The precise history of the relationship which would become the epic betrothal of Jessica Sue Hamilton and Kevin Patrick Bowes began as so many of these stories do … at a university party.
Over ten short years ago, a young, red-haired maid attended what she had supposed would be a social gathering of educated university students at Colorado State University, inside the walls of Fort Collins. But instead of lofty debate and exercises in sophistry, the young woman encountered all the raucous games and troublesome engagements that have plagued the breed of university student for as long as such institutions have existed.
Upon arriving at the fateful party, the young maid was, at first, ignorant of the wiles and charms her young host was in possession of. But as his faculties deteriorated under the force of inebriation, our young hero’s wit bloomed before her very eyes. Under the warm glow of Avery beer and against a backdrop of homemade, decorative refrigerator magnets, they laughed the ensuing night away.
While neither lass nor lad forgot that particular evening, later encounters – scattered, as they were, over many turbulent years – are now naught but a haze in the memories of our protagonists … at least, that is, until a lovely late summer day in the year two thousand and six, when chance would have it that their two paths should cross again. But this was different in the most important of ways, because this time their paths would not come untangled.
On this otherwise normal day, our young hero entered an Italian cafe in pursuit of a caffeinated libation when he saw her … that red-haired girl with the ever-ready smile from so many years before.
“Wait – is that you, Curly?” he asked.
“Hello, Fort Kevin,” she said.
He grinned, she laughed. He ordered a cup of coffee, she made it with a smile.
But alas, the conversation fizzled shortly thereafter, and our young hero was back on the streets of Boulder making signs for the aristocracy whilst searching for signs of his own that this life, his only life, would not end absent of a single date with the red-haired girl.
It wasn’t until several weeks later, when the young man thought to resurrect an ancient and powerful tradition, that things started to look up for our hero. He pulled out the Rolodex, made phone calls and began the machinations required to bring back that grandest of occasions, the fete for which he had been known in former times and distant places, the great holiday party to top all parties: “Chan-uh-kah.” He called old friends and new, and found one friend of fortune who could get in touch with that coffee purveyor, that elusive maid, our other hero.
His elaborate ploy worked, and with a Cardboard Communist Christmas Tree and a veritable army of good company, the legendary party commenced. The music played and the games were heard, and ’twas not long before the lass arrived.
With the deft cunning of a professional fencer, young Kevin proffered the quips and antics which would maker her laugh, and acquired the numerical sequence associated with her hand-held communication gadget. He made her smile, and she made him blush.
But before he knew it, the clock struck midnight, and his chance to woo her had disappeared like so many pumpkins in to the night.
After that evening he tried, on many occasions, to somehow transform that small victory into a single date with the woman ofy known as Curly … but for reasons varied and ridiculous, she would have none of it.
Our young hero, however, was nothing if not persistent. He battled on, calling her when he could and asking around, because if there was one thing he’d learned it was that the best things in life don’t come easy. Unless those things are a good ale and fine evening weather, which do come both easily and frequently in that fair hamlet of Boulder where our tale takes place.
It was on one such fine, quiet evening when their mutual friend of fortune found both of our heroes, gathered them up, and left them by a fireplace with a warm libation. They laughed and told stories by the firelight and … finally … the girl was smitten. She agreed to precisely one more date.
A week before Christmas he whisked her away on a grand adventure to and back from The Orient…al Theater. Upon return, they walked through a near-abandoned Boulder as a blizzard laid down a blank white canvas in a large carriage-parking lot. Together they trod out the field-sized outline of a heart in the foot-deep snow of December — and the rest, as they say, is history.