My parents first kissed in the backseat of a car in Omaha, Nebraska, on a double-date, while the car in which they were passengers was driven east on Curtis Avenue, between 31st Street and 32nd Street.
I was not present at the time, except as a gleam in my father’s eye, so my information did not come from my own memory. I learned this fact in an interesting manner.
As a bright and observant young child, I noticed that every time we drove down Curtis Avenue, Dad would quietly smack his lips with a kissing sound and Mom would do the same in response. Every time. Maybe I did not have to be so precocious to notice after the millionth time.
So I asked, “Why do you two always make a kissing sound on this street?”
The answer is what I wrote in the first paragraph.
“Yuck!” I had not yet evolved into the romantic person I am today.
Even though it seemed like too much information for a grade school boy who was not interested, yet, in the facts of life, I suppose it gave me some security to see that my father was still crazy about my mother as his girlfriend, as crazy as that seemed to me at the time.
My parents were married for 55 years, until death did them part.
Maybe Dad was onto something. It does not seem so yucky anymore.