Mom's Romance

---

Welcome back "Mom's Romance" the serialized story of my mother's life with my dad.

We return to our hero as she takes another step on her danger-filled journey to (cue tympany) "Meet the Parents!" (screams). Enjoy - John

Italics)Mac has his arm around me. He is proud of me, and he knows I am making a wonderful first impression on his parents. He knows they will love me and want me to become part of their family. I step forward to accept their welcoming smiles and embraces.(End Italics)

This is the daydream I hope will come true this weekend in the fall of 1945. Mac has spent the summer at Radio/Radar school at the Submarine base in New London, Connecticut. He is on leave for a few days before he has to report for duty on the submarine ENTEMEDOR in San Diego. We have been writing to each other and are pretty sure we are seriously in love. He has come to Chicago and this is the scene as it unfolds as we prepare our visit to his folks.

Mac has looked at the train schedule and tells me there is a train from Chicago to Louisville at 12:30 this Friday night. I worry about what to take as I pack and repack my overnight case. I obsess over what to wear. I so much want to look my best. Mac urges, "Come on. It doesn’t matter what you wear. You look fine. Let’s get going." Finally I close the case and we make our way to the B&O Station.

We check the board. Our train isn’t there. Yes, the war is still going on, but trains don’t just disappear. Check the schedule again. Oh, no!

"I am such a jerk! How could I do that! The train is 12:30 P.M. not A.M. It left at noon!"

Mac is devastated. It is too late to call his parents. They will go down to the station to meet the train at eight tomorrow morning. They expect us. His aunts and uncles will be coming over and we won’t be there.

"What happened?" they will all want to know. They will all hear about his making such a stupid mistake. His little brother Donny will tease him forever. He hates making mistakes, and he hardly ever does. He has a family reputation for being right.

He has an idea, "How about a bus? "

"They’re on strike," I say, "but let’s phone them anyway." I like to be right, too.

I am sitting in the phone booth, Mac standing in front of me, desperate. There is no way we can get there. We will just have to go home. We will have to admit defeat.

The train station is beginning to quiet. Sailors are asleep against their sea bags; soldiers nap in every corner. Seats and benches are jammed with tired people waiting for a train. Gas is rationed and planes are for the work of war, so everyone travels not at all or by train, so they are always uncomfortably overcrowded.

Mac slumps against the booth above me, thinking. He has heavy eyebrows, the kind that knit together when he is concentrating. In a very small voice I timidly offer, "We could hitchhike?" Mac squats down in front of me and looks straight into my eyes. He has a generous forehead, deep-set, piercing brown eyes. I read curiosity and disbelief in his expression.

"Hitchhike? You would really hitchhike?"

Not too sure if I really meant it myself, I ask, "How would you go if I weren’t with you?"

"Hitchhike," he nods. "I did it dozens of times when I was here at Navy Pier. I know the best places to stand to get a ride."

"Do people pick up sailors if they are with a girl?"

"I don’t know." He stands up and leans against the booth, thinking. He looks at his watch and shakes his head discouragingly.

Finally he says, "Here’s what we could do: We take the El (Chicago’s Elevated train) as far south as it goes. You stay in the station while I go out to the highway. I won’t take a ride unless it’s going to Indianapolis. That’s almost home. If I get a ride, I’ll signal you, or go back to get you. We’ll figure out that part. If I don’t get a ride by two A.M.. I’ll take you back home. What do you think?"

"Better than giving up," I say.

The balmy fall day has turned into a very chilly and very, very dark night. I sit in the partially enclosed El station, busily working at being brave. There is not another soul in sight. I can’t see Mac out on the highway, but my imagination is soon running wild. I am approaching having to identify his mangled body and justify my being way out here at this hour, when he bursts in with, "I got a ride!"

We snuggle together in the back seat of a big black car with three large men crowded together in the front seat. The middle one has his meaty arms spread over the back of the seat. The radio is quietly playing and they speak to each other in low mumbling tones. Quietly we congratulate ourselves on our exceedingly good luck. We want to laugh and sing, but we don’t dare do anything to annoy our generous hosts.

Just as we are getting warm and comfortable, the car stops.

