It happened at a resort in the mountains during the summer of 1957. She was one of the guests, a young woman from the city who attended the evening dances with her sister. He was a musician who worked at the resort, playing his trumpet late into the night.
She had noticed the trumpet player, but she was dancing with someone else most of the evening. When the trumpet player left the bandstand, he approached her with a bag of cookies. "Would you care for an Oreo?"
She took a cookie. By the end of the week, they decided they were meant for one another.
It sounds like the corny plot of a summer movie. But it's actually my parents' story. Forty-eight summers later, when the family is gathered around the campfire, and my sister starts talking about the movie Dirty Dancing, my mother says to the grandchildren, "Hey, that is my story." Then she and my Dad tell their story again.