(Note: the actual memoir text is single spaced)

FOUR : Finding Lydia

Soul mate.

As in, “I think I’ve met my soul mate.”

It’s a platinum-level phrase reserved for that once-in-a-lifetime love.

One can’t use the words too casually or too soon; most listeners will

certainly give a disapproving look.

The thing about soul mates: you never know when they’ll show up.

For some, it’s a first grade romance that never ends. Others find their soul

mate on the hundred-and-tenth blind date. Some meet their soul mate

while living as widows or widowers.

And me? I found my soul mate when I was barely fifteen.

Lydia King was my soul mate-in-waiting.

We began easy enough; a match-up through her friends.  A

quick-witted cute blonde with a Mona Lisa smile, Lydia had a girl-next door

persona. She was always willing to touch—a hand, a sleeve, a

shoulder—when she spoke, which made her impossible to resist. She

smelled wonderful too; every morning she spritzed a tiny shot of Heaven

Scent on her neck. Most of all, she had a generous giving heart one size

larger than Alaska.

On the other hand, it shouldn’t have worked. Lydia was Missouri

Synod Lutheran in a family of before-dinner grace prayers. Unbelievably,

her parents didn’t even drink. Barbara and Samuel King also weren’t

crazy about Lydia dating anyone outside their religion. Catholics in

particular, especially Catholic boys with booming voices like mine, were

off-limits. Lydia was a year older, too—tenth grade to my ninth—at a

time when dating younger boys was borderline heretical.

“You were hard up,” I always kidded her.

Lydia thought I was nice, and she liked my sense of humor. She

bucked her parents.

“You’re so sensitive,” she said one night as we sat in her car, trying

to French kiss for the first time. “You’re not like other boys; you aren’t

afraid to tell me what’s in your heart.”

Certainly I was willing to talk about many things that most fifteen year-

old boys wouldn’t even consider. Like her interest in fashion design.

I actually asked questions as she described dress patterns or explained

how to make the perfect dart. It didn’t scare me to say that I liked her, or

more importantly, to show it.

Before long, I had written a couple dozen notes and cards telling

Lydia how special she was.

My best friend, Dennis Tharp, whom I nicknamed Thap, understood

that Lydia was a keeper.

“Krugger, what the hell is a girl like Lydia King doing with you?

She’s a sweetheart, and way too good for you,” he said with a wink. “She

should be dating me instead.”

I thought he might be a little serious.

“Leave me alone, Thap. Get your own girlfriend from the dozens

standing in line.”

“Seriously, Krug, she’s such a nice person. If you have any sense at

all, you’ll hang on to her.”

Thap definitely had enough experience to spot an exceptional girl.

We had been friends since the first day of eighth grade, when he walked

up the aisle of our loud school bus. He had a fresh crew cut to jet black

hair and wore brand-new blue jeans topped by a white button-down shirt.

I saw a smile and an offered hand.

“Hi, I’m Dennis.”

In retrospect, it’s a wonder Thap was so friendly; with shaggy hair

nearly to my shoulders, striped multicolored bell bottoms, and a Nehru

jacket, I was my own special mix of Iowa hippie and weirdo. A four-inch

silver medallion hung around my neck. Mom thought it made me look cool.

I smiled at this new kid, flashed the peace sign, and replied, “Peace,

man.”

It was 1970, after all.

Thap and I fell in as friends. Soon, we were nightly telephone junkies,

sharing about girls, music, and whatever else teenage boys talk about.

Eventually, we both made the football team, with Thap as quarterback

and me as front line guard. I was tasked with keeping Thap safe from

rushing linemen hell-bent on taking him down.

“Krug, do your job and don’t let that son of a bitch get to me!”

Because of Thap’s drop-dead gorgeous features—the hair, the tight

jaw, and the everlasting cocky spirit—he quickly faced the dilemma

of choosing among multiple girls. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he

always wanted my opinion.

“What do you think, Krugger?” he risked during one lunch period.

“Should I spend my energy on Carmen, who’s happy to make out, or

should I go for Michelle, the smart one, who I really like but will need

convincing? I’m sure she’ll never let me get to second base, either.”

The poor guy. He had no clue that I was clueless.

I listened to Thap’s pronouncement about Lydia. No doubt, Lydia

oozed genuine goodness. Maybe a sheltered life had preserved her innocence

and values. Maybe it was that we seemed to just click. Regardless

of why, I was going to hang on to her.

I needed to.

Sometimes, my father stopped cold—drop-dead drunk—after too

many Scotches. Mark learned this the hard way one evening when he

couldn’t open the front door. Tom Terrific had passed out the moment he

got in the house.

