most beautiful house I’d ever seen—was the mansion of Copper King Marcus Daly. With four two-story white columns holding up the third floor balcony, it reminded me of what Scarlet’s Tara must have looked like. (I’d never even seen the movie—just read Gone with the Wind.)
There were two others I’d categorize as mansions—one had belonged to a second Copper King, William Clark, and the third to his son Charles. But there were scores of stately two and three story homes on streets named Gold, Platinum, Silver, and Quartz.
Steve turned down Diamond Street and said, “There’s the house where my special girlfriend in high school lived—her dad was a lawyer for the ACM.” He explained that the ACM—Anaconda Copper Mining—owned every mine on the Butte Hill. “One way or another, the ACM owns this town and everyone in it.”
In awe I looked at my new fiancé and realized another facet of his life.
At dinner that night, Steve’s father said, “Ya show her the West Side?”
Steve nodded.
“Just so you know what Butte’s really like, that’s where the Rich Bitches live,” Steve’s father said, a sneer on his face.
I saw Steve cringe.
Over the years, I learned to treasure Butte, a city where I found no one is judged by where they live, but only how they live. I’ve often said—and Steve agrees—that I understand Butte better than most natives.
During the week I stayed in Butte, Steve kept me busy meeting relatives. His folks were welcoming. Cautiously.
The first thing his sister, Sis, said was, “Those sure are funny yellow shoes.” Then she asked, “When are you leaving?” Oh, oh, I thought.
But I immediately fell in love with Steve’s nine-year-old sister Dorothy Jean—or Dodo, her nickname. I bonded with Dodo as I watched her play dolls with two little friends, Marie and Mary Jo. The nine year age gap made no difference—she was my sister.
Steve introduced me to dozens of relatives (his father had eleven siblings, his mother three).
He took me to The Gardens where we rode the (mini-sized, thank goodness) roller coaster and had ice cream. Together, we dreamed about the old days when the Big Bands played dances at the pavilion. Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Billy May—Steve had danced to them all.
We went swimming at Gregson.
I wanted to see a mine, so he took me to the Kelley. What a disappointment! We rode an elevator down to a cavern paved in green concrete. Even then I dreamed about walking in mine tunnels dug by pickax or blown by dynamite.
But I’m getting ahead of my story.
That July, Steve rode the bus up to Glasgow 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
