The Proposal

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 18:22:00 -0500
personal-stories

I would ask the question at the top of Lookout Mountain: That was the plan. The symbolism was many-layered. From atop the peak you could see clearly in all directions, seven states in a single sweeping glance. At the base of the mountain sat Chattanooga, a place with sentimental resonance for me, where Sharon and I had shared what turned out, in retrospect, to be significant moments long before we started dating. The very name Lookout seemed right, connoting both vision and cooperation against external threats: It seemed to say, ‘I have your back.’

On the morning of the chosen day (nine years ago this week), we left our Chattanooga hotel room and headed down the street for coffee and a late breakfast at a local hangout called Greyfriar's. Sharon, unaware of my intentions and looking forward to a leisurely vacation day, sipped slowly at her drink and flipped casually through the pages of a book. I sat across from her, my heart racing at triple speed, wondering why she was moving so unbelievably slowly when our entire lives were waiting for us. I started to fidget, and to talk very fast. Somewhat annoyed, Sharon finished her drink, and I was out the door with her trailing behind. To the mountain we went.

We headed for the famous Incline Railway, the romantic venue I had been envisioning for weeks. When we discovered it was closed my heart sank, my plan destroyed. Sharon suggested that we go see the other big attraction at the top of Lookout Mountain, a group of natural rock formations known as Rock City. I was reluctant, but realized that I had to find somewhere on that mountain to propose before I lost my nerve. I had never seen Rock City and, it occurred to me, that fit the occasion well enough: We were going to explore something new, together.

As we followed the tourist path from cavern to bluff, I looked for the perfect spot to make a memory. But nothing fit. There were always too many people nearby, or the outcropping would have a name that wasn’t suitable at all, and anyway my stomach was aching and my hands were sweating. Lover’s Leap might have worked but for the annoying family with the kids making all the noise, and the spot with the view of seven states was just a zoo. I was feeling desperate by the time we walked into a cavern that had been decorated like a scene from a fairy tale, and was ready to grab Sharon’s hand and burst out with my question. But at the crucial moment she turned suddenly and complained that she found all the little gnomes and dwarves creepy and frightening.

So Rock City was a bust, but there was more of Lookout Mountain left to see. We headed for the national military park, a collection of Civil War memorials and exhibits, which offered commanding views of the Tennessee valley below. Proposing marriage in what was basically a cemetery didn’t seem ideal, but I kept looking for a spot that might work: someplace peaceful and beautiful, and not too close to one of the stone monuments to the many people who had been slain there. I thought I might have found the place when we slipped into a little museum-like room near the edge of a cliff. I could barely breathe as I started to grope for the perfect words. But as I opened my mouth Sharon mentioned that one of the soldier mannequins in one of the glass cases seemed to be following her with its eyes, so I closed my mouth and scrapped my script once again.

Down the mountain we drove, with me feeling like a failure and trying to conceal my anxiety. We headed for a rural elementary school, one of the places connected to the project that had brought me to the region as a consultant more than 40 times in the preceding few years. I was talking fast, trying to work out a new plan. By the time we headed from the school back to Chattanooga the sun was setting. As I drove past a lake Sharon mentioned how beautiful a scene it was, and I practically shouted, “Really? You like it? Do you want me to pull over?” I was grasping at straws. She said she’d prefer to keep driving; she was getting hungry for dinner.

We made a quick stop at the hotel so I could use the bathroom, and the car stalled out. I started to panic—why was every single thing going so badly wrong? I blurted out something like, “How the heck are we supposed to get to the airport tomorrow?” Sharon thought I had lost my mind. Five minutes later, the car started, and I headed for a favorite restaurant perched on a bluff over the Tennessee River.

My new plan was to propose late in the meal, hopefully after the room had cleared out a little; I didn’t want to put on a show for the other customers. While we ate, Sharon started to speculate inconveniently about our relationship and where we were headed. I tried to divert her with noncommittal generalities: We’ll see, no need to figure it all out now, I’m sure it will work out for the best. Sharon didn’t say so, but she became so discouraged at that moment that she resolved to break up with me within a couple of months if we had not gotten engaged. The room was still crowded. Dessert arrived, and I started to chew more slowly, drawing things out, hoping the loud patrons at the next table would just go away.

At last it was just the two of us and the empty plate that had held the tiramisu we had shared. The room was quiet, the night perfect. I lost my doubts and found my words. I interrupted the flow of events with my life-altering question. Sharon’s beautiful green eyes gazed back at me as she uttered a single syllable:

“What?”

I dropped to one knee at her side, and repeated my question. She said, “You want to marry me?” I said I did, tears flowing down my cheeks. Sharon stared at me with what seemed to be confusion. Or was it wonder? She was crying too as she said, “Say it again.” So I did. And she said yes.