Arbor Lane: A Novel

PROLOGUE

I believe that land and what is on that land has an aura. Each section of ground is marked with the account of events that have occurred there, and so the terrain has vibration and personality similar to that of a soul. Who would doubt that the reason the Manassas or Brandywine or Gettysburg battlefields strike such awe in the hearts of visitors, is not just because they can see and imagine what happened there, but because they can feel it as well. Heroic deeds were done in all of those places, blood was spilled, and lives were lost. It is likely that some dishonorable acts were also committed during that period, some cowardly, selfish, or unfair deeds performed on that same soil. The intensity of purpose, feeling, and outcome becomes part of the ground, which was baptized by blood and confirmed by death. It is hard to imagine that the ground could remain unchanged in its pulsation after receiving its sacraments in this manner.

Besides battles, there are emanations from other activities. Some sites of the Underground Railroad, replete near the Mason-Dixon Line between Pennsylvania and Delaware hold their own secret history. The sacred Indian grounds on Route 24 near Millsboro, Delaware have their grasp on the imaginations of the neighboring residents; center city Philadelphia, where the constitution was formed, the first flag sewn, and where the early settlers worshipped is hallowed ground, radiating the events that moved its inhabitants to action.

In much the same way, I believe all ground is so marked, although not so dramatically and not always in a highly spiritual way. A family who owned a farm and made a living from it, by using it for their own survival and embellishment, for example, could positively mark the property.

Ground may also be marked by a series of dark dealings, covert activities, unhappy interactions, or extreme poverty, one following the other over generations. It may be marked by the comings and goings of those who came before us, land that never settled into a homestead but was used only as a route of transport. Native Americans, who used the land with great respect and reverence, left it close to pristine. One single act, grand or base may tag any area with its defining moment.

There are some fresh lands that have very little history; farmland—for example, where the primary human activity has been toil and harvest, or mountainous woods, where except for hunting and tracking, little taint of humanity can be found. Remote beach areas might be another of the sites without significant karmic history, except for the capsizing of a ship near their shores. Unpopulated areas like the Arctic Circle, parts of the Rain Forest and unattainable mountains peaks may largely stand without the emanations of human life. Perhaps that is why adventurers are drawn to them as they are, to leave their own marks as the first or possibly the best of inhabitants.

In city or suburban life, when we buy the home of another, or build on ground that was previously used for another purpose, the vibrations from what came before are present for better or worse, coloring our lives and influencing them subtly even though we may be totally unaware of them.

When I walk into a house I am considering buying, I try to sense the feeling of the place, whether I would have liked the last owners, whether someone who has passed is still holding on, whether there is any dark feeling—for before I commit to it, I want as full an account of previous activity as I can get. I like to know who lived there, what they did, what their reputation was. Do I want to buy a condo that was built on the site of a former hospital or nursing home, a place of suffering as well as healing? Do I want to live in a home where the inhabitants were unhappy throughout their time there? Or am I drawn toward the contentment of a house in which promise was fulfilled?

We cannot really know when we move in what a house’s role in our lives will be. It evolves gradually. By the time we are ready to move out, we lose its significance in the frenzy of our forward activity. Sometimes it takes us years to know what our homes have done for us or with us.

But we do not move into an empty shell, devoid of all input and personality. The house becomes part of the family who lives there through what has passed before we were its caretakers. It is as active as ancient trees that tell tales.

Our homes affect us surely by their style, their light and space, their arrangement, but they also affect us through their history. It must be the reason why so many of us continue to return to visit our old houses, those beloved places that hold our memories, feelings from the past, and images of long ago. Visiting them is like stopping in on an old friend, someone who was an important part of our lives and whom it takes us a long time to release.

PENN STATE CAMPUS

Early 1950s

Penn State is a movie set of a college campus, the perfect venue for college life, and among the most beautiful school surroundings in the whole northeast United States. A high school student of the fifties with an imaginary sense of place would have envisioned it as the college campus of her dreams long before she actually saw it. In fact, it may have exceeded the yearnings of most freshmen; it is so perfectly developed for its use that it is beyond what we are able to picture before we lay eyes on it. The campus is nestled into the foothills of the Nittany Mountains, very near to the exact center of the state and surrounded by the town of State College Pennsylvania.

