My name is Pepper, and I’m a..a..uh...romantic.

There, I said it. I’m glad my secret is out. I’m not embarrassed of my addiction; it’s who I am.

There’s more. I not only practice romance, but I enjoy it. As I’ve said many times, "What’s not to like?"

I’m not naïve. I realize that in this world of increasing cynicism, and fast food relationships, many consider my romantic notions to be silly, if not childish. A few years ago at a former place of employment, a colleague accused me of being "High School" when I described something quixotic that my husband and I did on vacation. From that moment on, she and the rest of my co-workers thought it great fun to tease me about my relationship.

Recently, a clergyman acquaintance told me he didn’t believe in romance and Valentine's Day was stupid. He said marriage was a serious business with no room for the frivolous. I felt sorry for him, not to mention his wife, and was certainly glad he hadn’t counseled me before my marriage. What a boring way to live.

The lucky recipient, or tolerant victim, (depending on your perspective) of my amorous attentions is my husband of almost twenty-five years, Don. When I get the urge for a candlelight dinner or some other trapping of my addiction, he participates cheerfully and I love him for that. He’s even managed to trump me in the romance department a few times.

A little over twelve years ago, I was at church working in the food pantry when a man arrived bearing a beautiful Christmas flower arrangement with a Hurricane Lamp in the middle. He asked for Pepper Bauer, then proceeded to hand it to me. I was stunned. I couldn't think of any reason for flowers. I opened the card and it read, "Half way to 25, Love Don." It was our 12 1/2th anniversary! It never even occurred to me: the self proclaimed romantic.

There's been other occasions, too numerous to mention, when my husband wowed me with some incredibly romantic gesture. These range from, pearls, lingerie, and hearts filled with jumbo cashews, to surprise, romantic, long-weekend getaways in secluded locations. My husband is an enabler of my romance addiction, and I believe I'm the luckiest woman in the world.

On a Saturday night a couple weeks ago we were eating dinner and listening to Garrison Keillor’s "A Prairie Home Companion" on public radio. Garrison announced that they were holding a "Love Sonnet" contest for Valentine's Day. They invited any listener to write a sonnet and send it to them; they would judge them, and read the winning poem on the air.

"That sounds like fun," I thought. I hadn't written a sonnet since college, but decided to give it a try. I assigned the job to my to my subconscious for future reference, and went about my life while it worked on possible themes for the poem.

Later that evening, Don and lay on the couch watching TV. His head was on my lap, and as I absentmindedly rubbed the top of his bald head I had a flashback to our youth.

It was thirty years ago. We were sitting on his back porch, daydreaming about our future. I could see us in my mind as clear as if it happened yesterday. Young, thin, tan, and full of life, making big plans; we had the world by the tail.

I looked down at the man snuggled up with me and I thought about our youthful vision of the future. Did we ever think of ourselves as we are today? Did I imagine him bald, bearded, slightly heavier; or me, no longer blonde, with streaks of gray, and definitely heavier?

Could we possibly ever have envisioned the evolution of our relationship to what we have today? I don't think so, and yet I believe what we have is probably better that I ever imagined it would be. As kids, we would find it impossible to imagine how close two people could get after many years of sharing the triumphs and tragedies of life. Two truly become one.

I now had a theme for my sonnet; and putting pen to paper, I began to write. There are specific rules for a romantic sonnet. It's a poem of 14, ten-syllable lines, which is restricted to a definite rhyme scheme. A sonnet is usually written in "iambic pentameter", which means it consists of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable or a short syllable followed by a long syllable, as in "delay". I wrote mine in the rhyming style of Elizabeth Barret Browning.

I didn't win the contest. According to "Prairie Home Companion's" web site, they had 2500 entries from all over the world. As I said, I hadn't written a sonnet in 30 years so probably didn't really have a chance, but I enjoyed writing it and that's really all that counts. I thought I'd share it with you during this "Season of Love".

Here's hoping that your lives are brightened with romance!

Sonnet to Middle Aged Passion

The television glow, like cold candlelight,

Reflects off our figures as we cuddle.

Your head warm on my shoulder, we huddle.

These times stoke the fires that keep our love bright.

My lips brush the smooth skin crowning your head,

I smile, reveling in your warm maleness.

I forget TV; I could not care less.

Wrapped in your scent, I ponder you instead.

Back thirty years, - young, with thick manes of hair,

We relaxed on your back porch, sharing dreams.

We laughed and planned, oblivious to care,

Only the heavens privy to our schemes.

Now, middle-aged, this vision we once shared,

Isn't perfect, but still creates some steam.