2nd Wind, April 2004

Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.

April is the wedding month in our family. If a spectacular wedding were a necessary ingredient for matrimonial glue, George and I would have had no hope, but our marriage didn't come unstuck in almost 64 years. In 1934, in the middle of "The Great Depression," I had just graduated from college. There were no teaching jobs available. My father, a Methodist minister, was transferred that same month to Greenfield, CA. The day we arrived at our new home, on a Fourth of July, the parsonage lights blinked out and refused to be resuscitated.

We inquired about an electrician.  The only one in town, also the unsuspecting groom-to-be, had gone to visit his parents for the holiday weekend. He had been working as a journeyman electrician @27 1/2c an hour, then was lucky enough to get hired on the construction of the San Francisco Bay Bridge at 85c. He was supporting his retired parents at the time, but managed to save $50 toward starting his own business.  Adding a borrowed $50, he'd opened a contracting business in Greenfield, working out of a friend's basement.

The electrician, George, returned the next day and came to our rescue. Since we had no lights, cookstove, hot water or refrigerator, we really welcomed him. Maybe we overdid it.  He was still around 65 years later.

By August, George and I knew we wanted to married, but how? His first contracting job had used up a sizeable amount of the materials he'd bought. The satisfied customer said, "Thank you," adding, "I'll pay you after harvest." We soon learned that was the way business was done in the area.  I had a job, however...assistant postmaster @ 20c an hour. Meantime, my dad's health was rapidly failing and within a few months he was no longer able to preach.  Aside from the Greenfield church, he also served a small country church at Ft. Romie. In order to fill out his year, I worked with him each week preparing a "sermon" which I delivered dually on Sunday. In the Spring, our Dr. recommended Dad have exploratory surgery, and on the Wednesday before Easter Sunday, word came he was scheduled to enter the hospital the day after Easter. Dad liked George and wanted to be the one to tie the knot when that time came. He was also convinced he had cancer and might not come back from the hospital. In addition, my parents were concerned about leaving me unchaperoned while they would be gone for two weeks or more. People might talk!  Anyway, it wasn't too difficult to convince us (or me, at least) that we could manage financially if we moved in with them.

But, with a waiting period of three days, there wasn't enough time to get a marriage license before Dad left. However, my boss knew the county clerk personally and persuaded him to meet us at the courthouse on Saturday to issue the license. I've wondered since if the county clerk expected to see evidence of a last-minute shotgun wedding. As a child I'd witnessed, in our parlor, a wedding ceremony performed between labor pains. My worried father was abbreviating the ceremony in every way possible. In my innocence I did think the "fat lady" bride was acting a mite peculiar.

We decided to be married at George's family home, a ranch near Salinas. However,  George's elderly stepdad, Mr. Scott,  was in the hospital with pneumonia...not good timing for wedding plans. It has taken a lot of scene setting to get to our wedding day, but I think I've arrived.

First on the schedule that Easter day was conducting, and "preaching" at, Greenfield's 9:30 service. We then drove the 10 miles to Ft. Romie where I conducted an 11:00 o'clock service.  We drove back to Greenfield, picked up my folks and drove forty miles to the ranch. Sometime in there we must have eaten. I don't remember.

A good friend sat by Mr. Scott at the hospital while George's mother came to the wedding. Mr. Scott had seemed to be comatose, but we'd been careful not to discuss the wedding in his presence in case he might be upset by us getting married while he was so ill. Before George's mother returned to the hospital from the wedding, Mr. Scott opened his eyes, looked at Katherine, the neighbor, and said, "Have you ever met George's wife?"

Somehow, Katherine, or George's mother, or the ranch tenants had managed to fill the living room with flowers. We were married by my father, with our mothers and the ranch tenant family as witnesses. I wore my Easter dress of three years before. George wore his six year old suit. My father baked the wedding cake. (Yes, my father!) No one took pictures, although George and Dad were both prolific amateur photographers. That, as much as anything, registers the total confusion of the day.

A good friend of George's (the one who had loaned him $50) offered his cabin in the Carmel Hills for the wedding night. It turned out to be far down a winding mountain road, and in those days I got very carsick.  When we arrived, after dark, the friend and his girlfriend were waiting for us. This was Edwin's first chance to show George the cabin, of which he was very proud. He took both of us on a tour of the inside, then with a flashlight took George on a beam by beam, joist by joist, tour of the outside. That lasted an hour while the girlfriend and I fumbled at conversation. It was very late by the time they left and we were both due at work by 8:00 A.M...back over that crooked road and eighty miles away.

Monday, the day after the wedding, my parents left for the hospital in San Mateo ( about 100 miles) and George and I were to have our first domestic evening together. I put great effort into that first meal. It was to be the forerunner of many such evenings...tranquil relaxation after a hard day's work. It was definitely a forerunner! At 6:00, everything was ready, or as near the peak of perfection as a novice cook was going to attain, but not near enough the peak to give anyone a nosebleed. At 7:00, George hadn't come...nor at 8:00...not at 9:00. About 9:30, I heard him drive in. The front door opened and his hat sailed in, but no George. He was waiting to see if the hat got thrown back out. It was an inspired way to tickle my funnybone when it certainly needed stimulation. He'd been wiring the new Catholic church...far from a telephone...when, at quitting time, the painters mentioned they were tearing down the interior scaffolding the next morning. George had a choice of hanging the light fixtures that night or building his own scaffolding. Practical, and thrifty (of necessity) won over romantic. I forgave.

