Читать книгу Sixty Shades of Love - Darlene Matule - Страница 9

“It’s a dream come true,” I gushed as I walked through our new, custom, three bedroom, two bath, brick home. I could open both leaves of our original table in the kitchen. Besides, we had a separate dining room where a brand new dining room table and six chairs sat waiting for our first guests. Our one car looked lonely in the attached two-car garage. But—it gave us lots of room for stuff.

After our sweat labor, we had a 2,400 square-foot home with a full basement that featured a huge family room, large laundry, fourth bedroom/study, and ample storage space where Steve constructed custom shelves for our pantry items. Plus a covered patio in our fenced back yard.

Before I continue my memoir, I have to explain how my parents became a daily part of the Matule story.

When Michele was ten months old, they sold their motel in Glasgow and bought a house in Spokane—two doors from us. A few months after Steve and I moved into our Cascade Way home, they followed us—got a place one house east of ours.

Conflict ensued.

If we had a neighborhood girl babysit—my mother complained. If we asked her to take care of Michele and Stephanie while Steve and I went out, my mother fussed. I couldn’t win.

My mother had a habit of coming to visit—uninvited—five minutes after a car full of company parked in front of our house. She drove me crazy.

My daddy was a saint.

We lived with our unique problem. Sometimes it worked better than others.

Steve’s sister Dodo came for the first summer—she’d jumped at the chance to be our babysitter and avoid the tension of troubles at home in Butte.

We’d just finished paying the bill for Steve’s kidney surgery, but had decided that I should keep working at the Old National Bank so we could buy some extras for our new house.

Steve planted our front lawn on the Fourth of July. We bought a swing set that took up the left corner of our backyard. The rest we kept natural (which meant he mowed the weeds). That left an area in front of the kitchen and dining room empty.

“We need a few bushes,” Steve said. “Some white rocks to set them off.”

“Bushes are not in the budget!” I said. (I watched our money down to the penny.)

A heated discussion followed. A very heated discussion!

The next Saturday, while Dodo, Michele, and I were getting ready for an outing with Steve, he disappeared.

When he came home with five evergreen bushes and four bags of white rock, I yelled, “What did you use for money?” I knew he had no cash and didn’t carry checks.

“No problem. The nursery took that new credit card we just got.”

“The one we were going to use only for emergencies?” I gasped.

I have no idea what else I said. But after all these years, Steve still remembers how our fighting got so bad it upset his sister. So, even though our family was in chaos, he loaded all of us in the car—he needed a file from his office. By the time we were in downtown Spokane, Dodo was gagging in the back seat—about to throw up.

“Steve, Dodo needs a bathroom,” I said. “Fast!”

As Steve drove by The Crescent, he saw a loading zone. Desperate, he parked—even though he could have gotten a big ticket.

The minute the car stopped, I got Dodo out of the back seat and rushed her to the nearest bathroom. We barely made it.

Neither Dodo nor Michele remember the event. But it was pivotal in our marriage.

We learned a big lesson that day—you never buy a big item (in those days the plants and rocks were big—they cost as much as groceries for two months) until you’ve discussed it together (and agreed on the purchase). Unless you have the cash—money not needed for anything else.

•

By the time we celebrated our third anniversary, we felt like we’d arrived. We splurged with dinner on the Top of the Ridpath. Danced to their three piece orchestra. Gazed through the massive windows at the twinkling lights of the city. Romance encircled us like a giant wedding ring.

That Labor Day we put Michele in her crib after lunch and spent a couple of pleasure-filled hours making love—making our Stephanie.

My due date was June 5. Dr. Rotchford began titering my blood once a week the first of April. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I just like to be careful.”

But on my birthday, the doctor said, “We’ve waited long enough. I’m going to induce you day after tomorrow.”

My mother was scathing. “If you’re going to have that baby early, the least you could do is have it on May 21 (my birthday)!”

I didn’t bother the doctor—actually I was kind of happy to keep my birthday mine.

Two hours after he gave me the shot, on the morning of May 23, 1960, Stephanie Ann howled her way into our lives. That was the last howl we heard from her until she entered the Terrible Twos. She was so good, one of our friends accused us of pretending we had a new baby.

The second Fourth of July, Steve planted the back yard in border-to-border grass. And marked the property lines with a basket-weave wood fence we painted russet.

The bill for the five bushes in front having been long since paid, I actually lobbied for rose plants in the brick planter in front of the living room window and a climbing rose at the base of the chimney on the side. What a joy I felt as I plucked a Cardinal-red bloom, sniffed the intoxicating scent, and placed it in the middle of my dining room table!

