Chicago-Indiana-Michigan, episode 1. In which our origin story originates.

With apologies to Holden Caulfield I'm about to wade deep in some of that "David Copperfield kind of crap."

I met my wife in college.  More specifically, I met her on a September evening in 1985.  It was a weekday and it was just past 6:30 PM.  She was briefly introduced to me by a new acquaintance, a very loud freshman from Pittsburgh who roomed a few (too few) doors down the hall from my single room-slash-closet at 427 Fisher Hall (right between the dining hall and the golf course) on the Notre Dame campus.  It was a privilege having a single room as a sophomore and I had looked forward all summer long to the prospect of not having a roommate for the school year.  I had also carefully planned (planning and list-making started at a much earlier age than college, believe me) the layout of my incredibly cozy 7x12 bachelor pad that included closet, sink and a big window under which the previous tenant (a good friend and also a New Yorker) had kept his bed. In my naive but creatively inspired efforts to make the most of my limited (84 square feet!) space, I banished the twin bed to the basement storage/boiler room where we all kept our luggage until semester's end.  Who had room for a bed in the Wicker Lounge?  Dubbed so by my sarcastically lovable dorm-mates and embraced by yours truly, the moniker was eventually fashioned into a sign that rested above my door throughout that 1985-1986 school year.

My mid-80s World Bazaar mod room, complete with barely-fit-through-the-door wicker etagere, wicker desk (doubles-as-a-guest-seat) chair, Donald-Trump-would-be-proud shiny brass storage trunk slash lamp table, and bought-from-a-graduating-senior black pleather recliner, was a popular stop on the dorm tour and my loud but endearing new friend had stopped by as I was sitting down to mentally gear up for a night's work by watching Wheel of Fortune.  He had brought a friend and they both sat and watched the remainder of the show with me, then promptly left.  I thought nothing of that evening until nearly two years later while driving to Fort Wayne to take my National Teacher Exam for Indiana teacher certification.  In the passenger seat was a classmate who also happened to be attending summer classes and who had offered free housing with a cousin in Fort Wayne in exchange for a ride.  Of course, sure thing. Beats getting up at 5:00 AM on the day of the test to drive to Fort Wayne.  (Where the heck was Fort Wayne?!)  Perfect timing.  We both happened to be on campus for the summer and both wanted to get these exams out of the way before the fall semester started, so why not?  It was on that two-hour drive to Fort Wayne with Mari that we realized she had been my unwitting Wheel of Fortune guest and it was on the two-hour return drive to South Bend the following day that I realized I had met the woman I was going to marry.  Met her for the second time actually, but who's counting?

There's nothing like being "stuck" in a car

with a stranger on a road trip to make you fall in love.

I hadn't planned on this little detour through my mind (with thanks to The B-52's for great imagery and one of my favorite songs) just now, but I needed to provide a little backstory for the episodes to come.  Back in the late 80s I enjoyed close proximity to two of my favorite cities:  New York, as you are well aware, and Chicago, only about an hour and a half drive or train ride from South Bend.  Now, a visit to Chicago is a visit to South Bend and a visit to South Bend is always a visit to Chicago and at least one fave, Portillo's, for a Chicago dog and Italian beef sandwich (and dessert).  More on those craveably fantastic faves next time.

A few weeks ago (NYC Markets, episode 6) I shared a photograph of one of my first collectibles purchases, a vintage ribbed glass jar of shaving balm that I had purchased while an undergraduate student shortly after moving into my first apartment.  Here is where it was previously housed.  I'm not quite sure what got into me one spring Saturday morning after doing laundry at the Fluff & Fold, but I headed north for a nice drive instead of south to put away my dryer-warm underwear and ended up just across the Michigan border at Picker's Paradise Antique Mall. (There's an apostrophe on that painted sign out front, but not on the website.  Of course, there WAS no information superhighway yet, just old US-31 North connecting Indiana with Michigan and me with a new old world of collectibles that would forever change my life.  Back to that apostrophe:  after decades of internal debate, the singular setting makes me happy because I'm made to feel as if it is a paradise of my own making, just for me.)

Sometimes, what appears to be a misplaced apostrophe

can actually be kind of comforting.

And that's how it all started.  That almost-forgotten Wheel of Fortune viewing, that day-long NTE exam (with lunch break between test sessions at Wendy's where Mari introduced me to the salty sweet joy of dipping a french fry in a Frosty), that neatly folded pile of waiting warm underwear in the trunk of my car, that right-instead-of-left turn out of Fluff & Fold...  Over the years, I've introduced a few people to Picker's, visited countless times with Mari, and have permanently etched Picker's Paradise (with its singular apostrophe) on my Chicago/South Bend travel list even though it's in Michigan.

And, of course, the NTE exam

is not recognized by the state of Texas.

More on the tempting trifles I've picked at Picker's over the (gulp) decades next time.