The thought of my daughters dating, even speaking to boys other than their brothers, gives me pains in my chest that run down to my toes. I’ve known since the instant the ultrasound technician said, “Look at the size of that head!” followed by “It’s a girl!” that no man would ever be good enough to go to a movie, dinner, or walk down the aisle with S or GK. But I changed my mind this morning. I came to the realization that there is one man who, if he came to my house in his sensible and safe car to pick up one of my daughters for a night out of dinner in a well-lit restaurant, a PG-13 movie or better, returning her home by 9:30, that that man would be Charles Osgood.
His bow-tied, bespectacled persona would be invited in for a cup of tea and warm handshake as he looked around, admiring and complimenting my home and my handsome wife, and taking one of my daughters by the elbow as he escorted her out to open the door of that sensible and safe car for her. I’ll wave them away as they begin their short evening, yet enduring courtship together.
An arranged marriage? That seems awfully regressive, yet I wish Mr. Osgood (Chuck, as I’m sure I’ll be told to call him) and one of my daughters a long and happy life together with many adopted children to fill up their home. You are all cordially invited to my house, bought for me by Chuck and some of that CBS Sunday Morning money, for the inevitable engagement party.