That year, as usual, Steve’s sister Dodo was visiting us. Not-quite-sixteen, she was in love with Ricky Nelson.

So, when we read in the Spokesman Review that the popstar was going to be singing at the Spokane Coliseum, we got three tickets.

Concerts in those days were much more restrained than they are now. There was cheering and we heard lots of Ricky I love yous, but the fan noise level didn’t punish our eardrums.

Dodo was in heaven—toe-tapping the entire time. When Ricky sang Travelin’ Man, I swear I thought she’d float right out of her seat.

Later Steve said, “I’ve never seen Dodo so happy. Why she had a mile-long-smile on her face from the moment we got in the car! All night!”

Years after, when Dodo and I were reminiscing, she told me, “When I got back to Butte that August I was the hit of the neighborhood. ‘The funnest thing for us here this summer was the Fourth of July parade,’ both Marie and MaryJo complained. ‘Ricky Nelson? In person? Boy were you ever lucky!’”

(I wouldn’t be surprised if she still has the program. I know the memory is tucked in her heart.)

Our new neighborhood—about a mile north of Francis, between Wall and Division—was perfect. In those days, the street dead-ended five houses east of ours at a horse farm. The husbands hand-carted their grass clippings and dropped them just over the fence. The property owner appreciated the fresh fodder. Our kids loved walking up to say “Hi” to the horses.

As our girls grew up, we realized how truly lucky we were. Our kids could walk—ride their trikes and bikes—and play ball in our extra-wide street. Everyone knew everyone. It was truly safe.

When Stephanie was three, I bought her some new red Keds. She wore them all afternoon while riding her trike up and down the little incline from the horse farm to our house singing, “Did you ever go fishing on a bright summer day? With your hands in your pockets and your mouth full of hay?”

Because she used her toes for brakes, by the time she came in for dinner, it looked as if someone had spent hours pulling her new shoes back and forth on a hand-shredder.

Wouldn’t you know? That night Steve’s mother called saying, “Come home, Pa’s had a heart attack.” Steve and I put the kids in the back seat in their jammies, grabbed a few clothes, and took off.

It was a false alarm.

The next day, when Steve’s father, Pa, took one look at Stephanie’s raggedy tennies, he almost blew a gasket. “What’s the matter with you, you good-for-nothing?” he yelled at my husband/his son. (I’ve removed the expletives.) “Can’t you even support your family?”

I was furious! How dare he talk to his only son like that! I seethed. Had he forgotten Steve had to put cardboard in the soles of his shoes when he was little?

Yet I kept quiet. I’d learned a lesson—you don’t cross Pa. Even if you’re right.

My dear husband tried to explain. His father wouldn’t listen. Things were tense.

(And our Butte relatives wondered why we didn’t visit more often.)

We bought Stephanie a new pair of shoes as soon as we got back to Spokane—money was not a problem. For if Pa had taken the time to listen, he’d have found that Steve was doing well. Very well indeed.

Just before Stephanie was born, he’d taken a job working for a national pharmaceutical company—and doubled our income. It wasn’t that we were rich. But we’d been really poor the three years he’d been teaching.

With his new job, Steve worked out of town two weeks of every month.

The first week, scared to be in the house all by myself (the only adult) every night, I kept Steve’s nine iron under the bed for defense.

By the second week (no one had broken in and tried to have their way with me), I put the club back in Steve’s golf bag. (In the light of day, I realized an intruder would grab my so-called weapon and use it on me.)

I’ve got to be brave, I told myself. Brave and smart.

My decision? I decided to do something fun that I wouldn’t do if Steve were home at night.

It didn’t take me long to find the perfect thing—sewing.

I’d put the girls to bed, hurry down to my trusty Pfaff in the family room and sew up a storm. I loved making pretty clothes for me and my kids. (Years later, when making photo albums for Michele and Stephanie, I marveled at the dozens of dresses, coats, and play clothes I’d crafted during those years.)

Often I didn’t go to bed until midnight.

Except on the Tuesday night when Dick Van Dyke was on TV.

I planned carefully. Made sure I had a project ready for a half-hour of hand stitching. Watching the clock carefully, I hurried up the basement stairs five minutes before the show began—with fabric, thread, pin cushion, thimble, and scissors—making sure I had plenty of time to settle in.

One night I hadn’t watched the time well enough, and only had one minute to make it to the living room TV. Instead of turning on the light at the top of the stairs, I rushed through the kitchen in total blackness. Ran like I was Roger Bannister the day he broke the four minute mile. Forgot about the jog to the left I had to make when I got to the dining room.

Bang!

My nose crashed into what felt like a cement wall. I swear I saw stars.

