THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 3, 1995 TAG: 9512030045
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 67 lines
The picture of Jeannette ``Pat'' Per-Lee always caught my eye, maybe because it ran in our newspaper's memorial ads twice a year - once on her birthday and again on the date she died.
Maybe it was Pat's smile that stopped me. The vivacious gleam of her eyes. The thick rope of pearls around her neck, the scoop of her sleeveless dress.
Or maybe it was because the photo always had words of endearment underneath like these, which appeared Jan. 10 of this year:
``For The Last Seven Years I Awake Every Morning To An Empty Home And An Empty Day. A Day Without You, A Day of Just Going Through The Motions. The Only Consolation Is That As Each Day Passes I Am A Day Closer To Being With You Again, Where WE Will Be Together Forever. Till We Meet Again Darling. Je Vous Aime Beaucoup. Your Loving Husband Jim.''
I never met Pat except through the pages of the newspaper, but still I felt I knew her. I looked for her. And every time I saw Pat's smiling face in the memorial notices, I thought, ``There she is again.''
The memorials also caught the eye of Virginian-Pilot reporter Mike D'Orso, who did a story three years ago on Jim Per-Lee and his undying devotion to his deceased wife. The story unraveled some of the mystery.
Jim and Pat lived in Virginia Beach and had been married for 39 years. They had no children, and were completely in love. After Pat died in January 1988, Jim visited her grave every day. He kept her name on his checks, he put her initials on his license plates. And twice a year, like clockwork, he wrote a memorial ad with his own prose, or lyrics from a favorite Nat ``King'' Cole tune:
In time the Rockies may crumble,
Gibraltar may tumble,
They're only made of clay.
But our love is here to stay.
Jim and Pat had once seen a movie together called ``Somewhere in Time,'' about a couple separated by death who finally reunite in heaven. After Pat died, Jim got the movie on videotape.
``It makes me cry every time,'' he said. ``A man shouldn't cry, I guess, but I do. I just visualize that that's what's going to happen to me someday - to us, the good Lord willing.''
The good Lord willing, Jim and Pat are together again. Jim died the day before Thanksgiving. It was right there on the obituary page last week, on the same page where Jim usually ran the memorial boxes for Pat. ``James S. Per-Lee, 79, of the 4400 block of Chelsea St., died Nov. 22, 1995, in a local hospital.''
I will miss seeing Pat's face twice a year, miss reading Jim's loving words to her: ``After The Lord Made You He Threw Away The Mold,'' he once wrote on a birthday memorial. ``As Always There Will Be A Cake with Candles on The Table For You Tonight.''
For in this world where we're told not to cling to the past, where the bereaved are supposed to move on, to put the past behind, there is a certain nobility in remembering.
``If only you could be down here with me today, so I could watch you make a wish and then blow out the candles on your cake,'' he wrote in his final memorial to her in July. ``It's awful lonely down here without you Baby. Happy Birthday My Gorgeous Sweetheart. Till We Meet Again Darling. Je Vous Aime Beaucoup.''
To me, and to the legions of people who knew Pat only through a grainy newspaper photo, Jim taught a most powerful lesson:
Love doesn't die. by CNB