By Ernie McCray

I’ve been thinking about my dearly departed Nancy with August 23rd a day away as I write. It was on that day, in 1975, forty years ago, that I moved in with her, in her little apartment on 24th and Russ, next to Golden Hill Park.

So I find myself celebrating that day, in my thoughts, remembering with a little quiver, what I had to do to start a life with her: break another woman’s heart, my wife, a woman I loved. If I regret anything in life it’s causing her such misery and pain.

But, especially when I look back on it, I was following my destiny, the dictates of my soul, wherein I knew as instinctively as I breathed, that I had no choice, in the cosmos, but to be with Nancy, that the two of us were soul-mates, destined to be together as the stars are meant to be aligned in the sky.

To society I was but a world-class cad, a despicable prick, a hypocrite, an ass. And I must say that I was not proud of myself. I felt an intense shame – but another part of me, my heart and soul, was feeling more joy than I knew existed in the universe.

I was 37, still actively learning about myself and my place in the world. Before Nancy I had never really considered what I wanted in a woman.

I mean my first marriage was with my childhood sweetheart and it started crumbling before it began.

My second wife came along and helped me heal the wounds I had suffered in my first go at matrimony. She refreshed me, with her very nice-ness, helping me see that there was some order in the universe, that conversations don’t have to be yelling bouts, that folks could make a life together without melodrama.

Enter Nancy. We began as friends, tennis on Saturdays, something that had never been a problem before, as I’d played this racquet game with other women. With anyone who wanted to play. Not to mention, I’ve never been a “playa” – in the strictest sense of the word.

Now, hey, I will say, I noticed Nancy, make no mistake about that. She was tall and athletic and excitable and pretty in a handsome way. Loved her thighs to do a little objectifying.

But her personality kept coming through. Her fierce competitive-ness. And she could really play. Had a killer serve that backed me up on many a day. I was thrilled by the way she came after me on the court. She was as much a jock as I happened to be. Every week she swam miles in the sea. Biked. Hiked. Ran. Played basketball with me.

She just crept up on me. Her conversation absolutely captivated me. I would say something about South Africa and she’d reply: “It’s terrible what they’ve done to Mandela, huh?” And we’d talk about apartheid and the State Teachers Retirement System’s investments in businesses that supported such inhumanity, and about how Ian Smith of Rhodesia had to go. We both loved Stephen Biko and we gave our son his last name as a middle name.

I would mention Angela Davis and she’d chime in with something about the Soledad Brothers, something about how disrespectful Ronald Reagan had been to her when she studied at UCSD.

I would bring up school integration and she’d talk about how they went about it at Pali High in Pacific Palisades, in L.A. where she came from.

We discussed the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley and Cesar Chavez and the Watts Riots which we didn’t see as riots as much as people saying “Enough!”

She introduced me to a topic with which I had no experience: What some fathers do to their daughters. And I remembering saying to myself “I’ll never let anyone ever hurt her again.”

Somewhere in all that we kissed. And she introduced me to lovemaking that was sheer bliss. A few years later and we were raising three beautiful children, twin girls who were bright and shy and an equally smart left-brained-right-brained boy with the energy of the Energizer Bunny who was always whizzing by. And forty years later I sit writing this. Life is a trip.

I give homage to Nancy: for the good times we had; for all the love she gave; for the awesome mother that she was; for having her family’s back unconditionally; for all the animals she tended to and saved; for modeling doing as opposed to talking about doing…

I salute her, especially, for showing me what to look for in a woman after she passed away. She had a lot to do with me being with the wonderful woman who’s in my life today.

Right now she’s resting peacefully somewhere in the Milky Way. Thinking, maybe, that August 23rd, 1975 was a very good day.

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Ernie McCray

I was raised in a loving and alive home, in a black neighborhood filled with colorful characters in Tucson, Arizona. Such an environment gave me a hint that life has to be grabbed by the tail as tight as a pimple on a mosquito's butt. With no BS and a whole lot of love. So, from those days to now I get up every morning set on making the world a better place. On my good foot*, and I hope my writing reflects that. *an old black expression

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