The best of times and the worst of times in my life picked Culver City to be the hometown stage where they occurred.

One month after I came to Culver City, an old friend, Rabbi Steve Jacobs, asked if I would be interested in remarrying following a divorce 11 years earlier that caused Frankenstein a permanent tic. Tic. Tic.

His wife worked at the Jewish Home for the Aging. Surely she knew someone. A month passed. I forgot.

On May 14, 2001, Diane called. She said Rabbi Jacobs’s wife had asked her to contact me. She left three numbers. I tried all of them, just not simultaneously. No answer. Yay. The heat is on her if she is slightly interested.

We agreed to meet, blind, the following Sunday at a speech by mayoral candidate Antonio Villaraigosa, who later became a sort-of relative.

Diane wore brown, my least favorite color. She looked striking.

After the speech I was covering, we adjourned to Starbucks. After tea or something, we took a walk on an early spring evening in a lovely residential neighborhood behind Starbucks.

She took my hand. I told her I never would forget it. I have not.

One year later to the day, we married – after she had proposed the winter before.

We bathed in 10 loving years together, and as Dangerfield would have said, “10 out of 13 ain’t bad.”

As readers may recall, Diane, a nurse practitioner, was stricken by ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, for the final three years of her splendidly lived life.

With her low-key, self-effacing,  richly professional manner and overflowing heart, she helped more people than any person I have known.

Two and a half years later, a new day, a fresh start in life beckons.

Once more, thank you, Culver City.