And So it Began - What, though?

With Pat setting out to sea and me heading back to Connecticut, the next six months became a masterclass in old-fashioned romance—letters, care packages, and the thrill of receiving it all from a particular sailor.  

No instant texts. No cell phones. No quick check-ins throughout the day. No refreshing a screen, waiting for a response.

And that was just how life worked back then.

Just patience. Just trust. Just hope and the quiet understanding that somewhere, miles away, a letter was being written, a message slowly making its way across the world.

For us, this wasn’t a challenge—it was just life.

If we wanted to talk, we wrote letters.

If we wanted to share a moment, we had to wait for words to arrive, carried across the miles. 

But was it love?

We didn’t even know.

It was too early to tell—too soon, too uncertain, wrapped in the slow unraveling of time.

We weren’t tracing the path of some great romance—we were simply writing, waiting, reaching across time and distance, trying to understand what this connection even meant.

And before the letters piled up, before the feelings became clearer, there was Valentine’s Day.

And the roses and 2 teddy bears hanging halfway out of my mailbox.

The teddy bears clung to the mailbox like they had survived a shipwreck.

Arms stretched wide, caught in the wind, dangling, as if they personally endured the long-distance struggle itself.

And with them, not one but two dozen roses packed into the mailbox, leaving no room for anything else.

I wondered if the town noticed.

How could they not?

Those teddy bears weren’t subtle. The roses weren’t quiet. The mailbox was putting on a full Broadway production, and the neighborhood had front-row seats.

Neighbors slowed down for a better look perhaps whispering like they were analyzing evidence in a small-town mystery.
People formed theories—some romantic, some dramatic, all thoroughly entertained.

And me? I was just trying to vanish into thin air, hoping maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t becoming the talk of the small New England neighborhood out in the woods.

But there was no escaping the attention—everyone driving by was witnessing it, absorbing it, forming their own quiet opinions about the kind of romance that warranted teddy bears publicly clinging to a mailbox for dear life.

But was it love?

No. Not yet.

What it was, was a connection—something unspoken, something still taking shape, something we weren’t ready to name.

We didn’t know what it would become, where it would lead, whether it was love in the making or just two people hanging out across miles and time zones.

And before the letters piled up, before the feelings became clearer, there was waiting.

Then came the letters.

And with them, their own rhythm of unpredictability.

Some arrived one at a time, solitary messengers carrying their words with quiet intention.
Others arrived in clumps, piling onto each other, demanding to be sorted by postmark, untangled, arranged in the right order before they could be read properly.

One letter might be full of excitement for something that had already happened.
Another might answer a question I hadn’t even asked yet, because my own letter hadn’t reached him in time.

It wasn’t just about receiving them—it was about deciphering them, untangling the order, making sure the conversation unfolded the way it was meant to.

Every delivery was a puzzle, every message had to be pieced together, carefully arranged so nothing skipped ahead or got lost.

And through it all, the uncertainty remained.

No, it wasn’t love yet.

Only later, looking back, could we trace the moments, the patience, the quiet certainty that someone was always on the other side of the waiting.

And maybe that was love all along, even if we didn’t recognize it then.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need instant messages or perfectly clear reception.

Sometimes, love is just words on paper, the weight of waiting, and the quiet hope that distance is only temporary.

For us, it was never about instant replies.
It was about knowing—without a doubt—that across miles and months, someone was always waiting on the other side.

It was knowing the distance wasn’t a problem to solve. It was just part of the story. Just a connection waiting to be understood leaving us both wondering what it would become.

Stay tuned for more in the next blog post by thePrairieYankee!

 

Statistics, Christmas Cookies, and a Sailor Who Just Fit - Date #2

I had a Statistics final to study for, and while some guys might have balked at spending a date watching someone flip through textbooks, Pat didn’t hesitate.

That right there? It said a lot.

No grand gestures. No trying to impress. Just showing up, being present, and settling into something simple and real.

He didn’t rush me.

He didn’t sigh impatiently or check the time.

He just... waited.

Sitting there, talking with my sister, munching on homemade Christmas cookies, fitting so effortlessly into my space that it felt like he had always been there.

