Today is the 70th anniversary of my parents’ wedding in Dallas, Texas; where Daddy was, he thought, going to sit out the war. Under that assumption, he called my mother who had moved across the country to Spokane, Washington, and was unhappily living in a rooming house with her brother’s wife. He said, “Do you want to get married?” He may have added that they might as well, or something uber-sentimental like that. She quickly agreed. They married at a Methodist church in Dallas, accompanied by my dad’s friend, Jack, and my mother’s sister, Doris. After a brief honeymoon at Estes Park, Colorado, Daddy went back to Dallas and six weeks later shipped overseas for three years.
My memory of their relationship is of him kissing her with a toothpick in his mouth because he thought it was funny. His pet name for her was Little Mother, until she finally told him she hated it. I came across this note in a jeweler’s box in my mom’s dresser drawer recently. Apparently he had a sentimental side that I never saw.