Boulder Creek

~ The Rendezvous Log ~

Join our Virtual Caper through the Summer of ’64

To Terry: Something Catches At The Thought Of Marriage

lonely woman

Monday, July 20, 1964, Landshut, Germany. I still had no answer to Terry’s proposal, but I couldn’t postpone a reply any longer.

I wrote, “Silverton, more than any other thing, brings me close to you because it typifies a way of life. The only thing I’ve figured out for sure this summer is that a woman marries far more than a husband. She weds a way of life she must also love.”

I knew I would choose peace and the tranquility of the mountains as a way of life—if I could only cut the powerful sinews that bound me to the military. Could I turn my back on my parents, my brother, and my life so far? That, in a nutshell, was the challenge. But I couldn’t even say it out loud.

I told Terry how he and Jack were so much alike. Why not share the heartache I had subjected Jack to? I had to make Terry understand how difficult the decision was. I asked for more time, promised to call when I could, but concluded, “Somehow, something catches inside me with the thought of marriage right away.”

Before noon, I addressed my letter to Terry in California, marched to the post office, and paid thirty-eight cents for an airmail special delivery response that was totally inadequate.—Ann


To Jack: Your Departure Leaves Me Less Than Whole

lock of hair

Tuesday, July 21, 1964, Landshut. Early morning. A rumbling rattled my room. I knew that smell—diesel exhaust. I stumbled to the window. Across the parking lot, soldiers swarmed the BOQ like an invasion of ants, hauling boxes and duffel bags into belching trucks. Jack’s Sting Ray crawled up a ramp onto an auto transport. I was about to be left alone.

How to say goodbye? There wouldn’t be a time or place for a proper farewell. But what about this: Send part of myself, a lock of hair. The thought yanked me from the window. I penned several versions of my parting note before I lit on this:

“My dearest Jack, Your departure leaves me less than whole, for you are taking part of my heart with you. I know you can’t hold it in your hand when you think of me, so I’m sending this lock of hair that you can see, touch, even sniff (if you’re so inclined—heh), to remind you of our extraordinary summer—and to hold us till Johnstown.

“No matter what happens, part of me will always belong to you. With my deepest love for all you have shared with me, and for the better person I have become by knowing you. Yours, Ann

Excerpts from Chapter 13, A Rendezvous to Remember.

A Letter From Colorado: “Marry Me”

proposal envelope

Saturday, July 18, 1964, Landshut, Germany. After dinner and dancing, Bonner walked me back to the teachers’ quarters, angling past his room for my mail. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this again,” he said. “Don’t import your own men when you come to visit me.”

He handed me a bundle of envelopes, all from Terry, all addressed in print-shop font, and as gaudy as circus flyers. Bonner was as steely eyed as a gunslinger, “And don’t break my best friend’s heart.”

I retreated to my room, lined up Terry’s letters, and opened the special delivery one. At the top of the second page, I gasped. “Annie, I am announcing formally and officially that I am proposing to you. I want you to marry me.”

Marry Terry? Now? What about the Peace Corps? I read quickly, determined to finish before tears spilled. Oh, I missed him so much. I did love him. But I loved Jack too.

And tonight, somewhere along the German-Czech border, was the Other Guy—the one who had squired me around Europe for two glorious weeks, the one I would see tomorrow morning. He would read this news in my face. What would I tell him? What would I tell Terry?

A silent scream wracked my insides. I don’t know! Don’t pressure me! Either of you!Ann


On The Road In California . . . But Thinking Of Europe

Chinese slit silk dress

Saturday, 18 July 1964, Los Gatos, California. We Marshalls—Mom, Pam, Randy, and I—took off early for northern California to see Mom’s sister, Clarice, an aunt I’d never met. After high school, Aunt Clarice had joined the Women’s Army Corps and got to see a bit of the world. At long last we’d get to meet the mysterious Aunt Clarice, soldier, world traveler.

