Lovely Stranger

At the beginning of WWII, our war, I was a young man just out of the California Central Valley, a naive country boy certain of myself. I had just graduated from Officer’s Training School, but did not know where I would be posted. Some Army buddies and I were on a weekend leave out of San Diego. Wearing our spiffy new dress uniforms, we were handsome, young, muscled, tanned.  We wanted a place to go, have some fun, meet some girls.  (We didn’t have expectations more than maybe a kiss if we were lucky. Things were different then, not more innocent maybe, but with different rules of conduct. There was no birth control pill, and that affected how young women related to men. “Nice girls don’t” was the rule.)

One of the men remembered hearing about a benefit for the War, sponsored by a church located near the beach.   Girls were to bring elaborate picnic basket dinners to be auctioned. The money raised would go to the war effort. The lucky male bidder would eat dinner with the girl whose basket he won. We thought that the auction, combining young women and food, was tempting, so we set off. 

We were headed to the place, walking along the sand near the waves, nudging each other and joking around as young men do. The sun shone warmly on that golden beach, the waves lapped in perfect SoCal summer rhythm.  The extraordinary marine smell of wet seaweed and warm salt surrounded us, made us happy, even more giddy than we had been with our weekend freedom.  Driftwood lay in dramatic shapes, sea gulls resting upon them looking for scraps. Scallop, clam and other shells lay on the beaches then and there were purple urchins in tidepools that teemed with small fish and floating seaweed.  Nothing had been decimated, the ocean still enormous, still giving, though with undercurrent of violence, of power.

Then there she was, wearing a yellow bathing suit with white trim, which showed off her petite figure. Her smile was wide and happy, her skin a perfect tan, her brown hair waving across her forehead. She walked past us, going the other direction, the surf making small tugs at her feet, leaving them foam covered. When I turned to look at her, she looked back, our glances meeting, and that was the moment for me, she was the girl.

My buddies and I went on to the church near the beach. Its large basement was crowded, mostly with men in uniform. The big community kitchen, was loud with lots of clacking of coffee cups, plates and dinnerware. You looked at the food in the baskets, but mostly you saw the girls in their crisply ironed summer dresses, skirts swishing, all standing in line holding their home cooked dinners. In line, there she was again, this time in a bright pink seersucker sleeveless sundress, smiling and holding her wooden basket, her skirt twirling slightly away from her waist. I bid for her basket. I really tried, but on Army pay I just couldn’t compete. So, I watched a handsome man win her company, pick up the basket and stroll to a vacant table, covered with that red checker cloth that was so popular then.

I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. She was the one. I just knew it. I went back to the edges where the older ladies gathered, and volunteered to help with the cleanup. Wash the dishes, throw away the trash, whatever was required. I put down my jacket in a clean place, rolled up my sleeves and started sloshing greasy dishes in soapy water in the main sink. After dinner, she joined the cleanup crew. Everyone was chatting and laughing, happy with the success of the evening. When she noticed me in my less than Army dress, hands full of soapsuds, she came over and said help and joined in the cleanup. 

She was in college, at a time when young women could not be married and still study. That changed with the war, but even after we married, she lived at school. When we were courting, I took her to nightclub in Los Angeles, a long ride from her town, but near her college. I kept one of the photographs of the two of us, sitting at a cloth covered table, young and gazing at each other. Her family was rich and caring; mine was dirt poor and didn’t love me. Had it not been for the War, and the momentary disregard of social differences, maybe there never would have been a second date. But, given the uncertainties of the war, and the general dread, I was able to keep with her. 

For six months we courted, while I waited deployment orders. Then, when my orders came in, we married before something bad would happen. I remember her beautiful white gown sewn from a pre-war hoard by a close friend.  I don’t think we had alcohol at the reception, which was small and in the living room of her home, but we did have a wonderful tiered and scalloped wedding cake, an extraordinary excess of sugar and cream at that time.

After sixty years, she was still the only one for me, the most important person in the world.  She loved literature, and language, plays and concerts, museums and exhibits, and church gatherings. Because of her, I finished college as did all our children. We had close friends and those just-after-the-war street parties, full of young couples eager for that promised better life, that new middle-class prosperity. We aged, as did our friends, and many moved away, or died, or divorced or left us in other. Together, we went through the War, and other wars and conflicts, including the drama and stress of the Vietnam War. Together, we experienced the death of loved ones, birth and education of several children, financial ups and downs, health problems, all the essential requirements of living life. cooked, and worked, walked and traveled, had money and lost it, played and argued, gardened and talked. 

At the end, surrounded by my children, I thought only of her, called only for her. She stood by my bed, still the most beautiful, most special person in the entire world.  I kissed her goodby, died.