St. Al’s—my very favorite church in the whole world. After brunch, we ended up the three-day event by playing nine holes of golf at Wandermere on Sunday afternoon.
Introduced to my first Frango mint that long ago time—the Desert Inn had placed a complimentary box on our pillow—I became addicted. To this day, when I pop a Frango in my mouth, I remember the joy of that weekend. And my forty-eight hours living on the wild side with my dear husband, my lover Steve.
In the seven years we lived on Cascade Way, we made life-time friends. (Right now I’m on Facebook with five of my lady-friend’s children.) We had kid’s birthday parties—too many to count, Easter egg hunts, backyard barbecues.
Not one of the ladies on the street worked. (I’d quit just before Stephanie was born.) We had lots of evening get-togethers.
But I came to especially look forward to having coffee with special neighbors Monday through Friday, from 11:00 to noon. They became like the sisters I’d never had.
One family, the Watanabes, liked the location so well they rented not one but two different houses before they built a split-level down Washington Hill and over a block.
I spent many an hour drinking coffee at my friend Laura’s house while my Stephanie and her Barbie played in the family room.
The girls must have worn out one record—Puff the Magic Dragon.
Just recently, during a TV tribute to Peter, Paul and Mary, I suddenly heard the duo singing the familiar words.
I hummed the tune. . . Remembered. . . Teared up. . .
Nostalgia captured my heart.
For a minute I was in Honalee. It was magic.
My friend Laura still lives in the same house—down Washington Street—on Sierra Way. She loves entertaining her grandkids in the backyard swimming pool. A couple of Octobers ago, I spent an afternoon visiting with Laura and another friend, Susie, who had moved to another neighborhood. What a fun time we had!
But all good things end. Or change.
Steve took what was supposed to be a dream job—President of McClintock Drilling. They sent him to the main office in New York City. On a three-week tour through Nevada and Arizona. Back to New York. They went broke.
One day, the week Steve heard the news about McClintock folding, I’d just come back from appointments with two doctors. “You’ve got pink eye,” the Ear, Eyes, and Throat MD told me. My OB/GYN said, “You’ve got a vaginal infection.”
My mother chose that time to drop by. She found me in the back yard. Worrying.
“Blah, blah, blah,” my mother complained.
I tried to block her out.
She continued.
At the end of my rope, devastated because of Steve’s recent unemployment, hurting at two ends of my body, I finally interrupted and said, “Mother, I have troubles too.”
“You?” she whined before I could even tell her my medical problems. “Why, you have the best furniture of anyone on the block!” With that, she flounced off.
So, when Steve got a new job (a couple of days later) that began as an insurance salesman for Allstate at the Northtown Mall in north Spokane and quickly became a district manager trainee, eligible for reassignment to another city when the training ended, I rejoiced. I was ready to move. (I knew my parents were not financially able to follow us—the company would pay all our moving expenses—not those of any one else.)
Our home sold, and we bought a new place in Tacoma.
When push came to shove, I knew I’d miss my friends like crazy. But . . .
Just before we were scheduled to leave, the neighborhood ladies had a going-away party for me. That night, the truth came out.
“You know, Darlene,” one said, “when you first moved in—with your toddler and Dodo—we all thought Dodo was Steve’s daughter by a first marriage. (Steve had always looked very mature—one of the reasons I was attracted to him.) All of us were shocked when we found she was his sister.”
Everyone had a big laugh over that.
As the movers packed the final boxes, the boss said, “I really feel sorry for you. Moving from a beautiful house like this—from such a great neighborhood.”
I must admit, I shed a few tears as we left.
It had been a truly wonderful seven years.
Chapter 4
“You’re moving where?” people asked.
“It’s kind of hard to say,” I’d answered. “Steve’s office is in Tacoma. And, technically, we’ll live in Tacoma. But . . .
“The (unincorporated) area is called Lakewood. We briefly stayed in the Lakewood Motor Inn the Friday night the girls and I arrived on the plane. We ate at The Lakewood Terrace. But our house is in a new housing project called Oakbrook. So—take your pick.”
The mover’s first word as he walked in our new home was, “Wow!” Followed quickly with, “Can’t believe it. This is even nicer than the one you left in Spokane.”
I must admit, in January 1966—the evening we first drove down Emerald Drive and I saw the glitzy, billboard-sized sign advertising Oakbrook—I thought, Wait a minute. We can’t afford this!
Sensing my distress, Steve said, “Bob just invited us for dinner. He’s a district manager. Just like me.”
“He must be independently wealthy,” I fussed.
After we feasted on lobster cooked by Bob’s wife Drew, we discovered he’d made an appointment the next morning for an Oakbrook real estate salesman to show us houses.
I worried What have we gotten ourselves into?
As happened before when I worried, Steve kissed me quiet.
Next morning, the first house we looked at was just up the street from Bob’s, a not-quite-finished split-level with a shake roof, brown cedar siding, trimmed in used brick. Beautiful!
I tried not to drool as the salesman took us down a long, tiled entrance hall into a huge living room with a floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace. He continued to a separate dining room and a generous kitchen with a large eating area. Two sliding glass doors opened onto a back yard that looked like a forest. About ten feet from the house was a rock wall that went from one side of the lot to the other—excluding the stairs.
The upper level featured three bedrooms and two baths. Down six
