out slowly, one sheriff approached. Motioned for Steve to roll down his window.
“Keep your hands on the wheel, young man. Got a call this car’s been stolen.”
“Damned Marty!” Steve grumbled.
Oh my God! I thought. I’m going to spend my wedding night in jail.
Steve sat behind the wheel in his brand-new, navy blue suit. I’d changed from my silk gown with a long train to a short white sheath. My gloves were off, but I still wore a white hat.
Luckily the officer saw the signage on our car—and put two and two together. Laughing he said, “Hope I haven’t slowed you kids up too long.”
We were off in five minutes.
Steve drove. Fast.
I kept him company reading excerpts from a wedding present (given to my new husband by his married friend, John—the one who he’d chosen over me that first night), a thin paperback entitled The Marriage Night.
We got our money’s worth from the Ranch Motel before dinner time. Then we took a break, donned regular clothes, walked down to the big hotel on Main Street, and had hamburgers and milkshakes.
Afterwards was a bonus.
We did have a snafu when we finally opened our suitcases. Wheat rolled out of Steve’s—rice from mine (and rolled and continued to roll out, a grain or two at a time, for years). Someone had sewed the bottoms of my nightgowns shut. Luckily, I had a manicure scissors in my cosmetic bag. Glad we hadn’t waited to enjoy our wedded state before we got ready to sleep that evening, we went to bed for the umpteenth time that Saturday, our wedding day.
We’d been married thirty days. It was Sunday. After church. After a late breakfast (no one called it brunch then). We’d just gotten comfy. In bed.
Someone knocked at the front door. Once. Twice.
Steve jumped up. Peeked out a corner of the draw drape. (The window was directly next to the front porch.)
“My God! It’s Helen and Bob,” he said—sotto voce.
Now Helen had been my best friend at college—Steve went to Gonzaga with Bob. They were engaged. Not married. I’d invited Helen to drop by sometime.
We both stopped breathing.
After what seemed like eons, we heard a car engine rev up.
We breathed a sigh of relief. Began where we’d left off.
Funny thing—after that Helen and Bob always called before they dropped by.
We’d been back from our week-long honeymoon to Glacier for 37 days. And I was late.
At the recommendation of Margie, my married friend, I made an appointment with Dr. Rotchford, an OB/GYN.
“You’re pregnant,” he said. “Barely.”
I guess barely. We’d followed the rules until August 18, our wedding day. How did this happen?
Through a fog of unbelief, I heard the doctor say, “I’d like your husband to come to your next appointment.”
A couple of weeks later, I sat in the doctor’s waiting room while the nurse took Steve aside. “To take a blood sample,” she said.
After pleasantries, the doctor said, “The two of you have a challenge. Your blood doesn’t match. Maybe someday it won’t be a problem, but in 1956, this is serious.”
“Serious? What are you talking about?” we both cried.
“You’ve heard of blue babies I’m sure,” he said.
I remembered when movie star Lana Turner’s “blue” baby almost died before it had a total blood change.
“Could our baby die?” I gasped.
“That’s why we’re looking at your pregnancy. Darlene, you have O negative blood. Steve has AB positive. That means your RH factors are fighting with each other in the baby who’s growing in Darlene’s womb.”
We were stunned. We hadn’t even planned on being pregnant at this point in our infant marriage. We were supposed to be having fun.
Dr. Rotchford explained. “First babies are the easiest. Often you make it through that one with no problem. But we can’t take a chance. Darlene, I want you in my office for blood titers every month for the first four months. Twice a month after January and weekly after April 1. Until your due date of June 3. But don’t plan on making it to term. In fact, having this baby early will give it a better chance.”
Then the doctor dropped the bombshell. “I have to tell you right off, the two of you shouldn’t have a lot of babies. And—definitely—you shouldn’t have them one after the other.”
My God! Didn’t he realize we hadn’t even been married two months? Didn’t he know we were Catholic? Didn’t he know how you made babies?
We were in the middle of our first storm.
Time passed. We lived. We loved.
I got a job—$200 a month. Steve began his Fifth Year—an accelerated program for an Education Degree. And got a part-time job—at Wes’s Phillips gas station at the corner of Boone and Hamilton. (We still had tuition to pay.)
Buying our groceries, I followed my college home economics teacher’s budget for two adults—$15 a week. We feasted on homemade pizza (a box of Chef Boyardee and a half-pound of hamburger—25 cents for the meat). And ate Dinty Moore stew—warmed—right out of the can. One week I splurged on a pork roast—but saved it in the fridge too long. It smelled rotten when I took it out of the plastic. I sobbed—it was supposed to feed us for two nights—and sandwiches.
My folks came to check on us in late October. My mother was not happy over my pregnancy.
“You just got married,” she whined. “What will people say? For heaven’s sake, don’t have it too soon!”
Furious, I thought, Like I can stop what’s already in process?
Steve and I really lucked out with our first neighbors—the McGraths—Clara and Bart. In their mid-forties, we had nothing in common.
They rented the house next door in early September and almost immediately invited us for dinner. Barbecued hamburgers the first night. They were the best we’d ever eaten, and we told them so. Clara and Bart beamed.
Next Bart cooked two-inch-thick pork chops on their outdoor barbecue, and Clara made corn on the cob. I’d never had my fill of that delight before in my life. My mother cooked three cobs of corn, one for my father, one for her, and one for me. That was it. Clara cooked enough for an army that night. (Found out she’d been an Army nurse during WWII.) She kept asking me if I wanted more—I kept accepting.
When we got home, Steve said, “I don’t want to make you feel bad, but do you have any idea how many cobs of corn you ate?”
I looked blank. I’d been too busy eating to count.
“Seven!” he said. “I’ve got to tell you, Darlene, if Clara hadn’t been so sweet about it, I’d have been embarrassed.”
My appetite couldn’t have scared the McGraths off. They soon invited us over for spaghetti and meatballs. Absolutely delicious!
Steve told them about my culinary attempt at Italian food—“Chef Boyardee out of a can. Not a meatball in sight.”
I