In fall, the crisp mountain air braces new freshmen for their year ahead as it colors their world with shades of autumn and their cheeks and fingers with variations of pink. Winter is picturesque with snow-laden evergreens and white frosted oaks guarding the entrance to Old Main. Spring scents the campus with its floral perfumes and bouquets and returns color to the winter monochrome. Summer is the least spectacular with its comfortable green mantle and mild climate lulling its academicians into a period of repose after the bustle of the school year. The bells in Old Main’s tower chime out each hour and the quarter hours in between. The air is fresh, sometimes bracing, sometimes placid, but always clean and clear no matter the season.

We called it Happy Valley in 1951, because whether we could identify it or not, it represented the ultimate in the kind of living that middle class people could experience—, the ideal of the good life, a microcosm of perfection for us to aspire to or build for ourselves and others once we had moved on to our real lives. It took a great motivating force to move us away once we were ensconced in its bosom, because our tendency was to want to stay in that ongoing piece of heaven forever.

The attitude on the campus was one of friendly camaraderie, of helpfulness and collegiality throughout. The administrative tone was to be of assistance to the students, without pretension, condescension or arrogance. The whole welcoming environment made us comfortable and ready for our new experiences. The campus gestalt was in unison in its readiness to prepare us for our futures, and we took advantage of the opportunity. It was an ideal moment in time and it was in this setting that I first met Ed Lewandowski.

The religion question came up on our first date. It was a ‘blind’ date, stimulated by the enthusiasm of his old girlfriend, Pam. We had decided to get together for a ‘coke date,’ a code of the times meaning that neither of us would invest more than the time and money it would take to share two bottles of Coca-Cola, just enough to determine whether we would be interested in getting together again.

I introduced myself to him as Rosie Ross; the friend of Pam’s whom she had mentioned to him. We did some introductory conversation, and engaged in some flirtatious verbal sparring while playing ping pong in the Rec Room It was close to curfew at my dorm, nine p.m., when Ed, preparing to leave, lifted the medallion that I wore around my neck, ostensibly to examine it. I had been trained well enough by Catholic nuns to know that touching any part of my body was a sexually provocative thing to do, and should not be allowed, and pretending to admire my necklace didn’t lessen the offense in my mind. I responded with pursed lips and a frown, as though I didn’t like his taking that liberty but in fact, was slightly intrigued by his doing something that no other boy had ever done. He was going beyond the proprietary bounds in my estimation, so I backed away until he let it go. Then he surprised me. He changed topics and casually handed me the church bulletin that he had in his pocket from morning mass that day. He said offhandedly, You might want to read this. There are some interesting articles in here. I looked at him with a certain amount of planned disdain and handed it back to him. I’ve already read it, thanks. You can keep this. I knew he was testing me to see where I stood on the religion question, and double checking on Pam’s information, I supposed, but I decided I had won that round.

As he turned to go, he said, I’ll call you sometime.

If you’d like. I shrugged, still only half interested, or pretending I was, especially since I recognized the test he had just put to me. This was definitely a boy who wouldn’t be ruled by his feelings, I thought. Even though Pam had fallen for him, he broke up with her because she was not Catholic, and apparently, he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. She was the one who had strongly suggested to him that I was the girl for him and that he call me. She had already warned me about his religious mandate and went completely overboard in describing his stellar qualities. I didn’t hear from him for several weeks.

Our second date was a movie date with a stop at a coffee shop afterwards. We both seemed to be having a good time. He brought me back to the dorm for the customary drop off in the lobby. Everybody around us was embracing for his or her goodnight kiss. He leaned over and said, I’d kiss you goodnight but there are too many people around. Could be somebody knows me.

At that, I said a quick Good night, turned on my heel and left. I felt insulted. First of all, I thought, what would make him think I would even kiss him goodnight? My policy was never to kiss a boyfriend before the third date unless I was decidedly taken with him, and then it would be the second, which it usually was, and up until now, I had always been in charge of that. Secondly, what is this, I speculated, that he would be too embarrassed to be seen kissing me? How important did he think he was? I decided then and there that this would be his first and last date.

