Her name is Yvonne Whitfield. Until a chance meeting a couple of years ago I hadn’t thought of her, let alone seen her, since 1974. She recognized me. I don’t know how – I look nothing like I did all those years ago. We dated a few times in college at Western Michigan University. She was a cashier at a Meijer Thrifty Acres store in Kalamazoo the day my roommates and I passed through her lane to pay for a couple of six-packs. She was petite and shapely but it was her British accent that caught my attention. “That’ll be $3.79,” she cooed. I was hooked.