Mark didn’t tell me about this until we were adults. As kids, the code

was to never talk about Dad’s boozing.

A year into dating, I brought Lydia back to Kent Drive after a Friday

night basketball game. She bolted ahead into the kitchen. I was halfway

up the split-level’s stairs when I saw her back out of the kitchen. She

turned around, looking puzzled and alarmed.

“What’s your father doing asleep on the floor?” she whispered, pointing

behind her.

My heart stopped. I looked beyond her into the kitchen and saw my

old man’s crumpled legs.

“We’re outta here!” I yelled.

I retreated to the landing. “Come on, let’s go,” I ordered as I held the

front door open.

We got back in the family Corolla parked in the driveway. Lydia

demanded, “Tell me what’s going on!”

The car didn’t move. I couldn’t concentrate on driving, but I also

didn’t know what to say. I had never talked to anyone about my father—

not even Thap—and I didn’t have a rehearsed script.

I went for honesty.

“He drinks too much,” I said, deflating fast. “He always drinks

too much. Then he passes out, but I’ve never seen him like this, in the

middle of the goddamned floor.”

Lydia frowned. “Really? When I’ve been here, he’s never seemed to

drink very much. I’ve never even heard him slur his words.”

“Yes, really,” I answered defensively. “He holds it well until a certain

point, but once he gets there, forget about it, he’s gone.” Still stumbling, I

added, “I hate it. I so want to leave this house and him and my mother.”

I felt tears welling. I tightened. The last thing I wanted was to cry.

Lydia grabbed my hand. “What does your mom do about your dad?”

“She puts up with it,” I said. “She doesn’t know what to do, and she’s

afraid. Sometimes she joins him, and then both of them get bombed.”

Lydia gently squeezed. “Oh, Ed, why didn’t you tell me?”

I stared straight ahead; I couldn’t look at Lydia without breaking

down. Finally, I answered. “I’m so ashamed of him. I’m worried the guys

will think I’m a loser.”

I heard her tears, and from my eye’s corner, saw her reach for a tissue.

A second later, she leaned over and grabbed at my letter jacket, searching

for body mass. I fell toward her, over the stick shift, onto her seat.

That was enough to loosen the grip on my tears. Lydia held on like a

human sponge, absorbing my pain as I cried.

“I don’t care,” she said above my bawling. “I’m sorry you didn’t

think you could talk about this but, Ed, I don’t care. It’s you, not your

family, that matters to me.”

Her words melted something inside me, like a red-hot flame burning

through ice-cold wax.

If I had to pick the moment when I fell in love with Lydia—real love,

not that puppy stuff—this was it. I never expected someone, especially

this sweet untarnished girl, to know and still want me.

As we each held on tight, I told myself that I’d never let her go, not

now, not after she knew about my father and didn’t run away. Finally, I

had someone who would love me regardless of my history, someone who

was willing to stick with me and my fears.

We coined a pet name for each other after that. Both of us had taken

Spanish and learned that “bobo” meant “crazy.” After wearing out the

fun of calling each other “Señor Bobo” and “Señorita Bobo,” we settled

on our special name for each other: “Bo.”

“You’re my Bo, and I’m your Bo,” I told Lydia after the moniker was

ingrained. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“No,” Lydia answered. “I’m the lucky one.”

Hearing that made me feel so incredibly good.

Everything changed after that night in the driveway. Lydia and I went

from talking about my dream (lawyer) or her dream (fashion designerbuyer)

to our dream of a life together. We dreamed a plan, a Grand Plan:

college, law school, our respective careers, children, and a big house

where we’d live happily ever after.

I surprised Lydia with a promise ring. “I’m yours forever,” I wrote

in the card.

“Oh Bo! I’m yours too. I love you so very much.”

Love. What an incredibly powerful word.

Almost as powerful as soul mate.

***  ***   ***

Contact Information/Book Clubs

All of us have perspectives on life. I enjoy sharing about my “gender journey” in the hope that just maybe, my story will resonate with someone who would benefit from my perspective. At our core, we are simply human, and speaking “human to human” is so fundamentally important.

I have given many talks, and a number of readings from Getting to Ellen: A Memoir about Love, Honesty and Gender Change. Please contact me it you’d like to arrange for a speaking event  or reading. For book clubs in the Twin Cities, I’m happy to appear in person to discuss my book.  For those outside the Twin Cities, I will Skype or speakerphone in.

Thanks!

Ellen (Ellie) Krug

Contact: ellenkrugwriter@gmail.com