The Blind Date That Changed Everything

Flora Brown

The Blind Date That Changed Everything

4:45

 

“Some stories don’t shout their importance.
They whisper their way into your life — and change it forever.”

When my kids ask, “Mom, how did you and Daddy meet?” I’m transported back to Friday night, April 26, 1968.

It had been a long, chaotic week teaching junior high kids, and I was eager to spend my weekend curled up with The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I had just settled in, book in hand, when the phone rang.

It was Wanda, my close friend and fellow English teacher.
“Come with me on a blind date,” she pleaded.

“A blind date? Are you serious? I’m busy!” I said, waving my book like a badge of honor.

“Busy doing what?” she demanded.

“Reading Malcolm X,” I said. “Besides, you know I don’t do blind dates.”

She wasn’t letting me off the hook.

“Please? My sister’s boyfriend is in town, and he’s bringing a friend. I can’t be stuck entertaining two guys alone!”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” I said. “And anyway, I have nothing to wear.”

Wanda was ready. “What about that green two-piece outfit you just bought?”

That’s the danger of close friendships — they know your closet better than you do and will use it against you when it matters most.

I wasn’t just being difficult.

After a few boyfriends who had turned out to be bitter disappointments, I wasn’t eager to risk my heart again.

I had my dreams — of marriage, of a home filled with laughter, of raising a family of my own — but at that moment, I was more interested in protecting myself than pursuing possibilities.

Still, maybe my biological clock was ticking louder than I realized, gently nudging me forward even as I clung to my doubts.

You already know how this ends: against my better judgment, I said yes.

Wanda picked me up, and we drove downtown to the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles.

Her sister’s boyfriend, Theron, was waiting there. He had flown in from Washington, D.C., working on President Johnson’s War on Poverty initiative. His friend — the one Wanda had insisted I meet — lived in L.A. and was part of the same program.

His name was Herbert.

The moment I met him, a few things struck me right away:
He was attractive and approachable.
He had a quick, playful sense of humor that put me at ease.
And even in those first moments, he radiated a quiet kindness, a gentle spirit, and a self-confidence that felt rare — and real.

That night, the four of us ended up at The Lighthouse, a lively jazz club in Hermosa Beach, California.

Music filled the air, thick with salty ocean air and cigarette smoke, while candlelight flickered against the small tables.

Somewhere between the music, the laughter, and the lazy rhythm of conversation, the stranger sitting beside me felt like someone I’d known all along. I felt safe.

On the drive home, lulled by the soft hum of the car and the warmth of the evening, I fell asleep — right there, on Herb’s shoulder.

Our four kids never tire of this story, teasing me about nodding off on a first date.

And my husband?

He loved embellishing the tale, cutting straight to, “We met at the Biltmore Hotel!” — skipping over all my initial protests.

“Ooh, Mommy,” the kids would gasp, “you met at a hotel?” as if I’d been some mysterious woman lurking in the lobby on the make.

Our meeting wasn’t cinematic — no grand gestures, no lightning bolt of destiny.
Just an ordinary night that turned extraordinary because I said yes when I intended to say no.

Had I only recounted the story orally, it might have faded with time, especially after their dad passed in 1988.

Had I delayed writing it down, my memory — loyal but fallible — might have smoothed over the best parts.

But now, it’s here: a small, shimmering thread woven into the larger tapestry of our family’s story.
Proof that sometimes, life’s most beautiful chapters begin with a reluctant yes. 

(Our first born made her debut on February 13, 1969. You do the math.)

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