Jayne
Jaudon and Jose Ferrer
It Happened One Summer
By Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
I was home in central Florida at the end of spring semester my junior year at Mars Hill College, planning to
return to Asheville, NC in a couple of weeks to spend the summer working.
My mother’s next-door neighbor came over to visit a bit and, in the course of conversation, mentioned a
friend she thought I might like to meet. I said sure, arrangements were made, and the next day, Jose Ferrer
showed up at our door. We hit it off immediately, and instead of going back to Asheville, I got a job locally.
Jose was working for IBM in one city, going to college in another, and living in yet another but, somehow, we managed to see each other every day that summer of 1977—sometimes for only for a few minutes on theside of the road as our cars passed, sometimes for hours as we walked around a lake playing “20 Questions”.
We liked each other right off, but marriage wasn’t something either of us had in our long-range plans, so
there were a LOT of questions to ask and answer! By the end of the summer, though, things had changed:
Jose proposed and I accepted. Just to be sure it wasn’t temporary madness, we decided to wait until my fall break to announce our engagement.
Back I went to Mars Hill, whereupon I received either a letter or a phone call from Jose every day. (I still have those letters.) In October, I went home and we told our families we’d be getting married on March 18, 1978.
(I would finish school that December).
My mother, accepting the fact that I was going to marry a computer genius instead of the Baptist minister of music she had envisioned for me, proceeded to feed Jose 15 pounds worth of suppers between fall break and Christmas. (She lived alone and loved to cook; he lived alone and didn’t!)
We married in the church I grew up in, have lived in 8 different homes, survived 4 career changes, lived
through 23 pets, raised 3 magnificent sons, are enjoying 4 adorable grandchildren and, barring unforeseen
developments, my right brain/INFJ/night owl self and his left brain/ENTP/get up before the chickens self will celebrate 47 years of wedded bliss this March. Apparently, all those walks around the lake paid off!
I've been writing since I was six; Jose's only ever written three poems that I know of--and they're all three on my journal, Your Daily Poem! He's a numbers guy, I'm a word woman!
By Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
I was home in central Florida at the end of spring semester my junior year at Mars Hill College, planning to
return to Asheville, NC in a couple of weeks to spend the summer working.
My mother’s next-door neighbor came over to visit a bit and, in the course of conversation, mentioned a
friend she thought I might like to meet. I said sure, arrangements were made, and the next day, Jose Ferrer
showed up at our door. We hit it off immediately, and instead of going back to Asheville, I got a job locally.
Jose was working for IBM in one city, going to college in another, and living in yet another but, somehow, we managed to see each other every day that summer of 1977—sometimes for only for a few minutes on theside of the road as our cars passed, sometimes for hours as we walked around a lake playing “20 Questions”.
We liked each other right off, but marriage wasn’t something either of us had in our long-range plans, so
there were a LOT of questions to ask and answer! By the end of the summer, though, things had changed:
Jose proposed and I accepted. Just to be sure it wasn’t temporary madness, we decided to wait until my fall break to announce our engagement.
Back I went to Mars Hill, whereupon I received either a letter or a phone call from Jose every day. (I still have those letters.) In October, I went home and we told our families we’d be getting married on March 18, 1978.
(I would finish school that December).
My mother, accepting the fact that I was going to marry a computer genius instead of the Baptist minister of music she had envisioned for me, proceeded to feed Jose 15 pounds worth of suppers between fall break and Christmas. (She lived alone and loved to cook; he lived alone and didn’t!)
We married in the church I grew up in, have lived in 8 different homes, survived 4 career changes, lived
through 23 pets, raised 3 magnificent sons, are enjoying 4 adorable grandchildren and, barring unforeseen
developments, my right brain/INFJ/night owl self and his left brain/ENTP/get up before the chickens self will celebrate 47 years of wedded bliss this March. Apparently, all those walks around the lake paid off!
I've been writing since I was six; Jose's only ever written three poems that I know of--and they're all three on my journal, Your Daily Poem! He's a numbers guy, I'm a word woman!
Jose wrote this poem in 2014 for our 36th anniversary:
Tempests in the Storm
Oh, what opposites you and I.
I like numbers, you like words.
I need the big picture, you need the details.
I love spring, you love fall.
