Her firecracker humor instantly attracted me.

I met my wife at a 4th of July party held on 3rd of July.

It was a big party organized by an advertising couple. So a lot of LA ad agency people were there.

At one point, I retreated into the silence of the cave. I had just settled into a very attractive woman. She told me, “I know who you are. You are the copy director at Doyle Dane Bernbach. “

“And who are you?” I ask.

“Linda Bort.”

I gave her a well-deserved compliment. “Are you a model?”

“No,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”

I asked her if she had been to the party with someone. She said she did but told me not to worry because he will have surgery in the morning. I burst out laughing, completely captivated by her sense of humour.

We ended up talking on the terrace until the early hours of the morning. We learned a lot about each other. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. However, Linda never knew what she wanted to do. She told me that she once took an aptitude test that suggested she become a mechanic or a missionary. Still unsure of what to do in life, she enrolled at Syracuse University and became the first Jewish woman accepted by a sorority.

After two years, she left Syracuse, saying that the city has only two seasons: sweat and rain. Thinking her future might be in the world of fashion, she moved to New York and lived in the Barbizon, a women’s hotel, while attending Tobe-Coburn’s merchandising school. Running on a bagel platform every Sunday, she became the class president of her class. She also became a fashion shopper but quickly realized buyers spend a lot of time on her feet, so she switched to a sales job. She became a fashion writer.

Very good. And a favorable trip to sunny Los Angeles, where an advertising agency invites her to be a copywriter. When a Baskin-Robbins client asked the agency to suggest names for new ice cream flavors, Linda suggested Statutory Grape. She also told me about taking a two-hour meeting to decide if a hair color product produces “reliable” or “unbelievable” hair.

We immediately started dating. I told her I was once married and divorced and didn’t think I would ever want to get married again. She said, “Who asked you?” Two years later, in 1974, we were married under a giant oak tree at a friend’s house in the Hollywood Hills. When Linda was asked what time the wedding would take place, she said, “When my hair is done.”

Our marriage lasted 35 years and we have a son, John. Like most marriages, our marriage had its ups and downs. The breakdown mostly occurred when Linda was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. She has always been an active person. She especially enjoys playing golf. She is a natural – a beautiful twist, long strokes. She plays golf every Wednesday with her golf ladies and says she never wants Wednesdays to end. After her MS diagnosis, her precious days of golf and independence were over.

So is our way of life. Linda was 48 years old when she was diagnosed, what we know is only about the final age at which MS can occur. As the months passed, she went through various stages of fighting the evil disease. The first is a stick. Then a walker.

Then there is a wheelchair. Then there is a motorized chair. Caregivers have come and gone. I learned how to operate the wheelchair-friendly van we purchased. She learned to point her seat down the ramp that opened up in the back of the truck.

Linda loves to play blackjack, so I put her in our van and drove to Laughlin, Nev. At the blackjack table, she told the dealer that we hoped to win enough money to go to Lourdes, France.

During her 10 years of illness, she never lost her sense of humour.

When she completely lost the ability to use her right hand, I used to massage it. She never fails to remind me that her middle finger is still active and can be raised in an upright position.

In the last year of her life, on the ambulance ride to the hospital, she yelled to the driver, “Can we stop for pizza?”

She’s excellent as a writer, but I believe she has to do what she’s always done. With her wit and wisdom, she has made the lives of everyone she comes in contact with a little bit better, including myself, our son and my daughter from our marriage. my first person. (My daughter wrote a book about stepmothers.)

When Linda passed away, every call, card and email I received mentioned how much they loved her sense of humor and how much they loved her.

Linda makes me feel special because I know how special she is. And she thought, no matter how much I objected, I’m still the best writer on earth. I will always remember the first, hilarious conversation we had about her friend’s caesarean section, and I will always remember our last conversation.

Linda was in a nursing facility, and on our anniversary, I asked her if she knew what anniversary it was. “Our 34th?” she asked weakly. “No,” I said. “That would make our son a bastard. It was our 35th. “

“Happy anniversary,” she whispered. “Happy anniversary,” I replied. Those were our last words to each other.

On our first anniversary, I wrote Linda a little poem about the night we met. She loved the poem and often quoted it during our years together.

The poem is this:

The 4th of July is now unprecedented.

The fireworks are actually located on a third of the.

Indeed, they were.

The author is a freelance writer. He lives in Palm Desert, where he teaches creative writing and writes a column for the monthly Sun City magazine.

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