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 halfway to our destination of Havre (150 miles from Glasgow), just outside of Malta, we encountered a road block. Two sheriff’s cars had totally stopped traffic on the two-lane highway.
Getting 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