I hate winter, you hate summer.
I get up early, you stay up late.
You look at the mountains and say,
“Oh, what beauty! The smoky mist, the colors, the hues . . .
“Amazing what tectonic plates colliding will do,” I respond.
Cookies: chewy for me, crunchy for you.
Steak: pink in the middle, please; yours, brown through and through.
Vacation: you—"Yay, let’s make a list!” me—"Oh, please let’s not!”
The list goes on and on.
No wonder there have been tempests in the storm,
as you so graciously put it.
If I had to do it all over again, would I still marry you? you ask.
Oh, yes, I would.
I think you’re beautiful.
I think you’re smart.
I love to hear you laugh.
I love to read what you write.
I love to hear you sing.
I even enjoy it when you’re feisty—
albeit at a distance.
That list goes on and on, too.
I can honestly say my very best memories
are of days I spent with you.
As for those tempests,
oh, what a fool I was
for not listening to a different point of view.
I’m not saying you were always right,
but rare was the time when we were both wrong.
I should have listened more.
And how I admire the fact that, when you were right,
you never once said, “I told you so.”
Yes, yes, yes, I would marry you all over again.
We created children who find calculus easy and boring,
compose music with lyrics and record them,
paint, write, make movies, program computers,
and make us laugh with their wit.
No, I wouldn’t want to miss that.
Thirty-six years may seem like a long time,
but I’m looking forward to thirty-six more.
I wrote the rest of the poems.
Tempests in the Storm
Oh, what opposites you and I.
I like numbers, you like words.
I need the big picture, you need the details.
I love spring, you love fall.
I hate winter, you hate summer.
I get up early, you stay up late.
You look at the mountains and say,
“Oh, what beauty! The smoky mist, the colors, the hues . . .
“Amazing what tectonic plates colliding will do,” I respond.
Cookies: chewy for me, crunchy for you.
Steak: pink in the middle, please; yours, brown through and through.
Vacation: you—"Yay, let’s make a list!” me—"Oh, please let’s not!”
The list goes on and on.
No wonder there have been tempests in the storm,
as you so graciously put it.
If I had to do it all over again, would I still marry you? you ask.
Oh, yes, I would.
I think you’re beautiful.
I think you’re smart.
I love to hear you laugh.
I love to read what you write.
I love to hear you sing.
I even enjoy it when you’re feisty—
albeit at a distance.
That list goes on and on, too.
I can honestly say my very best memories
are of days I spent with you.
As for those tempests,
oh, what a fool I was
for not listening to a different point of view.
I’m not saying you were always right,
but rare was the time when we were both wrong.
I should have listened more.
And how I admire the fact that, when you were right,
you never once said, “I told you so.”
Yes, yes, yes, I would marry you all over again.
We created children who find calculus easy and boring,
compose music with lyrics and record them,
paint, write, make movies, program computers,
and make us laugh with their wit.
No, I wouldn’t want to miss that.
Thirty-six years may seem like a long time,
but I’m looking forward to thirty-six more.
I wrote the rest of the poems.
Connoisseur
My heart delights in simple joys:
a forsythia’s first fragile bloom…
the sun’s rays splayed
through a stand of pines…
Vivaldi and wine on a May afternoon…
sleeping babies—any species at all…
and you, my love,
with your no-frills philosophy of life—
your keep-it-simple,
cut-to-the-chase,
bottom-line-kind of mind.
You are exquisite vanilla
in my too-many flavored world.
Away on Business
Part of me loves
that I have the whole bed to myself,
that Peter Zeihan or Chat GPT or a YouTube
about worm castings or biochar or thermodynamics
is not pontificating from your laptop,
that there is no question about
what the thermostat will be set on tonight,
what breakfast will be come the morning,
what CD I will awaken to,
what music will put me to sleep,
and, no, I won’t miss
your snoring…
but I will miss
you.
A lot.
Jayne
and Jose now
The Problem with Listening
Here’s the thing: you start out listening,
you want to listen, but then
he goes off on some tangent,
or his voice takes on that drone
and you feel your attention
drifting
your eyes glazing
your expression freezing.
Guilt punches you in the gut
as you think, come on, now, be fair;
this is something that means a lot to him
or c’mon now, he’s worked hard to make
this project come together;
the least you can do is be supportive.