I was going out with other boys in the meantime, none of them seriously. After three or four more weeks, he called for another date. I had cooled down by that time, and was still not my usual open self, but I hesitantly agreed to go to a fraternity party with him since I was intrigued by what he had shown me so far and was curious to see what he had in mind for an encore. I was standoffish with him for most of the evening, not yet over my peevishness about the time before, but eventually, I warmed slightly. When we were out on one of the side streets of town, with nobody around, he put his long arms around me, one hand too far around to be in bounds, and kissed me. I resisted at first but eventually gave in to it, angry with myself for doing so, but feeling thrilled nonetheless.

So what was that about at the dorm, you not wanting to kiss me because someone might ‘see you’? That’s rather insulting, especially since I had no intention of kissing you.

Back in my home town of Wyoming, Pennsylvania, there’s a lot of gossip, especially about football and basketball players, he said. People keep a close eye on us. I saw someone from town in the lobby that night, so I didn’t want to start any gossip.

Well that’s some explanation, I said, sounding a little sarcastic, but a poor one. I thought he obviously cared more about what the people in Wyoming thought than about what I thought. And so with our ambivalent attraction, we began to date, but it wasn’t exclusive, certainly not on my part, and that was fine with me.

I was interested, but something in me was wary. Although he was sort of a compelling if remote figure with his cautious demeanor, he lacked the sophistication of my father that I admired so much, and the warm malleability of my brother, Bill. I thought I would miss those qualities if I tied myself to him.

I decided, after a time, that he was the kind of boy who might grow on you. He was not an immediate charmer. He wasn’t the kind of person who made you feel special. He wasn’t even extremely likable, but I thought he was challenging and sort of exciting and attractive. I decided to continue dating him after a rocky first few dates.

Often, during our first year of dating, he would bounce across campus to see me, after just having finished three hours of basketball practice at Rec Hall. He was as apple cheeked as a baby, newly showered and smelling fresh, and he wore his starched shirt under his long winter coat and wool scarf. The scent of those shirts was my aphrodisiac, and he won me over. It would seem that he should be really cool, the way campus athletes are cool, but that was one thing he was not. I didn’t mind.

I grew to like his physicality and his aggressiveness. I hadn’t known anybody like that before, and it fascinated me. Basketball and the gym was generally the perfect outlet for that physical expression and he thrived in that atmosphere. He liked the nickname the team gave him, ‘Johnson & Johnson’ a reference to his many small injuries which needed Band-Aid care. His conversation was full of basketball references and examples. He liked to say, That’s the way the old ball bounces, and many situations were described as Like a man-on-man defense. I doubt he could go for a ten-minute conversation without these basketball references coloring his speech.

The sparring seemed to work between us, with my never letting him get too much of an upper hand. I countered most of what he told me and he seemed to enjoy the challenge and excitement of it. We continued to flirt as we dated, and my ambivalence flew away as I developed a fascination for this attractive if rather inaccessible boy athlete. I liked that he seemed impressed with a girl who had her own mind and her own independence and that made him more attractive to me.

He wasn’t particularly thoughtful or charming or funny, but he had my attention and I had his. There was magnetism between us that I couldn’t identify and it became the driving force for moving ahead. I wasn’t accomplished in any way but the way of a college co-ed, sociable, smart, self-reliant and pretty. That seemed to be enough for Ed.

ROSIE

Ed seemed taken with my looks while we dated. I could tell he was attracted to me because his eyes would light up when I came downstairs from my dorm room for our dates. When I wore a combination of black and white, which was frequent, because it enhanced my coloring, I might even hear an exclamation like Wow! You look great. Most of the time, I received an appreciative smile.

I wore no make-up except for a muted scarlet lipstick and occasionally some eyebrow pencil. My scent was White Shoulders or Yardley Lavender, all very basic. By the time I had met Ed, I had given up my shoulder length dark hair and wore an Italian cut that was flattering if I was to believe the responses I got. My expression was one of a delighted smile on what most people called a pretty face. I was average height, very shapely, had a clear, fair complexion and dark blue eyes.