I pretended that California was as exotic as Europe—to bring Annie’s thoughts back to the US. “You would love Carmel,” I wrote, “no neon, no garish signs or billboards; quaint little shops with quality goods instead of schlock.”

In Eureka, we spent the evening chatting with cousins every bit as delightful as the Kocher gang. Aunt Clarice was at least six feet tall, and Uncle Al at least six-four. I’d never met anyone so tall. Despite hitting it off with the Keister kids, by the time we finally trundled off to bed, I was missing Annie more than ever, and wrote her with a new confession:

“I’ve been hit again with a desire to have children. I can’t think of anything greater than giving you a child we could raise and love and share—in a couple of years after you’ve taught for a while and I’ve gotten my M.A.

“Last week, in Chinatown, I saw some beautiful silk shifts with splits up both sides that I wanted to get for you. I want to marry you, buy you a fancy wardrobe, and just sit around the house admiring you. We’d spend all our money on books and sexy clothing for you (and maybe a pair of socks for me once in a while).”—Terry

Excerpts from Chapters 12 and 13, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Into The Bowels Of Communist East Berlin

Berlin Wall

Wednesday, July 15, 1964, Berlin, Germany. I set off for Checkpoint Charlie, the nexus between the free world and Communism. The guard standing outside snapped his rifle to his right shoulder, his left shoulder, and back to his right, and then he banged his heels together. I slammed to a halt and looked around warily.

Beyond the guard shack, an austere no-man’s-land barricaded East Berliners from West. The barren strip, two hundred feet wide, was studded with waist-high chunks of broken pavement, construction rubble, and those pointy hedgehogs—huge angular obstacles made of catawampus iron I-beams capable of halting a tank in its tracks—like jacks, but on a scale for the children of giants. Tangled barbed-wire fences stretched out of sight in both directions.

Across the divide, a five-story apartment building kept a weary vigil, its bricks in various stages of disintegration. The black-hole windows shouted “Vacant!” But wait, did I detect snipers lurking just out of sight? How many would-be escapees had been shot from those very windows? Did I dare cross this divide?

It was one thing to have seen the endless strip of denuded land that separated sylvan Germany from Czechoslovakia near Jack’s outpost, but quite another to be within sniffing distance of these tough-guy guards at the menacing gap between East and West Berlin. I was beginning to understand why the Cold War was so hot for Jack, Bonner, and their men.

Shaking off my qualms, I strode into Checkpoint Charlie as if I did this every day and bought a one-day visa, then marched into East Berlin and a crash course on “the enemy.”—Ann


Goldwater’s Call To Arms: “Extremism . . . Is No Vice”

Barry Goldwater pin 1964

Thursday, 16 July 1964, Los Gatos, California. We were still abuzz over Barry Goldwater’s call to arms last night: “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice!”

In a landslide, the Republican National Convention had anointed Goldwater to oppose Lyndon Johnson for president. His battle cry was no slip of the tongue; he smacked us in the face with it. Pausing after each word, he shouted, “Liberty—is—no—vice!” Delegates applauded, cheered, whistled, and blew air horns in approval—for a thunderous sixty seconds.

Cousin Paula and I shook our heads.

Who decides what’s extreme? Who defines the defenders of liberty and the desecrators? Goldwater had done a backflip into the 1950s. Worse, the “cream” of the Republican Party—delegates from Maine to California—agreed. They leaped up, mounted hypothetical horses, and formed a modern-day posse ready to ride out of the Cow Palace and lynch any American who disagreed with them.

We truly were in for it—a bare-knuckle, spare-no-mud presidential campaign.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 12, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Last Night In Venice: Is This “The Night”?

Venice by night

Sunday, July 12, 1964, Venice. No camping in Venice, so a hundred strides off the Piazza San Marco, we had found a tiny pensione with finely carved furniture, a canopied four-poster bed draped in antique organza, and private bath, with breakfast—all for a hair under five dollars a night.

This evening, after two full days of sightseeing, we wound up at the Lido, a slender barrier island between Venice and the Adriatic Sea, where we ate on the beach and watched the dipping sun paint the clouds gold and black over Venice.