And that? That said even more.

Seriously. How many guys would be perfectly content hanging out in an apartment while their date flipped through textbooks, drowning in formulas?

Well, I’m from the school of thought that the best nights aren’t about big gestures or planned perfection.

They’re about someone showing up, settling in, and feeling like they always belonged.

But the best nights don’t last forever.

And sailors don’t stay in one place for long.

Soon, the miles between us wouldn’t be just a few city blocks.

They’d stretch across entire oceans.

Shoot! I cannot concentrate. I stared at the pages, willing my brain to absorb something—anything.

But the truth was painfully clear.

Statistics and I would never see eye to eye.

Book closed. Date officially in motion.

With studying abandoned, we headed to Foggy’s Notion, a hamburger joint with a dance floor, known for burgers so big, they came with a side of regret.

What was I thinking?

How do you sit across from someone you're trying to impress while eating a burger bigger than your face?

I did my best, attempting to maintain some level of dignity, but clearly, Pat saw the battle I was fighting.

From across the table, he started quietly gesturing to his face, trying to send me a message.

I paused mid-bite, confused. Did I have something on my face?

He gestured to one side, so I wiped it with my napkin.

Then he gestured to the other side, and I followed suit.

The third time he did it, I finally caught on—he was messing with me.

The grin on his face said it all.

So much for trying to look polished and sophisticated. At that point, I gave up on impressing him and just leaned into the ridiculousness of it all.

After packing away our burgers, we set out for Coronado, dropping in for a drink at The Islander—or, as I originally thought, just "The Island," since the last two letters were burned out on the old neon sign.

Inside, it was obvious—wall-to-wall enlisted.

Settling in with some of his mates, conversation came easy.

Then, something unexpected when Pat left the table for a minute—his chief came onto me.

Yeah—weird, right?

Coming onto me like I didn’t just walk through the door with someone else.

Moron.

I let him know exactly what I thought. Don’t people know better than to piss off a redhead?

Pat returned, and before he could even sit, I was out of that booth and we were out the door.

"What just happened?" he asked, baffled.

"Your chief just came onto me. And I let him know what I thought of him."

He laughed, brushed it off, completely unworried.

Not defensive. Not rattled.

If anything, he seemed impressed—like he knew I could hold my own, and he respected that.

And suddenly, in that moment, I saw him differently.

Not just as someone I was drawn to, but as someone who carried himself differently, who trusted me, who didn’t let things shake him.

A Full Moon and Coronado Beach

The moonlight cast silver ribbons out into the night, out into the Pacific, reaching toward something endless.

The thought settled deep—him, soon out there, beyond the shoreline, beyond the horizon, beyond where I could reach.

The breeze wrapped around us, cool, effortless, alive with possibility.

His hand tightened around mine, and I felt it—the quiet understanding that this moment was inevitable.

No grand declarations. No rehearsed words.

Just connection, timing, and a kiss that lingered just a little longer than expected—as if neither of us wanted to step away from it.

A slow lean-in, the warmth of his hand in mine as the world just faded out.

Soft. Unscripted. 

One of those rare moments where time slows.

A moment beyond a memory. A moment meant to shape you. 

And that kiss? It was one of them.

Two dates. Six months. Oceans between us.

Two dates. That was all we had.

Yet, in those fleeting hours, something settled between us—unspoken, inevitable, carrying the kind of weight that lingers even when goodbye is certain.

The finality of parting ways, yet the quiet pull of something unfinished.

An ending wrapped in possibility.

A goodbye that carried the weight of something not yet written, something waiting—just  beyond the tides, beyond the horizon.

Yet, it felt like the end - and not at the same time.

A fleeting connection, a quiet hope, a feeling both complete and unfinished all at once.

Would it last? Would time smooth it into just a memory, or would it remain—waiting, stretched between moonlit nights and miles of ocean?

I didn’t know.

But I did know that some distances aren’t barriers.

They are simply waiting to be crossed.

Maybe, just maybe—this wasn’t the end at all.

Just the beginning of something undetermined, unspoken, yet undeniably there.

