By Lori Jakiela
Years ago when I was a young journalist, my editor put me on The Love Story beat. It’s easier to write about other people than yourself. Other people hold value. You know your own value is not much until you make it so. My job was to interview people about how they fell in love then churn out sentimental stories their friends and relatives could laminate and stick on their refrigerators.
“Happy crap,” my editor, a displaced New Yorker with owl glasses and a bowl cut, called it.
One pair of blind professional bowlers aside, most of the interviews I did were forgettable. Except one – a sweet old couple married over 50 years.
He was a World War II veteran. She stayed home, raised their kids and volunteered at the church bingo. These were Norman Rockwell’s people.
“Ad fodder,” my editor would say. “Schlocky…
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