As we cuddled on a dawdling vaporetto en route back to Piazza San Marco, tenor gondoliers materialized from the dark, serenading the lantern-lit lovers in their holds. The melodies seemed more romantic wafting across the water at night.

Back at the pensione, the two small lamps with old-fashioned lampshades cast our room in a cozy hue. Jack wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “You know, Venice is the most romantic city of cities. Tell me that tonight’s the night.”

I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t. “Let’s play it by ear,” I said. “Better yet, by touch . . .”—Ann


Politics In San Francisco: Ho, Ho, Ho, Barry Must Go

Sunday, 12 July 1964, San Francisco. After breakfast, CBS Channel 5 announced a protest march against a predicted win for Senator Barry Goldwater at the Republican National Convention, set to open Monday at the Cow Palace, San Francisco’s convention center.

Cousin Paula and I glanced at each other. We couldn’t resist.

Mom shook her head. “You kids are nuts.”

An hour later, Paula and I plunged into a river of Blacks and fell in behind a guy with a four-year-old on his shoulders and a pregnant wife at his side. We weren’t the only Whites—there were scores—but Whites were clearly a minority.

San Francisco protest march 1964

I’d seen protests only on TV, and in photos of the 1963 March on Washington: Being inside a protest was a new world for me. There were no Blacks in Center—not one. In high school, no team in our league had Black athletes. None. At CU, we only occasionally saw a Black person on campus. A handful starred on the football and track teams, but the basketball squad had only one.

That first step onto Market Street was tough, my heart racing. I glanced furtively at the faces around us. No one frowned or snarled or called me a honky or flipped the bird. This was a meandering crowd of like-minded protesters, nothing to fear.

Paula and I strode along, waving her calligraphy signs like beacons. Hers read “Civil Rights in ’64/Ho, Ho, Ho, Barry must go.” Mine was less flamboyant: “Civil Rights, Yes/Goldwater, No.”

I took Paula’s hand and squeezed it. She beamed and squeezed back. “Me too, cuz. This is great, isn’t it?”—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 11, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Uh-Oh: Teenage Tales Return to Haunt Me

Lake Garda beach scene

Thursday, July 9, 1964, Verona, Italy. At Lake Garda Jack ushered me into a little rowboat as if it were the Queen Mary. He rowed effortlessly. What a specimen—strong, but not a misshapen weight lifter. For him, it wasn’t a chore, but life at its best. By the time he paused, we were several hundred yards from shore. The sun worshipers and splashing kids were dots on the distant beach.

Jack locked in the oars and flashed an impish grin. “Okay, my dear, I’ve been looking forward to this forever. Ready to go skinny-dipping?”

Uh-oh. In a foolish moment during our correspondence, I’d regaled him with my high school skinny-dipping caper. He teased me in letters, telling me he’d found the “perfect cove” or the “ideal pond” and could hardly wait “to relive 1956 with you.” A fourteen-year-old’s lark with her girlfriends withered next to the thought of 22-year-old me swimming naked with my 26-year-old lieutenant. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Nor was he.

“Last one in is an old fuddy-duddy,” Jack said.

I bit. We tumbled out of the boat in our swimsuits, not bare butt after all. I struck off swimming. When I looked back, Jack was treading water, waving me back. “No, wait! You forgot something.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“It’s ’56 all over again. We’re skinny-dipping, remember? First, into the water, next off with the suits. Wasn’t that how your story went?”—Ann


Angst over Test-Driving a Honeymoon in Europe

Thursday, 9 July 1964, en route from Colorado to California. We had left Center at dawn on Wednesday. Taking turns, Mom, Pam, and I drove 700 miles the first day, all the way through the Colorado and Utah mountains to Ely, Nevada.

Today, we racked up 500 more miles and arrived wobbly kneed at my cousins’ place late this afternoon. I spent half the time thinking about Annie.