The groups I belonged to liked my looks too. When I talked recently on the phone to a neighbor I hadn’t spoken to for over forty years, she immediately said, You were the Elizabeth Taylor of our neighborhood, do you remember? which surprised me because I hadn’t socked those comments away at the time. During the forties and fifties, Elizabeth Taylor was a teen star in popular movies, and we did have similar features, especially early in her career.

Ed often said he liked the fact that I was genuine, a rare quality in his opinion, and intelligent. He liked my covert sexuality too, especially since it was disguised under a mantle of innocence (helped along by my white ‘Peter Pan’ collars), but this was something I didn’t figure out about myself until a few years later.

I gravitated to nice people, usually unimportant people, people who had nothing to offer except their friendship and some innate goodness. My friends thought of me as natural in every way, responding openly and warmly, although with some reserve, to everyone I met. My mother noted, with some delight, that I had her sense of fun. We were both always ready to try something new or to do something slightly daring, she, more than me. My father recognized, I believe, that I inherited from him an intimacy that drew people to me with their secrets and yearnings. I also had a trusting quality that made me responsive to new acquaintances and which made new friends comfortable with me. All in all, I was a strictly sociable character.

With potential boyfriends, my posturing was hard to get. I wanted to put out there that I was not ‘easy’, a devastating reputation from my point of view for a Notre Dame Catholic High School girl. Besides, it was well known that there were 3.5 boys for every girl at Penn State in the fifties. This was a great ratio, so I definitely had a mathematical advantage in attracting boys. During our college years, boys were usually very active in trying to get dates and we girls didn’t discourage that.

When I went out with Ed, I always had to forgo the pleasures of dating a moneyed man. Most of our dates were low cost. My last long-term boyfriend, John, had a car and plenty of spending money. He often took me out to the Boalsburg Steak House about ten miles from State College, or to the Corner Room, then the best place in town for something to eat. During high school, we had gone to all of the major proms. With Ed, an ice cream or donut and coffee were the best he could do, and a chilidog was hot stuff. There were no more proms, no dinners with the movies. On campus, during weekdays, we would usually meet outside in the fall and winter and walk the grounds, stopping to warm up over one of the grates that spewed warm air, and hold hands as we walked. Saturday night dates were at his fraternity house, and although I thought the brothers were friendly, they were a little standoffish with him. When I asked why he had picked that particular fraternity, he told me it was because they had one of the best cooks around. I thought that was unusual, because most college kids picked their fraternities on the basis of friendships, or parties.

Ed thought about graduate school at the encouragement of one of his advisers, which would prolong his time at Penn State, and consequently with me. He never gave me the details, but he figured out a way to afford it by working part time. Before his student teaching was complete, he was enrolled in the Counselor Education program for his master’s degree and that kept him on campus until 1954 and out of the draft during the unpopular Korean War and it suited me just fine.

Once we realized we were both interested in a future together, we began to have discussions about life plans, starting out with discussions of what we would do after graduation. He was a senior when we met, and was about to begin student teaching off campus in a few weeks. He took advantage of the fact that we were both Education majors to ask me specific questions about classroom behavior for the student teacher. I didn’t realize until then then students of secondary education were involved primarily with the subject, not so much the student and how he learned. Students of elementary education were focused on the child and only secondarily on the material.

My family could see that things were getting serious between Ed and me, and they didn’t like it. They thought of me as someone who could trade her looks for a marriage to someone of means so that I would be comfortably well off. No one in the family ever put it quite like that, but I got the message, nevertheless. That was not how I thought of things at all, but if I had, I had neither the assertiveness nor the inclination to put myself in a position where I would find someone who I thought was financially promising to marry. I doubt that their thought was any more than a wish, but they certainly were not expecting what they got with Ed Lewandowski. They were hoping for someone with more savvy, more ambition, more openness and a sense of humor, all of which Ed seemed to lack.

Although my father and brother Bill had had conversations with Ed the summer when he visited us at the shore, they were unimpressed. They couldn’t tell me why, there was nothing specific that they could put their fingers on, but they just didn’t hit it off. I told myself it was because they didn’t know him. In fact, it was probably because they were too different from each other.

