Kate Dietrich

“She’s in love with the boy!”  Trisha Yearwood was singing the song out of the boom box as Tim and I danced barefoot in the sand.  “She’s in love with the boy!”  the song continued.  “Come on, Timmy,” Puddin’ said as he got up for a beer and pushed Tim in a little closer to me.  “She’s in love with the boy!”  We were holding hands and moving back and forth from each other.  Tim was twirling me as he led me in a country swing dance.  “And even if they have to run away, she’s gonna marry that boy someday.”  It was our song.  Jen, aka “Shonka-Bonka,” was hosting us and our big group of friends at her parents’ lake house.  The sun was hot.  The sand was hot.  When our song came on the radio, everyone started cheering for us and singing along with the song that is about “Katie and Tommy.” Our gang always changed the words, singing about Katie and Timmy instead.  That was us.  The song ended, and we raced back into the lake and jumped on an innertube.  From the distance, we heard a low rumble that became louder and louder as Bryan and Shonka arrived back on the jet-ski.  “You guys going next?”  “Heck ya!”  Tim hopped on, and I climbed behind him.  He revved the engine, and we flew into the distance.  He took some sharp turns, and I bit my lip.  Then he slowed down and turned off the motor.  We sat there together on the water, listening to the waves, looking up, and feeling the hot sun on our faces.  The song was still playing in my head.  “She’ll follow Timmy…anywhere.  ‘Cause she’s in love with the boy.”

In the summer of 1992, I moved into a duplex in Lincoln with four of my friends.  I was about to start my junior year of college.  I stepped out of the front door and walked down the steps to the end of the driveway.  I eagerly checked the mailbox.  No letter.  The disappointment of the moment washed away as I walked back in the door and saw Michelle, aka Marcia, making an odd expression, and I laughed.  “No letter, girlfriend?” Marcia asked.  “Well, no.”  It was Wednesday, and I was hoping to have a letter in my hand from Tim.  We couldn’t afford to make phone calls very often due to the long-distance phone charges.  So we wrote letters to each other to help us get through the silence and distance of the week away from each other, him in Schuyler and me in Lincoln. I wrote every Sunday evening, hoping he would receive my letters on Wednesdays.  The letters revealed how my heart ached to see him gazing at me again, holding my hand, singing “Brown-eyed Girl” to me.  On Fridays, Tim’s black car would roll into the driveway, and the silence of the week would be immediately forgotten as he lifted me in an embrace and smiled down on me.

The duplex was built for college students.  The neighborhood was filled with twenty-somethings.  “I’ll cut the carrots.”  A fresh bunch of bright orange carrots sat on the counter, and I grabbed one of them.  Eric, aka 1/2 a Bee, was pouring rice into a saucepan of water.  Tim reached for the wine glasses and started pouring from the spout of the Franzia box of cheap Zinfandel wine that sat on the shelf in the fridge.  Soon, the wok was sizzling with vegetables and chicken as Marge stirred.  Eric served plates, and we sat around the old hand-me-down table together, sipping wine between bites.  Nichole got up to go fart in the bathroom, and we laughed about her good manners.  Eating meals with our friends on Friday nights became commonplace.

When Tim drove me to Schuyler to meet his parents, his dad, Ernie, was slow to warm up to me.  I learned from other family members that Ernie didn’t like the idea of Tim having a girlfriend from anywhere but the Czech population of Schuyler.  Ernie and Maxine were so much older than my parents.  In fact, Maxine was the same age as my dad’s mom, Mabel.  They were both sixty-seven years old in 1992.  We walked in the back door and up the steps to the kitchen.  Maxine was prepared with a bucket of chicken from Gene’s, one of a few restaurants in town. We filled our plates with chicken and mashed potatoes. Maxine and Ernie gave updates to Tim about classmates he grew up with and other Schuyler news.  The Schuyler Sun newspaper was sitting in the living room and provided prompts for further conversation after lunch.   I saw pictures of Tim as a child at age four, the year of his dad’s electrical accident.  Ernie was a lineman trained to fix electrical line issues on poles.  He lost both of his arms in 1974 in an accident with a live wire.  Tim was the baby of the family, the youngest of four children, and his life growing up was colored by the aftermath of the trauma of his dad’s accident.  Tim stood up from the couch and grabbed my hand, pulling me up.  “Come here.”  He led me through the small kitchen to the narrow staircase that led to the basement.  The walls were lined with old posters of polka bands.  He explained that his dad had collected these posters of polka bands that had played in Schuyler’s Oak Ballroom over the years.  “Look at this.”  He drew my attention to a crate full of vinyl records.  “It’s all polka music,” he said and laughed.  “You’re gonna have to learn how to polka if you want to be a part of the Hron family.”  He looked me in the eye with a more serious expression, and with a part of his lips, he snuck a kiss, then picked a record and played it loud.