I dropped everything I was carrying. But being a woman with a purpose, I clicked on the dining room light. Hurried to the TV, and turned it on in time to hear the last bars of the theme song.

It’s amazing but true. You can laugh and hold an ice pack on your nose at the same time. I kept the ice on my broken nose for a couple of hours. Took two aspirin. Went to bed.

The next morning I found my scissors on the floor and a gash in the mint-green kitchen paint.

Wow! I thought as I realized how lucky it was that I’d been carrying my scissors pointed away from me. Not at my heart.

When Steve got home I told him how I’d almost killed myself over Dick Van Dyke.

We laughed then. Continued laughing over the years.

Finally, we were able to go out dancing at the Elks. We joined Couples 40, a group that sponsored quarterly dances with a local band. I’d been asked to be a member of Tri Gamma Junior Women’s Club, a philanthropic organization that sponsored a ball yearly at the Davenport Hotel and had other socials. Two of our neighboring families were teaching us how to play bridge—alternating weeks. Steve and I were having fun.

Our neighborhood was a great place to have a young family. When it snowed, the city blocked off Washington Street, just a couple of houses west of us, for a sledding hill.

At first we only had one sled. We took turns—Steve with Michele—me with Stephanie. Afterwards we all looked forward to having hot chocolate in our cozy kitchen.

Then, the second year, when both our girls were big enough to sleigh alone, someone left a long Flexible Flyer in our front yard and never came back. After a week, we borrowed it. A couple of years later, with no one claiming ownership, we took permanent possession.

Years later when our daughters dropped sleds for grown-up skies, I sanded The Flyer, stained the wood, and painted the runners bright red. Then I tole-painted a little girl in a red outfit skating on the top.

We started using the new sled for a Christmas decoration in the early seventies. Today, it graces our front entrance, right next to our five-foot St. Francis who, during the holidays, wears a bright red hat topped by a big bell.

The next summer we had a concrete contractor double the size of our patio, and Steve built a cover over the whole thing. We bought two trees. Steve planted them in the middle of the backyard—dreaming of the shade they’d provide in a few years.

Mid-summer, Steve and I decided something was missing. Our new neighbors on the east had filled the dirt borders on three sides of their backyard with plants and perennials. By July they had a plethora of color. We wanted some blooming flowers too.

But how? Our lawn grew right to the wood fence on three sides.

“We need to dig out the grass,” I suggested. “Probably three feet. All around.”

“Do you realize how much work that’d be?” Steve retaliated. “That stuff is thick.”

Our neighbor Dick heard of our dilemma. He said, “If you can wait until next summer, I’ve got an idea for you. My neighbor in Seattle had the same problem. This is what he did—just mark the area you want to turn into a flower bed, take a sharp shovel, and cut all the grass in two-foot squares. Then turn and plop it—root side up. By next spring, the grass will have died and turned into compost—instant fertilizer.”

That fall, we designed our flower garden. Steve dug generous scallops on both sides and the back. Followed directions. Turned. Plopped.

By spring, when it was time to work in the yard, Steve was working out of town. Week after week.

So—determined to have my flower garden—I approached our backyard holding a trowel in my right hand and enthusiasm for the project in my heart.

Long story short—my right hand begin aching by noon, and my heart had relocated itself somewhere south—probably to my toes.

While I know the basis of the theory to be correct—matter does decay—I think it would have taken a good twenty years to reach the goal of rich loam from upside-down-grass.

Undeterred, I dug. Got a one-foot square free. Attacked it with the trowel—no progress. Moved to a pointed shovel—about the same. In disgust, I shook off what soil I could—not more than a thimble full.

Impossible! I thought. There’s got to be a way. I could see those flowers in my mind’s eye.

Determined, for the next two weeks, five days a week, I spent at least four hours each day working on our flower garden. I dug—shook as much loose dirt from of each individual piece of sod as possible—threw the rest in our wheelbarrow—pushed it a half block to the open area at the end of our street available to such excess—and dumped.

I must say, I had a few choice words for our neighbor—but I kept quiet. I don’t know which was harder—keeping my frustration to myself—or the actual physical work.

Whatever—come mid-May we bought several flats of petunias—half purple—half white. The finished product was worth it!

In July I hosted a luncheon for twenty-four members of my women’s club in our new backyard garden. I provided ice cream cake for dessert and basked in the compliments I received.

On that long-ago day, on Cascade Way, I discovered two of my favorite things—entertaining and flowers.

As our seventh anniversary arrived, Steve made reservations for Friday and Saturday in the brand new Desert Inn in downtown Spokane. He’d planned a celebration for just the two of us—a Friday night at the Elk’s Country Club dining room at Liberty Lake, a day of shopping, and dinner at the Ridpath Roof on Saturday. Dancing both evenings.