A week before, I’d asked her to marry me, but I mailed my proposal July 1, the day after she left Germany. She hadn’t gotten any of my letters from Silverton. She didn’t know I was madly in love with her. Worse, that West Pointer was test-driving a honeymoon, chauffeuring her through Europe, romancing her every minute of every hour of every day.

Before we left Center, I had started a new letter to her, getting right to the point: “One thing that really bothers me is the thought of him touching you, kissing you. I can’t dwell on that. It’s too unpleasant.”

I tried not to think about it. But I couldn’t stop. Equally excruciating was the likely fact that I wouldn’t see her for two years.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 10 and 11, A Rendezvous to Remember.

The Indelible Fourth of July, 1964

On this day in 1964—July 4— Terry and several friends headed out to master Black Bear Pass, a jeep trail from Silverton to Telluride, Colorado—a trip he vows he’ll never dare to repeat.

That same day, thousands of miles away, my lieutenant and I left Paris and sped toward Saint-Tropez and its famed nude beaches. My day would end in near disaster.

Neither of us knew exactly where the other one was that day, or what the other was doing. Good thing. Had we known, we both would have freaked out. We still do.—Ann


Over the Edge on Black Bear Pass

Black Bear pass

Saturday, 4 July 1964, Silverton, Colorado. Up at dawn, I chomped down a piece of toast slathered in peanut butter and piled into Allen’s Scout with Roger and Ann-Marie and their friend Janet on a long-anticipated attempt to conquer Black Bear Pass, the heart-stopping backdoor entry to Telluride.

We planned to celebrate the Fourth where few dared to go—a grand alternative to pining for Annie. Or worrying that she and Jack were on their “Grand Tour,” whizzing along to Paris, Corvette top down, her hair flying, his hand creeping up her thigh.

A hand-carved wooden sign at the beginning of Black Bear Pass warned us: “Telluride, City of Gold, 12 miles, 2 hours. You don’t have to be crazy to drive this road—but it helps. Jeeps Only.” We had something better—a Scout 80. We snapped photos of each other mugging the sign, declared ourselves crazy, and took off.—Terry


Bumps on the Road to Saint-Tropez

Saint Tropez Road Sign

Saturday night, July 4, 1964, en route from Paris to Saint-Tropez. Jack had fallen asleep by the time darkness closed in. Good, he needed the rest.

When I turned from the main highway onto the road to Saint-Tropez, it quickly became a skimpy, two-lane, twisty byway through scrub-brush-covered mountains, sprinkled with intermittent stands of trees. I loved whizzing around curves through a tunnel of headlights. It kept my senses on full alert.

The map had indicated a turn onto a secondary road, and I searched the darkness for road signs. Not a one. Suddenly, a cluster of white signs sailed past. I rolled to a stop. Slowly, carefully, I backed up.

Sk-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-thunk! The car tilted wildly and thudded to a stop. Headlights played off the treetops. No road. I was jerked onto my back, the steering wheel now above me.

“What? Where are we?” Jack’s face lurched into view.

“I . . . I missed the turnoff.”

Dead silence. No engine hum. No wind buffeting the car. But I could hear a steady thumping, louder and louder in the dark. My heart pounding.

“We’re upside down!” Jack shouted. “What the hell happened?”—Ann

Excerpts from Chapter 8, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Paris Blues: A Spat at the Louvre

Venus de Milo

Friday, July 3, 1964, Paris—The Louvre loomed cold and uninviting. Its stone exterior and granite public square made a drab welcome.

Inside, I couldn’t possibly remember all the masterpieces Terry insisted I see. Nor could I relay his suggestions to Jack. Yet fewer than twenty minutes after we began the tour, as I circled the Venus de Milo, I blurted, “Terry said we should study this piece from every angle to get the full impact.”

Jack’s pained look stopped me short. He stood as frozen as the sculptures around us.

“Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. I bowed my head against his arm. He jerked it away.

After the tour, we circled back to the Mona Lisa, pushing into the crowd to get a closer look. Jack muttered, “I know why she’s smiling.” His first words since my thoughtless remark.

I cocked a cautious eye toward him. “You do?”

