The year was 1932, and a cold December wind sliced through the air in Catoosa, Oklahoma. Two young men, Loren and his friend, stood on the bank of a frigid creek. A dance beckoned on the other side, a special one for a young lady Loren’s friend had become acquainted with. He was determined to go, but the creek was an unwanted obstacle.
“I’ll carry you across,” Loren offered, his words breaking the silence of them both contemplating their next steps. His friend climbed onto Loren’s shoulders. Slowly and carefully, they began their trek across the slippery, moss-covered rocks of the creek bed. The water swirled around Loren’s legs, its cold grasp seemed to grab onto and hold his feet.
But halfway across, fate intervened. Loren’s boot found a slick spot, and with a yelp of surprise, the two friends tumbled into the cold water. They emerged from the water, dripping and shivering, their plan to arrive dry and tidy ruined. They looked at each other, their faces pale with cold, and then burst into laughter. What else was there to do? They continued their journey, squishing across the rest of the creek.
They finally arrived at the dance, their clothes clinging to them like second skin. But their damp entrance was met not with ridicule, but with laughter and good cheer. In the midst of the celebration, Loren’s friend continued his connection with the birthday girl, laughing and dancing through the night. That night was the beginning of a lifelong commitment, a love story that would span decades.
Loren’s friend, Warren, is my grandfather, and the birthday girl my grandmother. Their love was a testament to a commitment that endured a cold dunk in a creek and a friendship that was honored in the most special way. When their first son was born, he was given the name Loren, my dad.
Blue to Beyond 