themed restaurant that overlooked the Chattahoochee River. We had a fabulous window table with a bird's-eye view of 285 that night, and as Bill enjoyed escargot on toast points, his most favorite meal in all the world, I marveled at the blazing lights below. Atlanta, with all its sights and sounds, was quite an experience for a country girl like me!
White lights glittered in one direction while red lights gleamed in the other as an endless stream of traffic crawled past. I had never seen so many cars in all my life!
"The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the worst traffic day of the year in Atlanta," Bill explained. "Southerners are headed north, Northerners are headed south, and the natives just drive around and around. See?" he pointed with a laugh as we leaned over the balcony for a closer look. Cars honked at one another in the distance like so many mechanical Canadian geese. Everyone was in such a hurry!
That night, I admired my tall, handsome husband, who was as comfortable ordering snails in a fancy restaurant as he was slinging Georgia clay in a ditch alongside his crew. Bill hadn't hesitated to leave the comforts of home to seek work in the big city during the economic downturn of the mid- 80's. He and two other electricians found jobs and shared housing in Atlanta and commuted home to the mountains on weekends whenever possible.
Though I often wept tears of joy on Friday nights when he returned as well as tears of frustration on Sunday afternoons as he drove away, Bill never complained.
I never worried about the future when I was married to Bill. He had no qualms about working overtime or taking on side jobs to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. Though I thanked him often for being such a good provider, protector, and patriarch, he would just tuck me underneath his great wingspan with a smile and say, "Honey, that's my job."
He did that job well for twenty-one years.
While there were no fireworks to celebrate our anniversary that evening, Atlanta did itself proud by ushering in a new beginning for us with millions of red and white lights. It was a magical night.
Kay O'Hara
11/6/2023
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