Tino and I met in 1992 in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, where I'd accepted a year's assignment from our company's headquarters in Manhattan. It was pretty-heady stuff to me, for while I'd already lived in Europe for years as a military wife, I was excited to be going back thanks to my own talents and hard work. I'd moved up from an assistant for three salesmen (their "Girl") to a project manager in the production department of a point-of-purchase merchandising firm which went global. In Holland, Tino was in charge of the design department and we worked together on Fortune 500 projects. Prior to my transfer I'd ended a too-long relationship going nowhere and I wasn't particularly interested in another, but sparks flew almost immediately.

Dutch. His mother named him after an opera singer popular at the time. He liked my spunk, and brunettes have a certain appeal in predominantly blond cultures, thank goodness. Tino captured my heart while showing me the sights: impromptu trips; tilting at windmills; and he spoke four languages.

Seriously? Somebody pinch me! I felt like Audrey Hepburn. Paris was only a 4-hour drive; far less with Tino at the wheel of his Renault. The spontaneity was wonderful, until he popped the trunk outside of Didier's.
"What's that?" I was horrified. "You brought an overnight bag?"
"Of course. Didn't you?"
No, not so much as a toothbrush in my over-sized purse. I didn't realize we were spending the night rather than driving home drunk; which I'd done more than once, I'm ashamed to admit. I suddenly felt 10-years old; nothing at all like the sophisticated world-traveler I'd hoped.
Didier's tiny apartment was crammed with interesting-looking people, none of whom spoke English. My high school French improved the more I drank and Tino, the adult, remained sober to drive home at 3am. I suffered a terrible hangover but a good time was had by all; and I was better prepared the next time.
Unfailingly patient, Tino never goaded me; and quickly learned to diffuse Amy, my dark side, by gently speaking my pet name. I was amazed it was that simple. He must be a terrific Dad. Whenever asked I've always explained, "I drowned mine at birth"; therefore I wasn't overly interested in Tino's girls.
Not everyone's cut out to be a Mother, and thankfully they lived with theirs.
I turned down a position in the Paris office towards the end of my year, can you imagine? But I didn't like the company's shady business practices in Europe (unrelated to this story), so Tino requested a transfer to New York.
We returned together and moved into the apartment I'd kept in New Jersey near my sister and widowed mother. I was ecstatic with my partner, but the stressful working conditions in Holland continued in Manhattan and I wanted out. I finally had something more important than work in my life, which I wanted to relax and enjoy. I couldn't believe I finally got it right.

One day Tino arrived home ashen faced: sacked, effective immediately. Unfortunately, I knew the company pulled shenanigans with foreign workers' Visas and work permits in the past: basically ignoring the law because of the paperwork involved. Tino became an illegal alien and subject to deportation. They don't treat people that way in Holland, he insisted, nor do people lose their homes or go without medical attention. I didn't know what to say. As Americans we 're used to such callous treatment, but Tino was visibly crushed.

Always up for a road-trip, I suggested we take off in search of a fresh start. For years my vacations had been out west, where I'd rent a car at the airport and start driving. Tino wanted to see if Hollywood's westerns were accurate, so within a week we were on the road in Trigger, my trusty Honda hatchback.


During our Grand Tour we'd really only driven through Portland without stopping, so we didn't know exactly where we wanted to live. I've always been a leap before looking kind of person, probably because I remained childless, but I land pretty much on my feet. Tino was completely open to possibilities, but also relied on my guidance as I did with him in Holland.

Life was good. I picked up temp jobs and Tino learned the new computer-aided design (CAD) system at a community college while we planned our design business. We married in City Hall in July, and three months later the immigration attorney was finalizing Tino’s paperwork. Things couldn't be better. We were in-like and in-love, and optimistic about our future together.

“Call 911,” I screamed over my shoulder to my neighbors. I knelt and put my hand on Tino's back, speaking his name, but he didn't move. I didn't try to turn him over but simply sat staring at his full head of blond-grey hair until someone led me away. Much of what followed remains a blur but for bits and pieces; in particular, the anguished look in the paramedic’s eyes while I pleaded,
“He’s gonna be fine, right? Tell me he’s going to be okay”; after which I heard a soul-wrenching howl which could only be coming from me. Tino suffered a fatal heart attack; his heart exploded, which the Sheriff said would have been painful but over in an instant.
"As if an elephant was stepping on his chest." I'd rather have remained ignorant than live with that particular description for the rest of my life. The last time I saw Tino was that morning when, for a delightful change, he drove me all the way in to the office. A quick kiss goodbye along with our final, I love you's. THAT's something for which I'll be forever grateful to remember.
In a second I transformed from happy and confident to despondent and incapable of rational thinking. I’d already botched two marriages; but in my defense, 18 was too young to get married in the first place. I finally learned for myself that Third Time's the Charm, only to have my aspirations dashed so cruelly. I lost all faith in God.
Tino's life insurance policy through work ended once he was let go, and he'd cancelled a supplemental policy before leaving the Netherlands; intending on purchasing another once we married and settled. He surely expected to have more time.
In the American way, I'd encouraged Tino to file a lawsuit before we left New Jersey, but it only produced stress; for the company had deep pockets, and lawyers can delay matters until the Second Coming. In hindsight...well, spilled milk. I didn't mind for myself because I've always worked and have no children; but Tino unintentionally left his cherished tween-age daughters with much less than he'd planned.

In a second I transformed from happy and confident to despondent and incapable of rational thinking. I’d already botched two marriages; but in my defense, 18 was too young to get married in the first place. I finally learned for myself that Third Time's the Charm, only to have my aspirations dashed so cruelly. I lost all faith in God.
Tino's life insurance policy through work ended once he was let go, and he'd cancelled a supplemental policy before leaving the Netherlands; intending on purchasing another once we married and settled. He surely expected to have more time.
In the American way, I'd encouraged Tino to file a lawsuit before we left New Jersey, but it only produced stress; for the company had deep pockets, and lawyers can delay matters until the Second Coming. In hindsight...well, spilled milk. I didn't mind for myself because I've always worked and have no children; but Tino unintentionally left his cherished tween-age daughters with much less than he'd planned.

I went from working full- to part-time and eventually not at all. I lived on savings. Nothing interested me except the crazy quilt I'd begun depicting our brief life together: my own pictorial buffalo hide. I'd wake up and begin to work on individual vignettes, meticulously hand-stitched and embellished with embroidery, coins, pins, charms and other mementos. Happy Hour and the O.J. Simpson trial began around 10am, and I'd sew and drink until I passed out. I was marking time, hoping to die like those couples who pass shortly within one another from broken hearts, I'd always fantasized.

My sister saved my life by reacting promptly to the phone message I'd left at her office (a subconscious last-ditch cry for help). I expected to be dead by then, but I botched that, too. Hillary notified the local police and immediately flew out with Mom; but fearing my work-in-progress contributed to my depression, shipped it back east before I returned from the hospital.

It wasn't until 2014 that I unpacked and finished Memories of Tino to enter it in a quilt festival in Portland, which seemed poetic justice. I left the quilt top as uneven as when Hillary mailed it to Mom's; and simply mounted it to a heavier fabric. The quilt weighs 13 pounds. As I embroidered the edge with arthritic hands I was amazed and grateful I'd created such an outstanding tribute when I was younger, for I certainly couldn't have accomplished it now.

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