During the next month, George's stepdad gradually recovered physically, but was losing ground mentally. My father's surgery revealed no cancer, so although his physical condition wasn't improved, he was far less worried. While my dad was still in the hospital, my mother also had surgery. George's uncle came to help in the business and I, who had limited cooking experience, majoring in cakes and cookies, had two men to feed, a house to tend and a full time job.  Each weekend we drove to San Mateo to visit my parents in the hospital, stopping en route to check on George's parents.

One evening during the first two weeks we had a really bad windstorm which blew a tree branch across our service wires, grounding them, and causing a short circuit in the transformer. When the parsonage began to fill with smoke, I called the volunteer fire department. Meanwhile, helpful George took off. As an electrician, he was running from house to house in the neighborhood checking for similar problems. But there I was, alone with OUR fire .The house was full of smoke, and of firemen, so I climbed into our car in the driveway to get out of the wind and out of the way. Somehow, I fell asleep. George got back from his Paul Revere act and I had vanished. He was really upset, and even more so when he found me,  relaxed and comfortable, while he had been frantically searching.

Then there was my surprise shower. This dear little old lady came in to the Post Office where I worked. I knew her well, but she was near sighted and sometimes befuddled. She was carrying a gift-wrapped package, and explained to me, through the Post Office window, "I'm going to the surprise wedding shower for the preacher's daughter." So my thespian talents were stretched in order to be convincing as I was "surprised."

After the invalids were all recovered and the tensions had eased, my boss offered us his cabin at Paradise Park, near Santa Cruz, for a long-weekend honeymoon. We were really happy because we'd had little chance to be alone. We found the cabin, but noticed, before we even unlocked the door, that fresh vegetables were on the kitchen windowsill. The large dormitory style living & sleeping area was obviously being used, and the refrigerator was full of food. Soon our co-occupants arrived from the beach...a middle aged couple, their married daughter and her two small boys, ages 3 & 5. They were relatives of my boss, with a key, who had failed to check with him before coming to the cabin. They were delightful people who served us memorable meals, including hot biscuits for breakfast. I'm sure they had no idea how really let down we were when we first realized the cabin was occupied. It turned out to be a great weekend., with us as privileged guests. Although our bed had a curtain to pull as a partition, two small giggly boys found that curtain an irresistible challenge. They were early risers and came every few minutes to peek, just to be sure we were still asleep. You can imagine how late we slept.

I wonder, though. Had we spent that weekend as we had planned, would it be as sharply drawn a memory now?  I'm glad we can't do all our own planning. Sometimes the surprises have been the best part.

Our first month, with the patina of the years, has become a comedy.  It was a marriage that came in like a lion and went out like a lamb, which is far better than the reverse.

         Love, Darlys
   .............................................................................

A couple had been married for more than 60 years. They had shared everything. They had talked about everything. They had kept no secrets from each other except the little old woman had a shoebox on the top closet shelf that she cautioned her husband never to open or to ask about. In time he forgot about the box, but one day the wife got very sick and the Dr. said she would probably not recover. In trying to sort out their affairs, the little old man took down the box and took it to his wife's bedside. She agreed it was time for him to open the box. When he opened it, he found two crocheted doilies and a stack of money totaling over $25,000. He asked her about the contents. "When we were to be married,," she said, "my mother told me if I ever got angry with you I should just keep quiet and crochet a doily."  The husband was so moved he had to fight back tears. Just two doilies were in the box. She had only been angry with him two times in all those years of living and loving. He almost burst with happiness. "Honey, I love the doilies, but what about all this money? Where did it come from? "Oh," she said, "That's the money I made from selling doilies."

USAir recently introduced a special half fare for wives who accompanied their husbands on business trips. Expecting valuable testimonials, the Public Relations department sent out letters to all the wives of the men who had used the special rates, asking how they enjoyed their trip. Letters are still pouring in asking, "What trip?"

Some elderly Arizona ranchers were having breakfast together and the conversation turned to their wives. One man turned to another and said, "Roy, aren't you and your bride celebrating your 50th anniversary soon?" "Yup, we sure are," Roy replied.  Another man asked, "Are you going to do anything special to celebrate?" Roy pondered a moment, then replied, "For our 25th anniversary, I took Bea to Tucson. For our 50th I may go down and get her."

"The ‘good old days' you hear so much about was the time when you could live on forty dollars a week...but you only made thirty."  -Dennis Fitzpatrick-

While driving in Pennsylvania, a family overtook an Amish carriage. The owner of the carriage obviously had a sense of humor, because attached to the back of the vehicle was a hand-painted sign - "Energy efficient vehicle. Runs on oats and grass. Caution: Do not step on exhaust."