Okay, time for a little confession. Three things: 1. I spent about forty years writing ads and commercials for various advertising agencies, and for about 85% of that time I absolutely loved it. 2. For the other 15% of the time, I absolutely hated it. 3. But in spite of the disasters involved in that 15%, I wouldn't have traded jobs with anyone. Not even the President of the United States. But why in the world had I chosen to do it all in Minneapolis? Beats me. Minneapolis, as you probably know, is in Minnesota. And Minnesota means unusual weather, to say the least. In June-which is when I decided to take the job-there are several wonderful days. Maybe four or five. But the rest of the time it's mostly winter. With snow up to your ears and the thermometer plunging helplessly. And that was only the beginning of the problems.

One man's memoir about a decade in Chicago. One story that's a hundred stories, about: -- The Great American Novel that never got written-- -- A young writer's introduction to big-agency advertising-- -- Ads and commercials and clients and bosses-- -- Hits and misses and triumphs and catastrophies-- -- A lovely young lady who became a supportive wife and mother-- -- Three young sons who kept both parents hopping-- -- Garrets and apartments and dream houses in the suburbs-- -- And an interesting look at America in the '50's from a front-row seat in the advertising that helped propel it. How it worked and didn't work, scored and struck out, rewarded and punished, and just about everything else.

November, 1958. A sunny day and I was feeling pretty good about things. I'd been writing ads and commercials in Chicago for over eight years, and found it both rewarding and satisfying. Heck, I'd only been fired once. Even that wasn't all that horrible; my boss offered to cancel the firing, but I told him to forget it. Who wants to work for a guy who's just fired you? So that day I was on my way to my new job at Grant Advertising. Good job, good agency. Things looked terrific. But how was I to know that in a year I'd be transferred to the Detroit office to work on the big Dodge account? And how was I to know we'd lose the account within days and transfer me to the New York office? And how was I to know that New York would be fun for a while and then a pain in the neck? And how was I to know-? Well, you get the idea. And I hope you enjoy coming along.

Conventional wisdom said it could never happen. For starters, he was from Arizona and she was from Pennsylvania. Almost a whole continent apart. And he was a widower and she was a widow. With 42 and 47 years, respectively, of happy marriage behind them. And if that wasn't enough, he was a young 75 and she was a lovely 69; old enough to know better, one might say. Then one day they boarded a plane for Paris. They noticed each other, but didn't meet. When the plane landed they ended up in the same hotel. Arranged by the same tour group. But both so engrossed in Paris they still didn't see each other. Then it happened. On the third day their group gathered for an introductory meeting and dinner. They ended up sitting across from each other. He said, "Hi." She said, "Hello." And the sparks began to fly.That's when the love story that couldn't happen began to happen...

After World War II training on every weapon in the infantry, the author was shipped oversees, handed a typewriter, and typed his way through 2 1/2 years of North Africa, Italy, and Austria. He didn't fire a shot and still feels guilty about it.