with a diamond ring that he proudly put on my finger.
We were officially engaged!
With Steve working in Butte that summer my social life disappeared. We saw each other a total of five days June through August.
Then—in September—Steve got the chance to prove his love.
In late August a bee stung me on my nose resulting in what my doctor called a classic case of HSV-Type 1 (an orofacial disease commonly called a cold sore). I hadn’t gone to the doctor immediately when the tiny pustules began appearing—my father was a big believer in home remedies. By the time I went to see Dr. Smith, the lower third of my nose and face looked like an open sore.
When I got off the Empire Builder in Spokane that September, strangers were asking me about the terrible accident I’d been in. I was one big scab.
Steve took one look at me, said, “You weren’t kidding—you look terrible.” And he gave me a big kiss like nothing was different.
Oh how I loved that man! Most guys would have asked for their ring back and run the other way at full speed. I had a winner!
College that year was perfect. As Senior Class President Steve had free tickets for everything. Mixers every Friday night, basketball games, concerts, plays, a movie at the COG (student union) every Sunday (if we weren’t doing something more exciting—which we often were). We saw each other every day.
Then there were the big things—The Military Ball, Valentine Gala, Gonzaga Prom, Holy Names Prom.
Steve bought me so many cherry milkshakes at Johnson’s 24 Flavors that the owners of the ice cream shop probably had to lower their income estimates after we left school.
But . . . Now is probably as good a place as any to discuss Steve’s net worth—$0.
I knew he paid his tuition by working in the Butte mines during the summer and delivering mail for the post office at Christmas. That he earned his board and room janitoring at Holy Names. I was really proud of his ambition.
Money was a challenge for him—after buying my ring with most of his summer earnings, Steve still had to finance his 1955-56 tuition and our fun money. So, besides carrying a full load, doing his class president duties, and seeing me, he got two additional cleaning jobs—at Johnson’s 24 Flavors and Drs. Wendell and Nishimura’s medical office. When he slept, I’ll never know.
What I do know is—he treated me like a queen. I doubt a king could have shown his bride-to-be a better time.
In the spring two miracles happened.
My folks sold some property and chose to buy us a car as a wedding present. Wow!
Steve hadn’t even had a jalopy. His folks didn’t own a car until he was a junior in high school.
We basked in our luck.
And . . . We got a house.
At that time we had no idea houses would become our thing. We still chuckle at how much we loved the tiny model home we toured during one of our first dates.
That spring, as we were planning our wedding, we started looking for a place to live. It didn’t take us long to discover—houses were expensive. One realtor actually said, “You two have no potential.” (We fooled him! Eventually.)
But one house builder, after finding we couldn’t afford the down payment for his beautiful new home in the Spokane Valley, offered us a deal.
“I’ve got a two bedroom house I’d like to sell you. Just got it on trade. Six-hundred square feet. Just a block from the Spokane River. Three hundred dollars down and $60 a month.”
We checked it out. Without any furniture—and with stars in our eyes—it looked like a palace. It had those aqua steel kitchen cabinets I’d loved in the model home, a wood-burning fireplace in the living room, and a full, unfinished basement with another brick fireplace.
The kitchen and bathroom were painted the brightest shade of orange I’ve ever seen—like they were the background of two Gaugin frescos. The living room was a vibrant, dark aqua. The master bedroom glowed—chartreuse on the ceiling and shocking pink walls. The second bedroom was all chartreuse.
“I couldn’t sleep here,” I moaned.
“Don’t think I could do anything in this bedroom,” Steve said suggestively.
I blushed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know how to use a paintbrush.”
We agreed to paint the bedrooms the first day we got back from our honeymoon.
Yes, we were hooked.
Steve negotiated.
“Save it for us ’til August 26? Wait for the down payment ’til then? First payment on September 1?”
We owned our first home. (Well, almost.)
That summer Steve worked overtime in the Butte mines. As usual, I managed the laundry in my folk’s motel in Glasgow. It was lonely—except for the week before the Fourth of July.
My parents had sold fireworks just outside the city limits since I was in sixth grade. In 1956 they said, “Would you like to share the stand with us this summer? We’ll supply the store and the merchandise. You and Steve do the work. We’ll split the profits—half and half.”
Sounded great to us.
And it was. When we sold the last firecracker, Steve and I divided the silver dollars with my folks and headed for the store. By the time we were done we’d bought a refrigerator, a kitchen table and four chairs, a sofa bed, a rocker, a folding bed, and had a couple of hundred dollars left for our honeymoon. With our shower presents, wedding gifts, and my bedroom set, cedar chest, cabinet-type sewing machine (that looked like a credenza), we were set.
I’ve loved fireworks ever since!
Chapter 2
Steve almost arrived in Glasgow too late—we hadn’t realized the required blood tests took time to process. Thank goodness for dear Dr. Smith who used his clout to speed things along.
Father Altmann gave Steve and me our wedding instructions—an hour of information about the new rectory the parish was building—and this suggestion for Steve—“Don’t keep her barefoot and pregnant.” He didn’t have any words of wisdom for me. Hmm!
At 9 a.m., on Saturday, August 18, 1956, we were married at St. Raphael’s Church. I promised to “love and cherish” Steve forever. “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do we part.”
I’ve never admitted this before, but I don’t remember what Steve promised. It must have pleased our priest though as I did hear him say, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The reception was a professionally decorated cake—thanks to Steve’s chef uncle, Nick Cladis—coffee, tea, and assorted mints. And a lunch catered by The Altar Society ladies for everyone—courtesy of my parents.
(We heard later that Steve’s father questioned if the wedding was even legal.)
“Where’s the booze?” he’d complained. “It’s not a marriage without booze!”
Apparently he stopped by the liquor store on his way back to the motel—loaded up with sufficient spirits to float a battleship. He hosted his own affair. (My parents weren’t invited, although they’d provided the whole wedding party with free rooms.)
We left about 1:00 p.m. in a car that Steve’s devious friends had defaced with slogans like Sucker, Does your mother know? And worse.
Not quite