“It’ll be a second honeymoon,” he promised.

All I had to do was get a babysitter. My parents lived one house away. They would have been happy to have our daughters move in with them permanently.

But, when I explained what Steve and I wanted to do for our big day and asked for forty-eight hours room and board for my girls, my mother looked as if I’d told her I was going to hire myself out as a call-girl for the weekend.

“Well I never!” she huffed. “Never in a million years would I have thought my daughter would do anything like that!”

I felt like saying, “I’ve been married for seven years for heaven’s sake! I have two children. What do you think? That I got pregnant sitting on a toilet seat? Twice?”

But I kept my cool.

My mother finally condescended to be my babysitter for a long weekend date with my husband.

When I dropped the kids off on Friday afternoon, I was greeted with an ice-cube-stare.

I forgot my mother the minute we backed out of our driveway.

Steve and I had a delightful, romantic anniversary weekend. Dined and danced, lunched and shopped, dined and danced again.

On Sunday morning, we went to Mass at St. Al’s—my very favorite church in the whole world. After brunch, we ended up the three-day event by playing nine holes of golf at Wandermere on Sunday afternoon.

Introduced to my first Frango mint that long ago time—the Desert Inn had placed a complimentary box on our pillow—I became addicted. To this day, when I pop a Frango in my mouth, I remember the joy of that weekend. And my forty-eight hours living on the wild side with my dear husband, my lover Steve.

In the seven years we lived on Cascade Way, we made life-time friends. (Right now I’m on Facebook with five of my lady-friend’s children.) We had kid’s birthday parties—too many to count, Easter egg hunts, backyard barbecues.

Not one of the ladies on the street worked. (I’d quit just before Stephanie was born.) We had lots of evening get-togethers.

But I came to especially look forward to having coffee with special neighbors Monday through Friday, from 11:00 to noon. They became like the sisters I’d never had.

One family, the Watanabes, liked the location so well they rented not one but two different houses before they built a split-level down Washington Hill and over a block.

I spent many an hour drinking coffee at my friend Laura’s house while my Stephanie and her Barbie played in the family room.

The girls must have worn out one record—Puff the Magic Dragon.

Just recently, during a TV tribute to Peter, Paul and Mary, I suddenly heard the duo singing the familiar words.

I hummed the tune. . . Remembered. . . Teared up. . .

Nostalgia captured my heart.

For a minute I was in Honalee. It was magic.

My friend Laura still lives in the same house—down Washington Street—on Sierra Way. She loves entertaining her grandkids in the backyard swimming pool. A couple of Octobers ago, I spent an afternoon visiting with Laura and another friend, Susie, who had moved to another neighborhood. What a fun time we had!

But all good things end. Or change.

Steve took what was supposed to be a dream job—President of McClintock Drilling. They sent him to the main office in New York City. On a three-week tour through Nevada and Arizona. Back to New York. They went broke.

One day, the week Steve heard the news about McClintock folding, I’d just come back from appointments with two doctors. “You’ve got pink eye,” the Ear, Eyes, and Throat MD told me. My OB/GYN said, “You’ve got a vaginal infection.”

My mother chose that time to drop by. She found me in the back yard. Worrying.

“Blah, blah, blah,” my mother complained.

I tried to block her out.

She continued.

At the end of my rope, devastated because of Steve’s recent unemployment, hurting at two ends of my body, I finally interrupted and said, “Mother, I have troubles too.”

“You?” she whined before I could even tell her my medical problems. “Why, you have the best furniture of anyone on the block!” With that, she flounced off.

So, when Steve got a new job (a couple of days later) that began as an insurance salesman for Allstate at the Northtown Mall in north Spokane and quickly became a district manager trainee, eligible for reassignment to another city when the training ended, I rejoiced. I was ready to move. (I knew my parents were not financially able to follow us—the company would pay all our moving expenses—not those of any one else.)

Our home sold, and we bought a new place in Tacoma.

When push came to shove, I knew I’d miss my friends like crazy. But . . .

Just before we were scheduled to leave, the neighborhood ladies had a going-away party for me. That night, the truth came out.

“You know, Darlene,” one said, “when you first moved in—with your toddler and Dodo—we all thought Dodo was Steve’s daughter by a first marriage. (Steve had always looked very mature—one of the reasons I was attracted to him.) All of us were shocked when we found she was his sister.”

Everyone had a big laugh over that.

As the movers packed the final boxes, the boss said, “I really feel sorry for you. Moving from a beautiful house like this—from such a great neighborhood.”

I must admit, I shed a few tears as we left.

It had been a truly wonderful seven years.