Jim and June
June and Jim lived in one of those two story mission style houses built during the thirties, three dormer windows on the second floor facing the street seven or eight steps up to the front porch, past a tapered column supporting the wide porch ceiling another 15 feet to the front door. A big house that filled a whole residential sized lot.
June was tiny like my mom, below five feet tall with dark auburn hair. The perfectly proportioned body of a budding school girl. Round hips, breasts that were neither too small or too large. The same age as my mom which would have put them both in their late twenties early thirties. Not beautiful, maybe not even pretty but cute with a constant smile on her face. She wasn’t a giggler, she had infectious laughter that came from some place deeper in her throat.
June’s husband Jim, six feet two broad shoulders a good looking guy on the order of Rock Hudson or even George Clooney with an extra few pounds of muscle looked like he could kick the shit out of just about anyone but he didn’t impose his size on people so, when you were talking to him with the sun at his back you didn’t realize you were standing in the shadow of a small tree.
He didn’t constantly interact with people in a humorous way like June. Most of the time he was content to watch constantly smiling, occasionally chuckling, amused at the sight of everyone’s drunken revelry especially when the action became kinetic and loud.
When he WAS funny his exaggerations or slightly sarcastic comments came as a complete surprise to everyone delivered as they always were, in a low key manner at the precisely the moment everyone else’s laughter had almost died down. You might say he had perfect timing.
It took a moment of silence for his comments to sink in but when they did, everyone howled with amusement practically rolling on the ground with laughter while the contented smile of amusement never left his face. continued …