“She has two suitors. If one doesn’t work out, she can reel in the other, just like—”

It hit me like a blow to the jaw. Or was he trying to be funny? “You keeping score? If you are, you’re way ahead.”

We clumped our way back through the Grand Gallery, side by side, but not together. I ground to a halt. “Neither of us wants this. We need to talk. Let’s go outside.”

“Only the two of us? No third-party rivals?”

“I can promise not to bring him up again. How about you?”

“Of course!” He spat it out like a wad of day-old bubblegum—Ann

Excerpts from Chapter 7, A Rendezvous to Remember.

A Cozy Chalet On the Road to Paris

Army Pup Tent

Tuesday, June 30, 1964, en route to Paris—Late that afternoon, near Strasbourg, France, Jack turned into a wooded area and stopped for the night by a small, grassy-banked lake.

Shortly before dinner, he ambled over to the Sting Ray, took out a tent, and set it up.

It was teeny—space enough for the two of us only if we were on top of each other. Outwardly, he was all business, but I sensed a sinful smile lurking beneath the façade.

“A one-man tent?” I asked.

“Negative. One-man, one-woman. You said you like ‘cozy.’ Your letter, remember? Something worrying you?” He looked at me deadpan.

I had only myself to blame. After I had written about my camping trip with Terry, Jack proposed camping with me when he got home from Germany. He’d gone on a quest to find “two single sleeping bags that zip into one double.”

He rolled the sleeping bags into the tent, laying them out side by side. Wall to wall, overlapping by at least a foot. “There. Plenty of space.”

I stood there mute.

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

I wasn’t ready to “go all the way,” and tonight would put restraint to the test. How could I make him understand that unfettered sex was out of bounds, without throwing a wet blanket on our romance? “Well, jeez, we’re still getting acquainted, you know. I’m a little anxious.”

You’re anxious? I haven’t slept ever since your first letters mentioned your friend Terry. Are you really serious about this guy?”—Ann

Silverton Mountain

From Silverton: So Who’s Afraid of Audie Murphy?

Tuesday, June 30, 1964, Silverton, Colorado— I thought Silverton would ease the aching loneliness of life without Annie. It didn’t. It merely forced me to face the truth: I couldn’t live without her. But she was merrily globe-trotting through Europe with her dashing lieutenant. The all-American Boy Scout. Audie Murphy in the making.

Still, I wasn’t about to give up, especially to some guy who was as much myth as macho man. I had to beat this guy. And by airmail, not hand-to-hand combat.

I settled into my friend John Ross’s second-story corner apartment on Greene Street, got out my typewriter, and stared out at Kendall Peak for inspiration. Damn! Images of Sarah and Rachel cavorted on the mountainside like sprites. I had blurted out everything to Annie about my nights with both women, every sordid detail, the kinds of details that guys with common sense keep under lock and key and buried in underground vaults.

What a numbskull I’d been! This was going to be like conquering Mount Everest. Alone. In shorts and a T-shirt.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 6, A Rendezvous to Remember.

On the Go: Ann Makes Daring Purchase in Switzerland


Thursday, June 25, Lausanne, Switzerland—Two weeks in Europe, and this was my first day at a beach, Lake Geneva. I’d brought my darling swimsuit, a shimmery one-piece that laid bare my back, with a plunging neckline that betrayed a bit of cleavage but kept my breasts safely in check.

But in Lausanne, even wizened octogenarians and triple-chinned behemoths wore bikinis. Only trouble was, I had never, ever worn a bikini. Now, in a department store changing room, I glared at the image of a girl who looked a lot like me, wearing a Day-Glo yellow hint of a bathing suit.

After a hasty exit from the dressing room, I bought a bikini, a real one, skimpy enough to make me blush. But black, a please-don’t-notice-me black. I couldn’t loosen up for one of those bright scraps of stretchy cloth and string shouting “Feast on these goodies” that the European beauties pranced around in.