"Here we are," the driver announces. The street sign says, "Indianapolis Avenue."

Now we are really out in nowhere, dumped somewhere on the avenue that separates Illinois from Indiana, headed for Louisville, Kentucky. It is even darker, even colder, even scarier and much later than the stop before. What have we done?

We stand close together, searching for warmth, for comfort, for reassurance, for the answer to, "Now what do we do?" when the semi pulls up and stops - just the cab, no trailer.

"I don’t know what you two are doing out here, but you’re welcome to get in if you’re on your way to Indianapolis." We would have gotten into a cart pulled by a donkey.

I would like to tell you that the ride was swift and comfortable, but a cab without a load behind it is not exactly a joy. At least this one wasn’t. It felt like we were on a dirt road full of pot holes. Besides, I sat in the middle and there was barely enough room for me to even wiggle, much less change position. Mac had stuffed his bag into a small spot in the back and put my small case forward of the tool box. The black and greasy tool box. I had saved my precious nylons for this special occasion? I tried to keep my feet on top of the tool box, but as the night wore on it didn’t seem worth the trouble. It seemed to take a long, long time to drive across the state of Indiana.

The driver was actually a really nice guy and said us he was glad for the company. He wanted to know what the hell we were doing out there so late, so we told him our story, and soon the three of us were laughing about life’s unexpected turns. Eventually I dozed while Mac carried the conversation to keep our new friend awake, and then I took my turn while Mac slept.

We reached Indianapolis at first light. I suppose the truck driver is long gone by now, but he was a genuine good Samaritan, and we hoped he knew how truly grateful we were for an extremely bumpy, uncomfortable, life-saving ride in the cab of his truck in the middle of a cold, dark night.

Only a few minutes later a woman driving alone stopped beside us. She said she was on her way to Louisville to visit her husband who was stationed near there. She accepted Mac’s offer to take the wheel, since she didn’t really like to drive. "My husband always did the driving," she explained. As she launched a conversation filled with how much she missed him, I dove for the back seat. Nap time.

It was a familiar story. Everyone we knew had someone they loved in the service to miss and worry about. She liked the way he drove, she said, fast like her Jim did. She was too cautious, she thought, and that’s why she was on the road so early. "Before the traffic."

We got to Louisville in record time, and she was agreeable to driving to the house where Mac’s parents lived. We told her how much the ride meant to us, and Mac drew her a little map so she wouldn’t get lost finding her way back to the highway.

We were standing on the sidewalk that curved up to the front door of the small neat house Mac called home, waving goodbye to another person who deserved our gratitude. I was a mess; to be described as bedraggled would have been a compliment. It’s too late to worry about what kind of first impression I would make, and I was too tired to care. The two of us stood there in sort of a daze, just looking at each other.

"This is either a tragedy or the craziest thing I’ve ever done," I said. Mac gave me a big hug that swept me off the sidewalk and we both began to laugh like a pair of crazy loons.

"Thanks for being such a good sport," he said. "No wonder I love you."

I was in heaven.

Mac picked up our bags, marched down the sidewalk with that straight-backed walk of his, took the steps two at a time, opened the front door, dropped our things on the floor and yelled, "Mom, I’m home."

A small, attractive woman came bustling out, wiping her hands on her little white ruffled apron. She gave a delighted laugh and threw her arms around her son and gave him a big smack on the cheek. Then she turned to me before Mac could introduce me, gently embraced me and the words tumble out, "And you’re Rita. Bobby has told me so much about you, and I’m so happy to meet you." She is so excited she barely looked at me. Next the questions.

"But how did you get here? You weren’t on the train. Your dad went to the station and there was no train. He’s there now meeting a later train from Chicago. How did you get here?"

"We hitchhiked, Mom."

"Oh, Bobby, you didn’t! You’ve been up all night? You must be exhausted. Bobby, you take Rita’s things right into her room. She’ll have your room, of course. Now, honey, you just make yourself at home. You poor thing- would you like to freshen up-what a question. I’ll just run a nice bath for you. I have breakfast ready, but it can wait. Bobby, you show Rita where everything is, and you both come into the dining room when you’re good and ready."

