Or this very typical AKR passage:
We’ve got other things to chat about. What, I don’t know. But there’s got to be something. Birds. Apples. Tennis. Hiccups. Lima beans. Gladiators. Free association. It’s bound to lead to something. Porcupines. Nuts. Bambi. Tolstoy! That’s it. Ya. Tolstoy. Great guy, Tolstoy. A bit verbose though. Ya, forget him. O.K. Pizza. Pencils. Key chain. How glad I am you’re in my life. Door knob. Fog.
With all this correspondence, I had an epiphany: I wanted to bring Amy out to Cape Cod. After conspiring with her friend Renee, I sent Amy eleven roses and a plane ticket. I enclosed a note in the box of flowers, telling her that the twelfth rose and I would be waiting for her when she arrived at the airport in Boston.
Mission accomplished. It was definitely a leap of faith for both of us. We didn’t know each other that well, after all. But we both had a sense that something special was happening, and that visit to Cape Cod settled it for both of us.
When I returned to Chicago, Amy and I dove deep into our relationship. We were so damned compatible. It was easy to be with this person. I talked to my mom, and she asked me to tell her what I liked about Amy. I remember answering, “Well, she’s tiny, and we fit together so nicely.”
That was certainly true. But the long answer was that she was a strong, independent woman. She was crazy smart and funny. Her smile was so infectious that it drew people to her, including me, obviously. She had lifelong friends. She was focused on her career. She loved music, art, and reading. She was devoted to her family, and they were so close to one another. And eventually I met that family.
I already felt as if I’d found nirvana when I met Amy. The addition of the Krouse family was a bonus beyond my wildest imagination. Holy cow, what fantastic people. Her parents, Ann and Paul, were clearly a connected, loving couple, kind, devoted to their children, and immediately welcoming to me. Ann still enjoys telling the story of how she and Amy were taking a walk after Amy and I met, and Amy was so enthusiastic—okay, effusive—about meeting me that it made her folks more accepting of me. Amy’s siblings, Beth, Katie, and Joe, are amazing and loving, to one another and to me. They would all agree that Amy, as the eldest child, set the tone and paved the way for their incredible childhoods and family life.
Ann and Paul were successful, self-made people who’d started their own business and worked together every day of their lives for decades, so I guess it was kind of a natural evolution that as we began to spend more and more time together, Amy and I entered into the first of our two start-ups. Ready? A button business.
We scoured flea markets everywhere we went and snatched up any and all buttons that caught our eyes. Then, once we’d amassed a huge stash of an unbelievable variety of buttons, we began turning them into jewelry, mostly bracelets and brooches. I’d never really pictured myself designing bracelets and brooches, but I have to say, there was something hypnotically mindful about the act of sewing buttons onto material. I even learned what “fray check” is (a liquid-plastic solution that stays invisible to give garments clean, perfect edges). The term fray check outlasted our button business—for years to come, one or the other of us would slip it into a conversation out of nowhere, and it made us laugh every single time.
Laughing together. Working together. Just being together. We had so much fun making, marketing, and selling our art. Somehow, without trying, this diminutive woman had filled me up with something I did not know I wanted or needed. I had not had it on my radar to commit to someone for the rest of my life at such a young age, but the natural way this relationship was developing felt just right.
Then again, we began to enjoy our union no matter what we were doing together.
2
No Longer Just One
I truly believe Jason loves you for exactly who you are, and that is what I prayed for you—for you to have someone who could appreciate and treasure all the wonderful facets of Amy.
—Ann Wolk Krouse to her daughter Amy
Amy and I met in July 1989, and by November 1990 we were engaged. Of course, Amy would pick up on the acrostic nature of that coincidence: July, August, September, October, and November = JASON. Throughout that period, our feelings for each other grew in what felt to me to be a natural progression of a healthy relationship. I suppose I always knew I wanted to get married and have a family, but that was a concept I figured would come much later, or at least sometime after I turned thirty. With Amy, that simply was not meant to be. Our love grew as we spent more and more time together.
Consistent with what I imagined a quality young man was “supposed” to do, I asked Amy’s folks for her hand in marriage. I went the traditional route—I bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a nice bottle of scotch before making the twenty-six-mile drive down the Edens Expressway to the Krouse house. Ann and Paul greeted me with their typical enthusiasm, and I nonchalantly strolled through their front door as if my arms weren’t full of anything at all, let alone flowers and a fine scotch. They played along and didn’t mention them either.
We took the long walk down to the family sunroom. I sat on the couch facing them, comfortable as always, and for about forty-five minutes, we just talked. Finally I presented the gifts, broached the subject at hand (pun intended), and told them why I was there. I promised them I’d love and respect Amy for the rest of my life. They didn’t doubt it for a second, and gave me their delighted consent.
Around this time, my dad still owned his commercial film studio. I had my own set of keys, because I’d worked there. Having access to the studio allowed me to have epic high school parties there. (Sorry we never talked about that, Dad.) With some creative adjustments, it seemed like a perfect space for a marriage proposal.
Amy and I both had connections to Paris, France. My grandma Sara was born and raised there until she was thirteen years old. Amy was a French major and spent her junior year of college studying there. So I transformed the film stage into a replica of Paris and added a table with a red gingham tablecloth, complete with a bottle of wine, a candle, photos of the City of Romance, and a bread basket with the engagement ring hidden inside.
French music was playing in the background when I proposed.
She said yes.
Of course, there were no cell phones, so I borrowed a studio Polaroid camera, and am in possession of one photo memorializing the occasion.
We made it clear that we wanted a small wedding. Amy’s folks were a little disappointed—they’d been looking forward to celebrating the marriage of their eldest child with their vast group of friends.
We met in July 1989. By November 1990, we were engaged.
(July, August, September, October, November.)
We compromised and agreed to throw a big engagement party . . . our way. We rented a nice, spacious loft so there would be plenty of room for our guests. The loft happened to be in Chicago’s South Loop, which in 1990 was an “emerging neighborhood,” a polite way of saying it was in the early stages of gentrification but still kind of rough around the edges. The Krouses still chuckle to this day, looking back on the sight of 120 people in formal wear, many of whom were fresh from the safe, cozy suburbs, emerging from their cars and gaping around at a strange part of town for which they were decidedly overdressed.