Something that time and distance might not erase.

Hope that six months, a city on the other side of the country, wouldn’t change the certainty sealed in moonlight, wrapped in possibility, held steady by the warmth of his hand.

Beyond hope. Beyond longing. Beyond distance.

A hope that the oceans and time between us were only temporary.

What happens next? Stay tuned!

First Impressions & a Hop, Skip, and Go Naked - Date #1

Since Pat didn’t have a vehicle, he instructed me to pick him up at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. When I arrived, he was already waiting outside the gate in a red jacket, the December evening cool.

Rolling down my window, I couldn’t resist. With a grin, I called out, "Hey, Sailor! Need a ride?"

He laughed, jumped in, and just like that, our first date officially began.

As we drove, he asked me to pick the restaurant. That’s when my brain went into absolute overdrive.

I wasn’t a fancy person, and I definitely didn’t want to spend all of his money—especially if it might put him in an awkward spot. But at the same time, I didn’t want to default to fast food either.

And so began the great restaurant dilemma.

I overthought everything. Should I pick something casual? Would a sit-down place be too much? How do I balance making it feel like an actual date without making it too formal? Am I the only person who spirals into these tiny decisions before a date? Geez.

Hours ticked by as we drove through San Diego, deep in conversation, and yet—I still hadn’t made up my mind.

Finally, I pulled into Denny’s. Simple, easy, no pressure. A place where the focus could stay on us, rather than the menu.

Honestly?

If a guy can’t handle a $12.48 Denny’s tab, I might need to reconsider my options.

With dinner wrapped up and no financial crisis in sight, it was time to figure out our next move and where the night took a turn. 

We headed to Wrangler’s Roost, referred to simply as "the Roost", a country-western bar where you could always find a live band, friendly people and a dance floor that took you outside through one door and back in through another.

And Pat? Pat wasn’t just ordering drinks—he was orchestrating them.

A former bartender, he leaned confidently against the bar, rattling off drink names like a seasoned pro, instructing the bartender step by step on how to mix each one.

"You ever made this one before?" he’d ask with a smirk.

What started as a simple round quickly spiraled into something resembling a bartender’s boot camp, with Pat leading the charge. The bartender was loving every second of it—grinning as he took on the challenge, following Pat’s instructions, and occasionally chiming in with his own suggestions.

Then came the drink names.

At first, it was innocent enough—classic cocktails, standard mixes.

And then? Hop, Skip, and Go Naked.

One glass, two straws.

Try keeping a straight face while staring at someone you barely know over a drink with that name. Ha!

We both tried—tried so hard—to be normal, to sip casually, to make it feel like just any other drink.

But the longer we held eye contact, the harder it became.

A slow smirk. A twitch at the corner of my mouth. Then his.

And that was it—we lost it, laughing into our straws, the bartender shaking his head with amusement.

Next up? Sex on the Beach.

Cue even louder laughter, the bartender chuckling, and me wondering exactly what I had signed up for.  By now we had a crowd.

But the real kicker?

"Let’s do an Orgasm!" Pat announced.

That did it. I nearly fell off my barstool.

The bartender was chuckling now, Pat was unfazed, and I was trying very hard not to burst into full-on hysterics.

By the end of the night, we’d spent $80.00 on drinks, though at that point, it felt less like a tab and more like a record-breaking mixology experiment with a side of comedy.

It was the kind of night that was impossible to plan, yet unfolded perfectly.

And, one that led to one last date before we headed out in very different directions.  

Stay tuned for date number 2!

From New England to Oklahoma: A Love Story Across Oceans - The Beginning

Some journeys don’t just take you across the country; they take you straight into the heart of the unexpected. My path from New England to Oklahoma wasn’t just about miles traveled—it was about adventure, fate, and a love story that unfolded in the most surprising ways.

A Road Trip That Changed Everything

It started with a favor—helping a friend drive her vehicle cross-country. Drive cross-country - we had 3 days - get her car to her duty station at Ft. Ord in Marina, CA, then return home to Connecticut. That was the plan. But life has a way of unraveling plans and weaving together something better.

