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My friend Naomi Marcus wrote this great essay

This heartwarming essay appeared Christmas Eve in the SF Chronicle's Sporting Green.

If you had told me, when I was a young woman, that I would be married (happily) to a man who turned to the sports page first, I would have laughed and laughed.

“No way, not I, never! The man I marry will turn to the arts page first, or maybe politics first, and then art,” I would have trilled. What I could not have predicted in my youthful arrogance was that, after nearly 27 years of marriage, it would be me who turns to the sports page first.

We met when two self-employed freelancers, like a photographer/carpenter and a tour-guide writer, could afford an apartment in North Beach overlooking the Bay and a separate darkroom.

Colin was Michigan-born, Midwest solid, freckled, speckled with sawdust, rangy and limber and broke. My friend christened him “Uncle Dusty.”

Before we moved in together, I asked him to please lose the pot plants he cultivated in his skylight. I told him it was them or me. I thought that would be the deal breaker, but he farmed them out and chose me.
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