Dirks and Pat walked down the hall like they were going to English class. Entered a room and disappeared.
Thank goodness it wasn’t the first time I’d worn three-inch heels. I’m sure my knees were shaking.
Steve waited at the door like the gentleman he was and motioned me inside.
With one last check as to how many doors the elevator was from where I was entering—ready for a quick getaway—I swallowed. Took a right.
“It’s about time,” said a friend of Steve I’d met before but couldn’t name. “I pour the first drink, but after that you’re on your own.”
The room was filled with couples talking and drinking and having fun.
(I never told Steve until after we were married how scared I’d been by my experience at the Carleton Hotel. He was amazed. The guys always rented a hotel room for a before-prom party—it was standard procedure.)
About an hour later we ended up at the real destination—The Spokane Club.
We danced and danced and danced. I floated in his arms.
A week later—Holy Names Prom—wearing another orchid on my wrist, Steve guided me through the French doors of the Spokane Country Club. We danced under the stars. I felt like Ginger Rogers—Steve was Fred Astaire.
The next Saturday, we went to downtown Spokane to watch the Lilac Parade. I’d never seen such a sight before—float after float of flowers and pretty girls dressed in shades of lavender. Dozens of bands.
Afterwards, we met Steve’s cousin Nick and his wife Virginia. They treated us to a hamburger lunch at Knight’s Diner.
Darlene and Steve at Gonzaga Prom three weeks after their first date
Sunday was Mother’s Day. Steve and I joined Jerry and Midge. In a rented motorboat, we swished back and forth on Hayden Lake in nearby Idaho.
“There’s Bing Crosby’s cabin,” Jerry said.
Some cabin, I thought. It looks like more like a mansion to me.
Steve entertained us with stories about Mrs. Lemmon—who cooked at Holy Names College for the nuns and students during the school year and for Bing at his summer place every June, July, and August. She spoiled Steve and Jerry serving them the special food the nuns ate in the kitchen while the girls in the dining room ate regular.
After stopping the boat at a deserted dock, the guys tied up the boat, and we two couples parted on the shore.
It was May. Romantic . . .
Almost dark by the time we got back, Jerry let Steve and me off at the corner of Boone and Superior. We took the long way home. Through Mission Park.
I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Hadn’t an inkling. Not a hint.
With just three weeks since our first dance, our first date . . . With only a score or so of kisses—exciting but chaste . . . With me not-quite-nineteen and Steve just-turned-twenty-one . . . He asked, “Will you marry me?”
In shock, I didn’t answer immediately. Not “Yes.” Not “No.”
The next three weeks are a blur. I only I remember three things for sure from that time: It never rained; Steve and I spent every single spare minute together; I got an A+ on my term paper.
Then I said “Yes.”
After a whirlwind of changed plans, I got into the back seat of Steve’s friend Marty’s car and headed to Butte, Montana to meet the parents of my new fiancé.
My eyes were closed. I felt the circular motion of his finger on my palm, the pressure of his touch, the heat of his lips on mine.
I was floating in the backseat of a ’50 Studebaker. In ecstasy, I opened my eyes. Surfaced to hear him say, “There’s Butte,” as Marty drove down the hill and Highway 10 wound toward what has been called “The Richest Hill on Earth.”
As we approached the city that May evening in 1955, it felt as if we were on a space-ship ducking through the Northern Lights on our way to a rendezvous on Earth.
“You never told me Butte is beautiful,” I chastised him.
“I didn’t know,” he confided.
He kissed me quiet.
That night I slept in a house on Grand Avenue, in a double bed, crammed between my friend Colleen and her soon-to-be niece. I dreamed of wearing a white satin wedding dress, saying, “I do,” kissing Steve on the altar of St. Raphael’s Church in front of God and everyone.
The next morning he arrived in his parent’s car and drove me up the Hill.
Having lived on the prairie of eastern Montana for eighteen years, I thought I’d seen barren hills. I knew at that moment, I’d no idea what barren meant before. The Great Plains had not prepared me for the nothingness. As Steve gave me a guided tour through the once thriving metropolis, I saw what the locals apparently didn’t—Butte was dying.
I kept my discovery to myself. Steve seemed to love his hometown.
He drove up Arizona Street, turned slightly to the right on the Anaconda Road, and then took a quick left into what seemed to be a dirt field. An ancient log cabin, sod roof and all, stood on the left. He took a quick right and said, “Here we are.”
My intended—the epitome of the fifties Big Man on Campus, who’d just been elected Senior Class President of a prestigious university—had stopped in the middle of a slum and said, “We’re home.”
Right then and there, I thought, Wow! I’ve made the right choice. Steve’s come so far in twenty-one years—on his own. He’s a real keeper!
I was not prepared for Butte. The Flats were a lot like Glasgow, Montana where I grew up—old houses mixed up with a few built after WWII. Nothing fancy, just houses.
My guide to see The Richest Hill on Earth showed me the town. “There’s Meaderville over that way.” Steve waved toward the right. “We’ll have to go eat at Lydia’s. It’s a legend. My cousin George used to have a place down there too—the Savoy.”
Approaching downtown, we saw a couple of big holes between buildings. “Just another fire,” Steve said. “They call it urban renewal,” he laughed—a hollow laugh.
It seemed to me that every other sign advertised a bar. We parked the car and began walking. I was shocked to see drunks staggering from one watering hole to another—at 9 a.m.
Later, as we drove down Park headed out of downtown Butte, Steve said, “Gotta show you the West Side.”