The ocean breeze, the endless sunshine, the carefree rhythm of life—it all pulled me in, and before I knew it, San Diego became home. I would go to school, earn a degree while I was there. But I would have fun, too.

Three years passed, and the call of my Yankee roots grew stronger. I was ready to return to the small-town charm of Portland, Connecticut, and the feeling of belonging that only home can offer. I was ready to leave. My ticket was booked. Everything was in place.

The plan was set—until fate threw me a curveball less than a week before I left.

A Dance That Almost Didn’t Happen

After a long day at an outdoor picnic, I almost didn’t go dancing that night. My friend and I were exhausted, but we convinced ourselves to go early for the country-western dance lessons at our usual spot. As the evening picked up and the bar filled with people, I was ready to call it a night.

Then, I saw him.

First, a good-looking man stepped through the doorway. He paused before heading straight for a table—blonds aren't my type, so I was still set on leaving. But two seconds later, his friend framed the doorway—a tall, dark-haired, strikingly handsome man. He paused, scanning the room before following his buddy.

I turned to my friend, half-joking, half-serious: I’m staying.

Then I quickly laughed it off. No guy I wanted to ask me to dance ever actually did, so why would this time be any different? As I mused about it with my friend, once again preparing to leave, she suddenly lit up.

"He’s coming over," she said, eyes sparkling.

I scoffed. Not even. History speaks, after all.

She only grinned. Well, he’s coming.

I was in the middle of mumbling something about not wanting to embarrass myself when I heard the words—soft, direct, perfectly timed:

"Would you like to dance?"

If my face matched my friend's, it must have been comical.

The Promise

We spent the evening talking, providing each a glimpse into each other’s stories as we swayed across the dance floor. He mentioned that his ship was preparing to depart for a six-month world cruise, but its journey wouldn’t bring him back to San Diego. Instead, it would end in dry dock in Philadelphia.

As we talked, he mused aloud that if circumstances had been different, he would have liked to get to know me better. I smiled, understanding the bittersweet timing. After three years in California, I was preparing to return home to my Yankee roots, so even if his ship had been coming back, I wouldn’t be there to greet it.

We spent the evening chatting, lost in conversation, as if the universe had conspired to create a fleeting moment that neither of us expected but both were enjoying. Before the night ended, I told him something bold, something that felt right—if in six months’ time, we were still in contact, I would meet him on the pier in Philly when his ship returned.

It wasn’t just a promise—it was an acknowledgment of something neither of us could quite name but both felt.

In the meantime, he asked me for a date and since he'd be on duty the next day, he'd call me on Monday. 

A Bold Call and an Unexpected Connection

Monday rolled around, and as I recounted the weekend’s developments to my colleague Nina, she hit me with a question I hadn’t even considered:

"Why don’t you call him?"

I laughed. Call him? He’s on an aircraft carrier in the Navy—you don’t just look up their number in the phone book. Or do you?

That’s when Nina grabbed the massive yellow pages and dropped them onto my desk with a knowing grin.

Well, as it turns out, you can just look up the ship’s number. Or, more accurately, you can find twenty numbers assigned to the USS Kitty Hawk. Giggling, Nina casually said, "Pick one."

I hovered over the list, hesitant. What was the worst that could happen? I spotted a listing—"OD - Officer of the Day." That seemed official enough. I took a deep breath and dialed.

A familiar voice answered.

"Janine, is that you?"

Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously. Of all people, his friend Joel who was with Pat that night had answered the phone.

I stammered in disbelief, but Joel just laughed, completely unfazed. "I’ll get Pat for you."

And then, just like that, I was connected to Pat. He was caught off guard, surprised that I had found my way to him through sheer determination (and a little help from the phone book). I could hardly believe it myself.

As Nina and I erupted into laughter after I hung up, I realized that this wild, impulsive moment had done something remarkable—it had officially set the stage for that first date.

Did the 1st date happen? Stay tuned!

A Tradition in Bloom

Every spring, the pasture comes alive with bursts of fiery red-orange, the Indian Paintbrush flowers spreading like wildfire against the green grass, erasing winter’s touch. It’s a sight I’ve cherished for years, but what makes it truly special is the hands that gather them—hands that once belonged to a little boy, now a man grown with a family of his own.

