He played the trombone in community college. She played percussion. He was a sophomore; she was a freshman. He was short, she was shorter. He saw her get out of the car every day, with her boyfriend? No, it was just her brother, Jack.
George was a pilot. She liked pilots.
“Do you want to fly with me up to Sacramento for a piece of pie?” George asked after class. “We will go during winter break.”
Jill said yes.
At the next band practice, George said, “Renting the plane is expensive. Can you think of anyone else who’d like to come with us, to help defray costs?”
Jill invited her father.
George was horrified. He invited his old girlfriend, TC.
George already had six hundred hours experience in the air at the young age of 19. They climbed into the Cherokee four-seater. Jill’s dad sat in the front, and Jill and the old girlfriend sat in the back seats, not the arrangement George had hoped for.
They ate their berry pie and returned home.
“The guy isn’t Italian,” Jill’s dad said. “He isn’t even Catholic.”
Jill didn’t care. She and George dated for the next year until George started working. Then they agreed to date other people while they were apart.
“If it’s meant to be, we’ll come back together someday,” Jill said.
The day Jill brought home the bald Jewish guy to meet her parents, eleven years her senior, Jill’s mom grabbed her rosary beads and started to pray. JiIl’s dad suddenly saw George in a new light.
“Go with the pilot,” he said.
Couldda Wouldda Didda
George and Jill started dating again and got married. Forty-three years later, he is still flying her to fun places to get pie. So the potentially worst date (who brings her dad?) turned out to be the best date in the long run. George and Jill don’t play in a band anymore but still like to sing. He’s a tenor, and she’s a soprano in the Blackhawk Chorus.