I mailed my third letter of the week to Terry the next morning, a feat that left me both pleased and hobbled by a nagging fear that I had forsaken my sense of common decency. I was in Europe visiting Jack and thinking about Terry. I had seen girls juggle more than one guy at CU and thought them contemptible. Now, I was dancing in the same soiled slippers.—Ann

proposal envelope

On the Go: Terry Flees to Silverton

Thursday, June 25, 1964, Silverton— At home in Center, I’d been idling away the days, Annie’s absence feeding my loneliness, waiting for summer’s end so I could flee to Venezuela. Enough!

I couldn’t face another empty mailbox. I took off for the solace of Silverton.

Friday, I pulled an all-day stint at the hand-fed letterpress at the Silverton Standard, knocking out an order of 2,500 envelopes and letterheads. I also printed up twenty-five envelopes addressed to Annie in care of her brother in Germany—in red and black ink, which meant having to scrub the press rollers after printing the black, re-ink them, and hand feed each envelope through again, scrub off the red, and re-ink the rollers in black. I jazzed up the envelopes with five one-inch-high dingbats, each depicting an 1880s policeman in a different pose.

Ha, everyone in Germany would know Annie had a guy back home.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 5, A Rendezvous to Remember.

That First Letter from Europe

Annie's letter to Terry

Thursday, June 18, Center, Colorado—Finally, Annie’s first letter from Europe, “June 10, 1:35 a.m., Landshut, Germany,” three sheets of stationery, hand-scrawled on both sides. “I sure wish you were here to rub my back right now,” she began.

Yeah, me too. Though I’d rub a lot more than that.

Her letter ends with a postscript, two days later: “Friday night, shortly after midnight: I have been far from a mailbox, roaming around in the German boonies.”

Where? Doing what? No hint.

“So much to tell you,” she wrote, but not a word about what it was. Then, another add-on, this one four days later still: “Suddenly went down to the Garmisch area for a few days and didn’t get this finished.”

For a few days? With Jack? By herself? Was it we or I?

“I just got home this evening and happily found your letter waiting,” she wrote.

Only one letter? I had mailed four.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 5, A Rendezvous to Remember.

My Bavarian Dreamscape . . . and Alone in the Sangre de Cristos

Neuschwanstein castle

Saturday, June 13, 1964, Füssen, Germany—I woke up this morning relishing Jack’s good-night kisses. So far, he had exceeded my wildest hopes. Item one: He honored my wishes at the door last night with respect and grace. Item two: He knew so much about Europe, history, music. Item three: He made great choices. Where to go? Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Füssen. How to make me feel special? A strawberry tart.

A tapping at my door crept into my reverie, followed by a stage whisper. “Fräulein? Sun’s up. It begs you to help light up my world.”

Oh, yes, Item four: He thinks like a poet.—Ann

Sangre DeCristos Mountains

Saturday, 13 June, 1964, Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range, Colorado—At Valley View Hot Springs last night, Annie’s image blotted out the starry sky. Emptiness closed in like a mummy-style sleeping bag. With her gone, the road to the Peace Corps at summer’s end threatened to be a lonely trek through a bleak desert. With no shoes. No water. And a full pack of stone-heavy yearnings.

I had planned to spend the weekend at Valley View, hike a trail or two, and attempt an assault on 14,300-foot-high Crestone Peak. But Annie’s likeness called me from every boulder and bush. I abandoned Valley View for the comfort of the farm, hot meals, and a soft bed.

And the hope that each new day would bring me a letter from Germany.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 3, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Jack Sigg friend WestPoint June1961

In Germany at Last . . . And at Home in Colorado

June 10, 1964, en route to Landshut, Germany from the Munich airport—I was a wide-eyed tourist, trying to memorize every detail of the landscape as it whizzed by. Every three seconds I glanced over at this handsome officer. He was doing ninety, my hair whipping about like straw in a cyclone.