And you want to be.
You truly, truly want to be.
But it’s his project, not yours;
his rant, not yours.
You care; really, you do…
but there’s that article you were reading…
supper needs to get underway…
you were hoping to chat
with your sister about…
What’s that?
No, no, I’m listening!
I love hearing about your day;
tell me more!
Refueling
Together we form an oasis.
Frond-fanned relief amid stifling chaos,
vivid brights in a wash of beige,
come Friday, we revive
the pulse-drummed passion
forced dormant during weekday lives.
Like preschoolers privy to a secret,
exchanging sly glances and grins,
we head for home smug in knowing
the pleasure that lies ahead.
Depleted and dull from a week’s duress,
we open the door and escape
into us. Gulping from the deep,
sweet well of our affection,
we feed from the surfeit of souls
at rest, bask in the balm of love.
Come Monday, we are restored
and ready to sally forth,
primed to face the noxious nomads
once again, compassionate
and even, occasionally,
able to smile.
Here’s the thing: you start out listening,
you want to listen, but then
he goes off on some tangent,
or his voice takes on that drone
and you feel your attention
drifting
your eyes glazing
your expression freezing.
Guilt punches you in the gut
as you think, come on, now, be fair;
this is something that means a lot to him
or c’mon now, he’s worked hard to make
this project come together;
the least you can do is be supportive.
And you want to be.
You truly, truly want to be.
But it’s his project, not yours;
his rant, not yours.
You care; really, you do…
but there’s that article you were reading…
supper needs to get underway…
you were hoping to chat
with your sister about…
What’s that?
No, no, I’m listening!
I love hearing about your day;
tell me more!
Refueling
Together we form an oasis.
Frond-fanned relief amid stifling chaos,
vivid brights in a wash of beige,
come Friday, we revive
the pulse-drummed passion
forced dormant during weekday lives.
Like preschoolers privy to a secret,
exchanging sly glances and grins,
we head for home smug in knowing
the pleasure that lies ahead.
Depleted and dull from a week’s duress,
we open the door and escape
into us. Gulping from the deep,
sweet well of our affection,
we feed from the surfeit of souls
at rest, bask in the balm of love.
Come Monday, we are restored
and ready to sally forth,
primed to face the noxious nomads
once again, compassionate
and even, occasionally,
able to smile.
You Love Me
Is there no limit to happiness?
Evidently not,
for mine increases in absolute
multitudes each new day.
I have been happy before;
Lots of things can make me
that way.
But never this way.
This happy is different.
It doesn’t end.
It knows no boundaries.
And it must not know
that my heart is bursting
from trying to contain
all my elation—
all because
you love me.
Heart Attacks
Earlier than I can remember, I fell in love with Andy.
He crooned to me--to me--week after week on TV,
then Christmas after Christmas, then now and then,
then—live and onstage!—in Miami and Branson,
the sweater-clad epitome of The Perfect Man.
I hated Claudine, envied Christian and Noelle,
practiced "The Spinning Song" every day.
At six,
I fell in love with Ringo.
Thrilled by his every rim shot, roll, and flam,
I flaunted my love on lunchboxes, binders,
and book bags; mooned mesmerized into his
puppy-eyed, pouting paper doll persona,
grew giddy at the unexpected discovery
that "Mrs. Ringo Starr" could be abbreviated
into the highly appropriate acronym, "M.R.S."
At sixteen,
I fell in love with Gene,.
a beautiful, gentle, misunderstood misfit
on Public Television--his role, the apologetically
soulful spawn of a witch and the devil, left me smitten.
Even when he showed up a couple of years later
on the silver screen, wise-cracking and wild-eyed
on the back of a horse and in a science lab,
I thought he was wonderful.
Then at twenty-one,
I fell in love with Jose.
He was tall, not dark, but handsome.
A summer romance, an autumn ring. . .
a glorious wedding come the spring.
Enter messy bathrooms, ungodly work schedules,
more than I ever wanted to know about
tools and technology and math and quantum theories.
47 years later, Andy and Gene are dead,
Ringo’s gone country, and Jose’s obsessed
with ChatGPT and skidsteers,
but we’re still in love,
my hand and my heart.
are still his.
I loved reading your story and your poems!
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