As for me, I was not one of the young women who went to college to get a Mrs. which many of my classmates candidly laughed about because that’s exactly why they were there. Nor would I have considered working my boyfriend or husband’s way through school, earning a PhT (Putting Hubby Through) which many girls did at that time, setting aside their own educational plans until he earned his degree. I was a more serious student, there to earn my own degree, and to make my own way. I would also not have considered getting accidentally pregnant, which a few girls did to hurry their boyfriends into marriage, and I never thought of quitting before I graduated. I wanted to finish my degree.

At the same time I secretly entertained the romantic notion of true love between equals, one that would last forever, and nothing less would do. Of course, when you are picking your life mate at age nineteen or twenty, luck certainly has a lot to do with how well it turns out, because your judgment at that age is so immature. I felt certain enough to be sure I was on target and nothing as insignificant as financial considerations were going to be part of my decision.

After my third year, during a summer course, I took an individual seminar for three credits with a teacher who took a special interest in me. Dr. Solders asked if I had considered going for a master’s degree in teaching.

Actually, I had thought that it wouldn’t take me much to complete it because of my summer work.

I think you ought to think about this. Your work on our project is very impressive. Not many students would think to challenge the children to evaluate what they’re reading. It’s an inspired idea and it demonstrates that you would profit from having a master’s degree in education. Your thinking is broader than most, innovative. I like that.

For my project, I used a tape recorder to interview my three elementary school cousins and their friends who lived in State College. They were available and just the right ages to give me their reactions to my questions.

I’m really pleased that you like what I’ve done. I have other ideas too, especially about children’s reading.

Tell me about some of them, Rosie

"As a child, choosing the books, evaluating them, constructing, writing, illustrating and editing them, can be a tremendous motivator for a youngster’s reading and for his self-awareness. I added. This kind of thing makes me want to move ahead with a master’s degree. But I don’t know how I would pay for it."

I had held a few small jobs during summers and before Christmas, but had never worked at something significant enough to help me out with the financial requirements of a master’s degree. Good paying jobs were hard to find. Student loans were not available in those days, so the only way to fund a master’s degree would be to have my parents either pay for it or lend me the money for it. If I graduated in January of ’55 (instead of June ’55 my anticipated graduation date), and went the next summer, only one extra year would have been necessary to complete the degree instead of the usual two. We tried to think of every possibility for paying for it. Finally Dr. Solters said, Why don’t you ask your parents, even if it’s only a loan. I can’t imagine them turning you down, since the only cost will be the small one for the summer and then one more year.

"I’ve already run it by them, and they said they wouldn’t do it. They supported me for my undergraduate degree and that’s it. That’s their rule."

This would put you so far ahead in your profession. I’m sure they would want to do this for you. You’re the eldest child and the only daughter, right?

True, but that’s not going to get us anywhere.

Would you give me permission to call them and make the case for you? I think if they understood what this means…

I’ll give you the number and you can call after my father gets home tonight. But don’t expect anything. I knew my parents thought I wouldn’t need an advanced degree since I was planning on marriage. They viewed my degree as a Just in case degree, like my mother’s had been, one that was not anticipated to be used, but was there in case of an emergency, in the event your husband died or couldn’t work. They recognized the value of a college education as enriching and enhancing to the family that was anticipated, but beyond that, they saw it as a luxury, although one that would keep me on the same social level that they had attained.

Dr. Solters got the answer I expected, and was a little embarrassed. He expected that the family of an oldest child and only girl would be willing to go the extra mile. He didn’t know quite what to say or how to help me after that. His favorite protégé wasn’t going to be moving along as he had hoped, because she lacked the means to do it. So, I abandoned the notion of going further with my education at that time. I was disappointed, but I hadn’t really expected help. Most of all, I was saddened that this easy path to graduate school would be lost because I couldn’t get a loan or a job.

Even before contemplating marriage, I always felt my degree would be part of me in a bigger sense, would be part of how I defined and created myself. Can we really know what’s in store for us before there is any hint of what’s to come? I wondered. Is there anything to verify those unidentified stirrings? And yet it is just that kind of sensing that pushes us forward in those unformed years, before we know who we are.

