My husband

I met Ransom Wilson in Richmond, Virginia, on Feb 25, 1984.  I was the House Manager of the Carpenter (later Virginia) Center for the Performing Arts. He was the guest artist of the Richmond Symphony. People Magazine had dubbed him "Handsome Ransom" and I stopped by a rehearsal to see if they were right. They were. 

The next night, after his brilliant concert, I introduced myself at the reception. It was very chaste and very brief. Over the next several days I couldn't stop thinking about him so I sent him a note. I of course didn't have his home address so I had to send it to Columbia Artists and, not knowing for sure who else might see it, it was very proper.  The only thing I added that I hadn't said to him at the reception was my phone number.

I put the card in the mail -- remember the pre-email days of writing letters and notes? -- and almost immediately felt stupid. I felt like a 13-year-old girl writing to the Beatles.  But I got over it and forgot about it.

Til a month later. He called! I was surprised and very pleased. He was coming through Richmond again and wondered if we could get together. Could we ever! I met him a week or so later at his downtown hotel and we spent a wonderful evening getting to know each other. My office was right around the corner; in the morning I said my goodbyes and went to work; he was flying back to New York.

An hour later he called to say what a good time he had had. I was charmed and thought he was really sweet -- to say nothing of gorgeous and fascinating. He called again from the airport, just to say goodbye one more time. Wow.

I went up to see him in New York within a few weeks, but it didn't go so well. He was performing at Carnegie Hall and so was of course very focused on that. I was a distraction. Perhaps a welcome distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I came back to Richmond thinking that was the end of that.

And it was, for over a year.

In December of 1985 I sent him a Christmas card. It was kind of a lark, but I was feeling warm and fuzzy. Ransom is not the most sentimental kind of guy, but he kept that card, so I can tell you what it said: "the candles are lit, the wine is open, there's red sauce on the stove and Mozart on the stereo.  Why aren't you here?"  Again, I did it lightly, thinking it might make him smile and that would be the end of it.

It wasn't. He called in February -- it took the card a while to catch up to him. We talked that first night for three hours. He called the next day. Several times. We talked for hours. After three days of this (he was in North Dakota) he decided to change his flight and stop in Richmond on the way to New York. My dear friend Sally took the last few hours of my shift that night so I could pick him up. Less than 24 hours later he was on his way to New York. Less than a week later I was on my way to New York. Both those visits were wonderful, so there was another trip to New York.

In April of 1986, less than two months after that first marathon phone call, I held a tag sale, emptied out most of my apartment and moved to New York. It was crazy. No, make that CRAZY! Aside from the impulsiveness of it all you should know that I was a well-paid restaurant manager, about to open a new restaurant at an even higher salary. My assistant managers had been named, construction on the new building was almost finished, we were ordering small wares (china, glasses, etc) and designing ads for waiters -- and I walked away from it all. Crazy! If I had learned anything over the years it is that you never move for love. Not for love only. And certainly not six weeks in.

But I did. That was 24 years ago. And here we are.

Best damn thing I ever did.