He was every bit the man I remembered. A tad more muscular, perhaps. And ruddier. Outdoorsy, a guy who spent time in the sun, but not with the red face and pasty forehead of a rancher. Ramrod straight, square-jawed, so clean-shaven his skin glowed. The hint of a cowlick swirled above his right temple, almost shaved away with his burr cut, but visible nonetheless. And a pointy nose. Not ugly or distracting,

What else will we discover about each other, Lieutenant Sigg?—Ann

Ann Garretson, May 1964

June 10, 1964, Center, Colorado—Home from school, a college graduate at last. For the first time since I was fourteen, I had a summer free. But at what cost? Annie was traipsing around Europe with the dashing lieutenant, and wouldn’t get back to the States until a week after I left for the Peace Corps. It would be more than two years before I’d see her again

Tonight, Annie would be staying in Paris, en route to Germany. I mounted my photos of her in her nightie to my headboard and pretended I was with her in a swanky Parisian hotel room.

That thought kept me panting half the night.—Terry

Excerpts from Chapter 3, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Hallett Hall

On the Road . . . and Left Behind

Thursday, June 4, 1964, Boulder, Colorado—After Annie drove away—headed for a summer with that lieutenant of hers in Germany—I slumped on the steps of Hallet Hall, her dorm. What if he picked up where I’d left off, leaving me to choke in his exhaust?—Terry

Lion circling facing right
Lion circling facing left

Thursday, June 4, 1964, en route to Landshut, Germany—I was caught between an amazing young officer enticing me to join him in Germany as a prelude to a life together, and my closest friend ever, tugging me toward challenging new, but unknown horizons. I felt like a lion tamer in the ring with two hungry lions, warily circling.—Ann

Excerpts from Chapters 1 and 2, A Rendezvous to Remember.

Adieu to Gretchen

Adieu to Gretchen and my Newborn Niece

Tuesday, June 2, 1964, Boulder, Colorado—Terry and I made a quick trip to Denver for a soft pitch to Gretchen to give up her new daughter—born less than 24 hours earlier—for adoption. I tried to find the right words, me, of all people, weighing in on the future of my brother’s illegitimate child and her mother—after I told myself throughout the spring not to do it. She hadn’t decided whether to keep the child, but regardless, she said she would leave Colorado. Maybe go home to Germany—Ann

Hi Fi radio gift

The Perfect Gift of High Fidelity

Monday, June 1, 1964, Boulder, Colorado—I found the perfect graduation gift for Annie. Not a traditional one, to be sure—but a practical one: an AM/FM radio. Snooze button. High fidelity. It even turns itself on in the mornings. Just what she’ll need when she begins teaching this fall in Arizona. She’ll never be late for class. Guaranteed.—Terry

Ann Garretson, May 1964

A Fine Parting Shot

Friday, May 29, 1964, Boulder, Colorado—It took some cajoling, but Annie has agreed to let me take a glamour shot of her. I told her this was no big deal . . . we’ve shot dozens of pictures of each other for our photojournalism class, capturing close-ups in different moods and different thoughts and experimenting with shadows and light. Her response: “OK, if it’s the Clothed Maja you want me to model and not that au naturel one you’re always raving about.”—Terry

hour glass

Aeii, Time’s Running Out!

Tuesday, May 26, 1964, Boulder, Colorado—Time’s running out! Graduation is thundering toward us like a herd of stampeding buffalos, and Annie leaves next week for Europe. I’ve taken her to dinner three times this week—can’t get enough of her. She’ll be gone all summer . . . with that stud lieutenant in Germany. How did we ever get ourselves into this fix?—Terry

Boulder Creek small waterfall

Taking the Plunge

Saturday, 16 May 1964, Boulder, Colorado—On this day, 57 years ago, our excursion to Boulder Creek etched an image in my mind that will live forever: Lucky me. I saw Botticelli’s Birth of Venus come to life. —Terry

read more

newspaper art

Sign Up for News Flashes

Please keep in touch! And to be notified for events around A Rendezvous to Remember and other news from us, please sign up. Our promise? We won’t sell your address to anyone or clutter up your inbox with junk.

    Tampa Web Design - Off the Page Creations