My dad, Jerry, was twenty years younger than Tim’s dad.  Our family culture had a younger vibe all around.  My brother was still in high school, and my parents were in their forties.  A group of my friends came with me to my parents’ house–Marge, Bryan, Tim, and I showed up at the door, and we were loud as we walked past the piano toward the living room.  It was a short visit but long enough to break the ice and make first impressions.  My friends were polite and funny and interested in my younger brother, Jeremy.  We shared some college stories with my parents, and Mom offered us pie.

Tim moved to Omaha in the summer of 1993 to attend the University of Nebraska at Omaha.  We helped move him into the upstairs apartment of the house on 42nd Street.  We continued to live in separate cities, him in Omaha and me in Lincoln.  Weekends were thrilling, full of fellowship with friends, and balanced with time alone as we started to talk about a future together.  My heart started breaking every time we said goodbye on Sundays.  I loved him.  I loved his enthusiasm, his genuine nature, his laugh, his arms around me, and his loving heart towards me.

“Hello in the tent!”  I froze under the warmth of my sleeping bag.  Again, “Hello in the tent.”  The voice was male, deep, and strong.  The sun was rising, and the light had filled the tent.  What’s going on?  There were some groans from my twenty-something friends as we lay like sardines together on the hard ground.  Jeff put on his glasses and got up.  He went out in the 7:00 a.m. air to speak with the trooper.  A few minutes later, our friend re-entered our tent.  We had multiple cars at the campsite, and one hadn’t paid for a park sticker.  After a night of bonfire partying under the stars the night before, we were not thrilled to be woken up so early and nervous that maybe an empty beer can had been left sitting beside the dead fire pit.

I heard the trooper drive away.  I adjusted my position, my shoulder aching from the lack of softness underneath.  I moved my long, curly hair away from my eyes. and gazed into the deep brown eyes of the man looking back at me.  Tim was smiling at me, and he laid his hand on my arm.  My thoughts drifted to the night before when we had sat beside each other around a campfire in our sling camping chairs.  Tim had moved his chair even closer to mine so he could hold my hand.  We had gazed at a clear night sky full of bright stars.  As the Steve Miller Band played on the boom box, we pointed out the Big Dipper, shining so obviously above us.  We heard the sound of crickets and bullfrogs as the laughter of our friends and our storytelling filled the night air.  When we couldn’t stay awake any longer, we all crammed into our tents and fell asleep in sleeping bags on the hard ground.  Everyone in the tent was awake now, and someone probably farted, which got us up and out into the morning air.  Branched Oak Lake was in front of us, and the sun was glistening and sparkling on the water.

Tim and I claimed a circle of close friends.  They were a blend of people from each of our independent lives who eventually melted together into a big group.  Julie, aka “Marge,” walked to her big yellow family sedan and pulled out a grocery bag.  Pop tarts for all.  Marge was our motherly friend, and when we took trips, she drove the “banana boat” so we could pile in together, laughing and chatting while she threatened to pull the car over if we didn’t calm down.  Now, we were all sitting down at the rickety wooden picnic table, eating pop tarts and listening and laughing as Jeff, aka “Puddin,'” told in more detail about his interaction with our morning trooper.  Eventually, we took down the tents, borrowed from our parents, and broke up camp.  I said goodbye to Tim as we stood together beside his small black two-door hatchback car.  Bryan was getting into the passenger seat as Tim leaned down for a kiss from me.  They set out to drive back to Schuyler, and I walked over to the banana boat.  Marge was revving the engine, the car was packed with my friends, and the smell of campfire was still on our clothes and in our hair.  Marge drove us back to Lincoln.

Tim and I met for the first time in the fall of 1991 in Ashland, Nebraska.  Tim was attending “The Search,” a retreat weekend for people of college age that included talks about God and time in fellowship.  I was part of the “backup” at this retreat, making and serving meals and praying for those attending the retreat.  I had attended the same retreat six months ago.  Now, I was there again for the weekend, in the same old school building, with a group of friends, to serve the current attendees in the background.  One of the jobs of the “backup” was to write letters to be given to all of the individuals attending the retreat.  I prayed before I wrote each letter, asking God to use me to write what each of these individuals needed to hear in this moment.  I remember writing the letter to Tim Hron.  I didn’t know him.  I prayed, and I wrote a much longer letter to him.  I don’t remember what I wrote.  But I said just a little bit more in his letter than in any others.  As a result, his name stuck in my mind, and when we met the attendees the next day, I looked for him.

