My husband Rick and I like to refer to Chicago as the place we first fell in love. That’s not where we met, but where we, as longtime friends, discovered that we had become more than that.
Albany, New York, is where we both grew up and met while working as reporters in the state capitol. But when I moved to Chicago, Illinois, to study at Northwestern University, he continued to work at the Albany newspaper.
We talked over the phone constantly. I finally persuaded him to visit, arguing that he would like the Windy City and its culture. When he flew out, so did the sparks, and we became a couple.
Four years later, we returned to Chicago to visit my brother, still boyfriend and girlfriend.
After watching the White Sox win a great ballgame at U.S. Cellular Field, Rick suggested we visit my old neighborhood, near Chicago’s other famed ballpark, Wrigley Field.
It was a chilly night in early spring, but there was little wind, so it made for a pleasant walk. I reminisced about my time living in the neighborhood, and commented here and there on what was new and what had stayed the same. When we came to the street I used to live on, Rick asked me to show him my old house.
We walked down the block to the brownstone in which I had had a comfortable garden apartment. We were right in the spot where we first fell in love, four years ago. As I stood on the sidewalk, filled with nostalgia and babbling away, I noticed Rick was silent.
I turned to see why. He was down on one knee, presenting me with a beautiful diamond ring.
That’s the Chicago Way.
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