While I struggled to find my place, my parents knew exactly who they were and what they were about. My mother kept a well-run household, but it was always clear that this was not a child-centered household. In fact, we didn’t even know what that was, for all of the fun was directed toward the grown-ups, which we couldn’t wait to be so we could participate. Both my parents made it clear that keeping Mother happy was the number one priority in our house and my going for a Master’s degree was beyond her goal of graduating me with a B.S. degree.

Mother had met my father coming out of the Corner Room at Penn State, a generation earlier. Later that summer afternoon, she engaged him with the same kind of verbal sparring that I had later used on Ed. Her Sagittarian fire made my father’s Cancer blood boil, and he simmered from the first, according to her stories, something that gave her the upper hand in that relationship pretty quickly.

Together, my parents were the most modern people I knew. They thought of themselves as young sophisticates, being college graduates themselves in an age when few people were. Their friends were fellow Penn-Staters, who seemed to be the in crowd in our town. They belonged to a social/recreational club, where they played badminton, table tennis, pool, bridge and shuffleboard. They belonged to a players club and acted in some plays. They smoked and summered at the shore before it was popular but as it became fashionable. They always had their dates with each other on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and Sundays when we were at the shore For these special occasions, They dressed up more than usual, and went out to their favorite bar or nightclub for a couple of drinks, sometimes meeting up with some friends.

At home, Mother was always well prepared with my father’s dinner the moment he walked in the door in the evenings, and would spend fifteen minutes before his arrival repairing her make-up and getting into a fresh outfit once the dining room table had been set. Her sisters and her mother were big women. Mother promised herself and my father that she would never gain more than five pounds while they were married, a declaration of independence from obesity and a promise of everlasting sexual allure to my father. She never did exceed that target she had set for herself, but it was likely because she was built like her slim father. We kids were on the same diet as she was on. We never ate dessert after meals except for fruit cocktail or an occasional chocolate pudding served in light crystal stemware. She taught us to chew each mouthful thirty-three times, always leave something on our plates and drink eight glasses of water a day, not that we did that, but we were always aware of those tips.

My parents postured themselves as young moderns who knew their literature and movies. Their lingo identified them. They were always on top of the latest quips, the newest words and phrases, which showed how up to date they were. Their relationship started out with romance and style and both continued well into the marriage with both of them working at it. Paying for me to become an academic, when it was unlikely I would ever go to work was not something they considered seriously.

THE COMMITTMENT

Ed had begun his college courses as a pre-med major. He found it necessary to abandon that major, however, since his real devotion was for basketball, and all of his time and effort was devoted towards being part of a winning team, which he was. During his time at Penn State, his basketball team had been to the NCAA playoffs at least once. Ed’s frequent injuries didn’t help his grades either, and he missed too many classes to be able to continue with pre-med. When I asked him how he managed financially, searching for a solution for my own situation, he didn’t have an answer for me as to how to continue my own studies without a parental loan. I think he was set up with a college job through the counseling center, an opportunity available to ‘name’ athletes, and then, got a stipend when his father refinanced their home just for this purpose.

I planned to graduate in January of 1955, a half year earlier than expected. Meanwhile, the temperature between Ed and me had been rising for some time. It was getting harder and harder to resist moving forward with our physical relationship, so I was hoping for a marriage proposal. We were both eager to experience more of each other than we had so far, but I was certain I would be fertile and too worried about pregnancy to go ahead without marriage. The repercussions both to our families and to us would have been disastrous and it was a worry I couldn’t handle.

I thought Ed had great promise for success, a good mind and not a bad body either. I thought we would make a good pair. He was becoming a little more open and warm after spending time with me, and I could tell that my effect on him was beneficial. I had enough innate optimism to share it generously with him, but optimism was a quality he didn’t trust. It didn’t fit with his character. He was much more comfortable with caution. Many years later, after I had tried to lighten his load by eliminating some worry, he was confused and uncomfortable by his brushes with positivity and rejected it.

He was saddened too, with the answer I had gotten from my parents, so he was a little protective and more thoughtful than usual. I was still finishing my course work at Penn State and went home just for the holidays before my January graduation. I was anxious for a commitment so we could plan our lives. We had more than tentatively planned for him to pop the big question on Christmas Eve of 1954, about two years after we met. He borrowed a car and came to my house in Wallingford, Pa. I was thrilled to see him and expectant of the special moment.

