She's gone, Gerry, the love of my life, my dearly beloved wife for 57 years. It's difficult at this time of deep mourning for me to think of Gerry except in the context of our long and extremely happy life together and great devotion to each other, difficult to think of Gerry as anything but a loving partner who shared my life for so long.
We met briefly while I was playing semi-professional baseball in Gerry's hometown of Coquille on the Oregon coast in 1952, and again a few years later during a party at Stanford, where we were both students. I was introduced to her as someone who actually knew of Coquille.
Within two years, we were married. That came shortly after a lunch date at Tommy's Joynt on Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco. We were earnestly discussing the merits of Presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson (remember him?} and savoring our beer and pastrami on rye when it suddenly popped into my head, and I blurted it out : "I think we ought to get married." Gerry paused for just a moment. "Yes," she said, "I think we should."
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