I proposed to Chelsey exactly where I wanted to do it more than a quarter of a century ago: in the yard across the street from our former high school, in a shade of a mighty sycamore tree. I took her for a walk and urged her to go there for an unassuming picnic. When we sat down, I took a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses. “Is that what you call a modest picnic?” - she laughed. When I was done with the wine, I pointed to the tree and asked whether she can see a word that seems to be scratched on a trunk, with a clumsy looking heart-shaped frame around it. She put her palm on a tree, squinted her eyes trying to read it. “Seems like it has been written a long time ago... Let’s see. Ch... Che... Chels... Oh, is it Chelsey?” - she looked at me. “William, did you write this?” I smiled at her and finally said what I have been trying to say for a long long time: “Chelsey, will you marry me?”
She said “yes”, and it was one of the happiest moments of my life.