A Memoir by Karla Jynn

At age 16, I met a boy. I stayed committed to him for 37 years, within a conservative Christian faith in a tiny religious enclave. I followed “The Lord’s” rules, had four kids, never drank or used illegal substances, and loved my well-to-do life of work, church services, and extended family. In 2008 at age 54, I got divorced, from both my husband and my religion. I signed up for OkCupid and went on dates with 52 different men over the next several years. One of them was Sam.

The first time I met him, I’d used my underdeveloped navigation skills–my ex had done all the mapping and most of the driving–to make my way from my newly-acquired home in Northwest Philadelphia to The Last Drop Coffee House in Center City. After circling the teeming neighborhood of historic shops and ornately-corniced office buildings, I found a spot and proudly parallel-parked—in only two tries. The Last Drop’s mismatched furniture, graffitied red walls, and layered notes and posters made me feel like an aspiring hipster.

Sam was waiting near a table in the back. I found his shy smile, faded plaid shirt, and long scruffy hair–so different than the buttoned-up, clean-shaven men in my previous life–oddly appealing.  

After an awkward hug, Sam and I sat down without even bothering to get coffee. His quick shoulder shrugs and breathy little laughs relieved my own nervousness. I asked him how he liked to spend his time.

“I’m an online DJ. I do space rock, punk, drone, experimental—stuff like that,” he said. 

I had no clue how those words applied to music. 

During our conversation, I found out Sam was 46, had never married, and didn’t have kids. He asked me about mine.

“My oldest son is a full-time musician with his own band,” I said. 

“What’s his name?”

“Ryan Jynn.”

Sam grinned like a kid and said, “I know him!”

I was surprised, since my son wrote folk and soul music, but thought maybe Sam had been to one of his gigs. 

Our date was short, since I had to drive to South Philly to meet Ryan near his house for dinner. Sam and I had a warm hug, and agreed to get together again later in the evening. 

When I arrived at Ryan’s he said, “Hey, I was coming back from Save-A-Lot and Sam passed me riding his bike home. He told me he just met you!” Then he laughed, shaking his head, and said, “He’s my weed dealer!”

I cracked up, and appreciated Sam for keeping their connection a secret. He had no way of knowing how open my son was with me, and in any case a dealer would never reveal his customers. I couldn’t wait to close the loop with Sam.

“I’m seeing him later tonight,” I said to Ryan. “He’ll get a kick out of you telling me.”

Ryan’s eyes widened as he leaned forward and said, “You may NOT tell Sam I told you! You’re never supposed to name your source!”

Later, I navigated the streets to Sam’s place, amazed at my unexpected adventure. He lived in a row house inherited from his grandma, on 15^th Street near Mifflin, an area I’d never seen before. His home had patches of shredded carpet, lamps with crumbling shades, and a 1920’s kitchen whose one-piece enameled cast-iron sink stood on tapering white legs.

That evening, I didn’t let on to Sam what I knew. But by the third date, Ryan had finally given me permission to tell, and Sam and I had a good laugh about it.  

Dating Sam widened my view; I’d never hung around with someone who took life so easy. He had an engineering degree, but had dropped out of the conventional world early on, and made just enough money tutoring university students. Mostly he rode his bike all over the city, smoked weed, and produced his late-night music show.

I hadn’t watched TV since childhood, but Sam introduced me to South Park and The Vampire Diaries. He also took me to Ultimo, a coffeeshop one block away, with refrigerated glass walls packed with individual beers from all over the globe. And throughout the 18 months we dated, he was fine with me dating other men as well. 

Sam had a rusty extra bike I rode when we went to pick up Chinese takeout at his house. And he came to my neighborhood for dinner sometimes, riding his bike up Broad Street and along Kelly Drive, then winding over steep, rocky trails through the Wissahickon Woods. I’d fix salad and tortilla chips, and we’d hang in my back courtyard, his weed smoke swirling in the darkness.

At about 10:30, he’d strap a wide band with a miner’s light around his forehead, and ride the 14 miles back along rutted trails, the Schuylkill path, and down crowded streets to South Philly. 

At Christmas time, I told Sam about a New Year’s Eve party my ex and I attended early in our marriage. A lawyer colleague of his invited us to their apartment with his wife and a few friends. We sat in a circle in the living room, talking about office cubicles, snow removal, and their dietary restrictions. After a couple hours, I pulled out the mending I’d brought, knowing I’d last longer if my hands were busy. Still, we left well before midnight. Sam thought it was hilarious. 

When a snowy December 31^st came, Sam had a plan. He and I bumped and slid on bikes through the icy city streets from his house up to the waterfront. We arrived before midnight and joined a huge crowd of revelers to watch fireworks bursting over the Delaware River. At the exact right moment, he leaned in and kissed me. 

At 1 a.m., driving home alone, I couldn’t help smiling at my newfound role: a cool mom traveling far afield from that insular little religious town.

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Karla Jynn is a 71-year-old emerging writer who left an insular religious community to discover an expansive world outside its confines. Formerly a self-taught mixed-media artist, she currently provides therapeutic support for clients and friends, and is a National Core Volunteer for Movement Voter Project.