When my eldest son was small, he would run through the fields, plucking handfuls of those wild blooms just for me. No special occasion, no prompting—he simply saw beauty and wanted to share it, a gesture so simple yet so full of love.

The years have passed, carrying with them the weight of time and change. That little boy has grown into a father, his hands no longer small, yet just as steady and sure as they ever were. And every spring, without fail, he still reaches down and picks those same wildflowers from the pasture, bringing them to me with that same familiar grin. No grand gesture, no need for explanation—just a quiet act of love, reminding me that some things, thankfully, never change.

How grateful I am for this thread that ties us together—the bond only a mother knows, woven into something as simple and beautiful as a handful of wildflowers. The seasons will keep changing, and life will keep moving, but I know that as long as the Indian Paintbrush blooms in the pasture, he’ll still find them for me. And I will treasure them, always.

Time moves forward, reshaping life with its responsibilities and joys. Yet in that simple act—his hand selecting the blooms, their vibrant colors blazing against the green—I see the boy he was and the man he is, and the love that endures between us.

And while some traditions are written in books and others carved in stone, ours grows wild and free—scattered throughout the pasture, returning each spring, just like always, carried across generations.

Photo Credit: Janine Sterry Pittman

Embracing Change with Strength and Grace - New Identity at 60+

From the moment I could run, jump, and climb, movement was my language. I was the kid who scaled trees effortlessly, thrived on the softball and soccer field, and found balance and strength in gymnastics. A pro-athlete? No, but my body was my greatest tool—agile, strong, resilient. Now, as I navigate a new chapter in life, I find myself in a deeply personal transition—one that requires me to reconcile my former athlete self with the person I am today.

This journey hasn’t been easy. There have been moments of loss, frustration, and resistance. Some days, I long for the effortless power I once felt, the drive of competition, and the confidence of knowing my body could meet any challenge. Accepting that athleticism isn’t confined to youth—that it evolves—is a lesson I am still learning. My relationship with movement is shifting from pushing my limits to appreciating my resilience. And as I step into this new phase, I’m hoping to find strength in honoring my past while embracing the future.

Climbing Trees: Fearlessness & Freedom

As a child, trees weren’t just part of the landscape—they were adventures, challenges, and victories. My siblings and I raced each other to the top, our hands gripping branches, pushing past hesitation, eager to reach the highest point. On windy days, we’d feel the tree sway beneath us. We were so free! That fearless spirit may no longer lead me to the treetops, but it still lives within me—whispering encouragement whenever I take on new challenges, step outside my comfort zone, or refuse to let age define my limits.

Softball & Soccer: Teamwork & Determination

Team sports taught me camaraderie, perseverance, and strategy. The drive to win was all encompassing which drove the fun factor for a group of competitors even further.  But it was more than that, it was about working together, trusting instincts, and encouraging others. Today, I may not be racing across fields, but the love for movement and connection remains. I carry the same team spirit and determination in everything I do – my marriage, raising kids, throughout my career.

Gymnastics: Strength & Discipline

I competed in high school on the uneven parallel bars, placing first all but twice. That event demanded power, control, and artistry, pushing me to refine movements and perfect my technique. My coach was my biggest fan. The rush of swinging between and over the bars, executing transitions, and sticking landings fueled my competitive fire. Gymnastics required focus, precision, and resilience—qualities that shaped me far beyond the sport itself. Now, my body moves differently, but the discipline and inner strength gymnastics taught me remain just as vital.

Acknowledging the Shift

This journey isn’t easy. Some days, I crave the confidence of knowing my body could meet any physical challenge. But I have to remind myself that change is inevitable, and accepting it is a process. Recognizing this shift is the first step—allowing myself to feel everything that comes with it, without judgment.

Giving Myself Grace

This transition is not instant. I have to remind myself to be gentle in this process—to honor what was while embracing what lies ahead. I still feel my competitive nature in everything I do, but I’m working on finding new ways to express it. 

What are your thoughts? How are you navigating transitions in your 60+ life?