I described what I looked like: short, dark hair, bluish-green eyes, and dimples- up to a point.I left out the fact about my disability.
I had some crazy notion that if I admitted my disability no one would write back. I was so insecure. Too many times people judged me mainly on my legs. Why should it matter, especially to someone I would never meet?
It didn't. But for now I kept it a secret.
I wrote about music, how I joined the fan club, listing my favorite songs and albums, sharing my feelings of why I liked each song and what made each album special.
I kept the first letter short and sweet, yet somehow it ended in ten pages. I had a lot to say once I started writing, and, after the routine introductions, the letter was fun to write. I signed it "your pen pal, Greg," stuffed it in an envelope and dropped it in the mail.
Would I get an answer? Two weeks later I did., her envelope covered with air mail stamps and beautiful penmanship. Jill was warm and friendly. Reading her reply was like touching base with someone I knew forever. Her personality glowed out of the many pages.
She wrote of her hometown, her life, her dreams. She was 5'3 (whatever that is in the metric system), slim, with shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes ( what else from a Scandinavian?).
Jill was a law student, struggling with her tuition but not in her studies. Her financial worries sounded very familiar.
As I learned more about Norwegian culture I would admire Jill even more. Women in Norway are usually advised to be nurses, secretaries or housewives. Very stereotypical views, especially for the 1980s. Jill had the courage and determination to break the mold and become a lawyer.
Ffor now, just paying her apartment rent at university was a main concern. That, as well as passing the rigorous exams. Two more years until she finally earned her law degree.
Jill's father had also died when she was young. On weekends and holidays she would take the train home, a journey of several hours. She had lived there with her mother, who worked as a gardener. Soon I would hear about her family: an assortment of aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, plus a sixteen-year old canary named Olav. They became real to me, as my family did to her.
We had so much on common. We loved old black and white movies, parks in springtime, quiet evenings at home, trivia games and Italian food. It was safe to say we had drifted a bit away from Manilow music. But she did relate how, at the Oslo concert, Barry almost picked her to sing "Can't Smile Without You" with him. She was in the front row and he pointed at her and asked "Do you want to come up here?" While she stammered in disbelief he had picked someone else, the chance of stardom down the drain.
Her letters, which now arrived every few weeks, aside from cards and special items sent in between, were like a breath of fresh air. There was someone special out there, an ocean away, a friend I could relate to. What were the odds of finding such a friend from so far away?
Along with studying, now my evenings were spent writing back to Jill. We were growing closer and until a new letter arrived, I read her old ones again and again.
I was surprised she felt the same way, claiming that she couldn't wait for my letters. It was wonderful caring for someone and being cared about. Too bad we were so far away. I knew we could talk for hours.
In December Jill sent a beautiful Christmas card, the first of many to come. Postcards that read "Thinking of you" were sent across the Atlantic on a regular basis. One I remembered had a glowing, romantic full moon hovering over a dark ocean, with the simple words "Miss you" on front.
It was a very innocent, simple way of getting to know each other, finding one's heart first and foremost. I listened to Manilow music and my thoughts would drift to Jill. We started to add little surprises to our letters, which were soon turning into packages. Manilow posters, articles and tapes. I began searching for books on Norway, reading all I could about their culture, The country and the names of the cities and small towns were no longer strange.
Overseas, Jill was taking an equal interest in the United States. She didn't need a drastic crash course in lifestyle and culture as I did. America had always been special to her. It was her dream to visit the States someday, especially New York City. She was well aware of the crime and grime, the muggers and homeless, She viewed the Big Apple and America in general as an outsider would, as maybe we all should, as an exciting, hopeful, romantic, wonderful place to be.
It was during this time when Manilow released his jazzy "2:00 am Paradise Cafe" album, his masterpiece. There was a smoky atmosphere to the record, like you are sitting alone in a quiet jazz cafe late at night, listening to beautiful ballads, while the autumn rain gently falls outside . It was an album for lovers, an album to share with someone special.
We both rushed out and bought it during that chilly winter, the warm music melting those long, cold nights. It was our favorite album of all time.
As the New Year drifted by I read Jill's description of receiving my letters; "I don't even wait for the lift (elevator), my heart pounding, sitting on the edge of my bed, tearing open the envelope and reading your letter over and over..."
It was pretty evident that we both were hooked. It was a nice feeling but also scary. What next?
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