He was tall, six feet tall, and his dark brown hair and dark eyes drew me in.  We noticed each other.  I left the weekend and went back to my dorm room at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.  There was an excitement in my heart, and I saw him in my mind and thought about how I could see him again.  The opportunity to attend a social gathering of “Searchers” came up, so I drove with my friends to Kearney, Nebraska, and played sand volleyball with Tim Hron.  Embarrassingly, I stepped away from the volleyball every time it came my way.  I was a pathetic and unimpressive volleyball player.  He didn’t care.  Afterward, he nervously asked me for my phone number.  I eagerly shared it with him.

Tim was twenty years old and lived in Schuyler, Nebraska.  He was attending the community college in Columbus.  I was eighteen and a sophomore at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.  Tim started coming to Lincoln on the weekends to see me.  Shortly after we met, we were standing in the parking lot of my dorm, Sandoz Hall, and he was getting ready to get in his car and leave.  He looked down at me, gazed into my brown eyes, and with a nervous smile, said, “Can I kiss you?”  Embarrassed, I said, “Yes.”  Our first kiss was a bit awkward but exciting.  I turned to walk into the dorm, smiling and feeling full of warmth and love.

The dorms closed over the winter break, and I lived at home for those few weeks.  Marge, Bryan, and Tim showed up at the door of my parents’ house to see me.  My friends were polite and funny and interested in my younger brother, Jeremy.  We shared some college stories with my parents, and Mom offered us pie.  She also offered to take a picture of the four of us in front of the family Christmas tree.  The visit was short but long enough to break the ice of the first meeting with my parents.  With first impressions made, Marge, Bryan, and Tim walked back out the door for the drive back to Schuyler.

God was a part of our relationship from the beginning.  Tim was not raised with religion as I was.  But God was breaking into his life at the time that I met him.  He was on a journey that led to his baptism, confirmation, and first communion in Schuyler, at St. Augustine’s Catholic Church, on April 18, 1992.  His best friend, Bryan, was at his side as his sponsor.  Tim had the support of friends and family, including my parents and my little brother, Jeremy.  We gathered together for cake after mass, and Tim made his way to where I was standing. As I felt his arm behind me, touching my back, I smiled in anticipation of what might come next for us.

“Ernie will just take a little while to warm up to you.  But once he knows you, he will love you.”  Tim and I were at his brother Mike’s house in Schuyler. Mike’s wife, Denise, was smiling at me.  Tim’s parents, Ernie and Maxine, were twenty years older than my parents.  They were sixty-seven.  The same age as my Dad’s mom, Mabel Warner.  Denise and I were in the kitchen while Tim chased around her one-year-old son, Mitchell, in the living room.  “Ernie is old Czech.   He wants Tim to be with a good Czech girl from Schuyler.  He will come around.”  Tim and I drove over to his parents’ house, a few short minutes away.  We walked in the back door and up the steps to the kitchen.  Maxine was prepared with a bucket of chicken from Gene’s, one of the few restaurants in town. We filled our plates with chicken and mashed potatoes. Maxine and Ernie gave updates to Tim about classmates he grew up with and other Schuyler news.  The Schuyler Sun newspaper was sitting in the living room and provided prompts for further conversation after lunch.   I saw pictures of Tim as a child at age four, the year of his dad’s electrical accident.  Ernie was a lineman trained to fix electrical line issues on poles.  He lost both of his arms in 1974 in an accident with a live wire.  Tim was the baby of the family, the youngest of four children, and his life growing up was colored by the aftermath of the trauma of his dad’s accident.  Tim stood up from the couch and grabbed my hand, pulling me up.  “Come here.”  He led me through the small kitchen to the narrow staircase that led to the basement.  The walls were lined with old posters of polka bands.  He explained that his dad had collected posters of the bands that had played in Schuyler’s Oak Ballroom over the years.  “Look at this.”  He drew my attention to a crate full of vinyl records.  “It’s all polka music,” he said and laughed.  “You’re gonna have to learn how to polka if you want to be a part of the Hron family.”  He looked me in the eye with a more serious expression, and with a part of his lips, he snuck a kiss, then picked a record and played it loud.