These are my great-grandparents, Harry and Bessie.

Great-grandma Bessie was born in October of 1898. And great-grandpa Harry—whom we lovingly referred to as Hare (yes, like the rabbit)—was born in January 1920. You do the math. Go on, I’ll wait.

Yep. A solid 22-year age difference. Needless to say, tongues were positively flapping in the wind. The scandal! The whispers! The sheer audacity of it all! 😱😱😱

Harry was a young, dashing merchant marine who traveled the world with salt in his hair and adventure in his soul. And when he met Bessie, he was smitten. I mean smitten-smitten. Capital S, possibly accompanied by awkward poetry and big eyes.

As the story goes, Bessie was running a boarding house (because of course she was—classic strong-willed woman energy- she was a widow and had to pay the bills). Harry rented a room, and once he laid eyes on her, it was game over. He asked her out over and over again, and she politely (but firmly) hit him with a “no thank you” each and every time. Like a Victorian bouncer at a gentlemen’s club—Not today, sailor.

She had good reason I suppose. Bessie had become a widow in 1937 at the age of 39, her first husband Harvey (my biological great grandfather) died after a brief illness. She had two grown daughters: my grandmother Faye, and her sister Patti—my great aunt. Here’s where it gets juicy:

Faye was five years older than Harry, and Patti was the exact same age as him.

I’ll let that sit for a second.

Anyway, the timeline’s a bit fuzzy (family oral history, am I right?), but what we do know is this: Hare kept showing up in the kitchen offering to help her with dishes after dinner. One night, Bessie mentioned she wanted to make beer-battered shrimp, but she needed a bottle of warm beer. And in what I can only describe as the greatest love quest ever conceived, she told him, “If you can find me a warm beer, I’ll go on a date with you.”

That man launched himself into the Seattle streets like he was in a rom-com. Warm beer? Challenge accepted.

He found it, brought it back, and boom—history was made, beer was battered, and shrimp were sacrificed in the name of love.

Harry continued his merchant marine adventures, gone for six months at a time and then home for six months at a time.

They were married in November 1947 and lived in Seattle for the rest of their lives, probably making the neighbors clutch their pearls daily.

They both love to garden. He loved making Kahlúa and horseradish. She was a seamstress and boy could she make the best pies, especially lemon meringue.

They loved going downtown together—long walks, and always from what I understood at a brisk pace. Grandma was never fooling around, and she was always dressed to the nines, and now I know where I inherited my Resting Bitch Face™ from. I come by it honestly and genetically. Thank you, Queen Bess.

After retiring from the merchant marines, Harry worked for the Washington State Ferry system for years and years until he finally retired-retired.

They were hilarious together—bickering, sparring, teasing each other like seasoned sitcom characters. You’d never guess there were 22 years between them. Either she was forever young at heart, or he was born a grumpy old man. Either way, they were the human version of peas and carrots—ridiculously good together.

They had 36 beautiful, quirky, laugh-filled years until Bessie passed away in August 1984.

There are two photos of them that live rent-free in my heart. The first is their wedding photo from November 1947, where they cheekily stuck their heads through one of those painted plywood carnival backgrounds. The second was taken downtown on a Saturday afternoon when a traveling photographer caught them mid-walk, just doing their thing. It’s totally candid—just solly people who loved each other very much.

These photos bring me so much joy. My lovely friend Christina suggested I have them framed and hung, and I’m 100% doing it. Because every time I see them, I grin like a raccoon in a donut shop.

And that’s the love story of Bessie and Harry—powered by shrimp, sass, and one legendary bottle of lukewarm beer.