I wasn’t always sure of my feelings about Mac, but there was no question about how I felt about his mom. "I really like your mother," I told him when we are alone. "She is just like you described her. And she calls you Bobby. That is so cute."

"Yeah, well, Dad is Bob, so I’m Bobby. I’m used to it."

The breakfast table was carefully arranged and cheerful, and the food was delicious. Dad came in complaining about another wasted trip to the station, but after a cup of coffee and some sweet chiding from Edythe, he was polite and pleasant enough. Not much feeling of Southern Hospitality there though. Conversation was mostly catching up with family news, and I soon realized that this wasn’t the Mac I knew, the Radio Technician 2nd Class in his Navy blues. This was Bobby, the son in his old plaid shirt who had gone to see his girl before he came home. This was the boy who would soon be aboard a submarine in the Pacific Ocean where the war still raged. Dad wanted to talk to his son and I was dismissed. Edythe gracefully brushed off my feeble offers to help clear the table, and shooed me off for a nap.

Later that afternoon I was alone in the living room with Bobby’s dad. He asked me about my background. I told him my grandparents were homesteaders in Nebraska; one set from Poland, the other from Austria. Then he asked where I went to school; did I have a degree? I told him I had a degree from a business college in Omaha.

"I understand you’re a Catholic," he said. I confirmed that I was. His voice and manner were pleasant and friendly, like most any getting-to-know-you conversation. Then he changed the subject.

"You know," he said, "there are a lot of Negroes in Kentucky named McWhorter." I couldn’t imagine why he was telling me something that seemed so completely off the subject.

Naively and honestly I replied, "That’s really interesting."

I don’t remember if we were interrupted or if the conversation just dropped into a deep hole, but it ended there as far as I can remember. It took me years to understand that he was trying to discourage me from making plans for a serious relationship with his son.

My meeting with Bobby’s brother Donny was completely different. Like his mom, Donny was easy to like. We just accepted each other, assumed we were friends and always have been.

The folks explained the Aunts and Uncles wouldn’t be there that evening. They knew we would be tired and would want just a quiet evening at home. That was fine with us. Bobby showed me the basement where he had spent so much time practicing to be a chemist. He told me how Donny, four years younger, had sat on the workbench watching, and accidentally spilled something that caught on fire from the flame Bobby was using. Bobby managed to put out the fire, but he nearly lost his leg, and always bore heavy scarring as a result.

Then we went out into the garage to look at his car. It was a black Ford sedan he had bought when he was in High School, and had to leave because cars weren’t allowed on campus at Purdue University in Lafayette, Indiana. We went for a ride and eventually parked on a hill that overlooked part of the city, the hangout for local High School kids.

It was very romantic cuddling in the front seat looking at the lights below. We talked for a while and suddenly Bobby began to sing. I had never really heard him sing, and I was too surprised to do anything except be quiet and listen. In a soft baritone voice not always quite on pitch he sang:

"Oh tell me why the ivy twines,

"Oh tell me why the sun does shine,

"Oh tell me why the sky’s so blue,

"And I will tell you just why I love you."

"Because God made the ivy twine,

"Because God made the sun to shine

"Because God made the sky so blue

"Because God made you, that’s why I love you."

As I fumbled for the right words to tell him how touched I was, he pulled me close. Tenderly he kissed me and wiped away my tears. Then he said he didn’t want to ask me to make any promises because he didn’t know what would happen or how long he would be away, but he wanted me to be his girl and hoped I would wait for him.

On Sunday morning he served my breakfast to me in bed. After I was up and dressed we sat having a cup of coffee, nearly ready to go to the station for our train ride back to Chicago. Edythe came dancing into the room and handed him his Triangle Fraternity pin.

"I enjoyed being your girl, but I think you might be wanting this," she smiled. He pinned it to my sweater and kissed me. Edythe gave me a teary hug and a kiss on the cheek. I don’t know where his dad was, but I was too happy to take much notice.

Afternote: Now, after more than sixty years I don’t remember the ride back to Chicago, or the next couple of days. But I do remember how glorious it was to be young and in love, and how it hurt to say goodbye.

---