Did you get the ring? I asked, once he was settled.

I hate to tell you.

What? What? Tell me. I urged.

I had planned to buy the ring this week. I had two games last weekend, and we had one in the middle of the week.

So?

I didn’t have time to pick out a ring.

But you said you were going to get one, and that we would get engaged for Christmas.

That’s the way the old ball bounces, he said, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows. Then rhetorically he said to himself, What are you gonna do?

I’m so disappointed. I said.

He wasn’t particularly sorry or remorseful and I wondered if moving forward would be a mistake. My parents had reluctantly agreed to let me live at the house until we were married, and they were cool about my staying there, so it would be hard to know what to do next if I didn’t go ahead. I didn’t yet have a job in place, although I was negotiating for one, and there were no firm plans yet.

Once Ed had left Penn State with his master’s degree, he got a good job working as a high school social studies teacher at his alma mater, Wyoming High School. He was head football and basketball coach, and he loved nothing as much as coaching basketball; it was his dream job. He was not as thrilled about coaching football, not having had the same background as he did in basketball. It was not unlike him to let everything go but his work on the sports teams. I was only half surprised that he didn’t get the ring.

My whole family went together to midnight mass in the basement of a home that was the temporary church until our new church was built. After communion, and once we were back in our folding chairs, Ed produced a small diamond from his pocket and slipped it onto my finger. He had his plans to keep his secret until this moment, no matter how I inveigled him into telling me about it early. I was thrilled with the ring, and thrilled that we were really engaged.

Once out of church, I excitedly showed the ring all around. My mother looked at it and raised her brow with distaste as if to say, Is that the best he could do? but instead nodded her head and said Very nice. Congratulations. The diamond was quite a bit smaller than hers, but it was a lovely design, one that I liked. We decided before the end of the Christmas holiday that we would have a June ceremony, and penciled in tentative dates.

THE WEDDING, JUNE 1955

We were due to leave town today for the summer, as soon as the lawn party after the formal luncheon thinned out. Ed’s and my only current plan was to go on a honeymoon for a week, something he had arranged but hadn’t shared, and then stay with my in-laws for the summer until we could decide on a course of action for our futures. My parents’ feelings about my marrying Ed continued to be lukewarm. They were still convinced that he was no more than a boy with no ambition.

So with the most unclear of strategies, and more optimism than was warranted, I proceeded fearlessly to begin my new life by moving forward. This was the morning of my entrance into life as an adult, with my spanking new college degree still rolled in its cardboard tube, the first five months of my new job successfully completed, and my future as Mrs. Ed Lewandowski ostensibly secure. I gathered my bridal party at my parents’ home on a day that was designed for a wedding and we proceeded to church in our nuptial finery.

The gown I had chosen was an Italian silk, a taffeta-like fabric that lent itself naturally to the design, and flattered my complexion. The bodice was perfectly fitted below a sweetheart neckline, a style that took full advantage of my assets. The full skirt rested over a hoop, the whole effect emphasizing the small waistline and hourglass figure fashionable at the time. I wore a close fitting cap with a veil over my short dark hair and carried a small white missal covered with a single white orchid and trailing ivy. I thought I looked good and I hoped that Ed would think so too.

After our vows, Ed and I led the recessional down the broad aisle of St. Martin’s Church, recipients of warmth and goodwill all around. We greeted our guests happily outside church, including some of my third grade girls and their mothers, and promised to be right over to the reception as soon as a few photos were taken in front of the church. The formerly clear sky began to cloud over, obscuring the sun once the guests started to disperse.

At the first opportunity for a word in private, Ed turned to me and asked a little sourly, "Why didn’t you pick a white gown? Why would you pick a gown that is not white?"

"What are you talking about, Ed? This is a white gown. What do you mean?"

"I wanted to see you in a pure white gown, not an off white gown," he complained.

How much more white does it have to get? I argued. "It never occurred to me that you would see anything but white when you looked at this dress." This did not seem like the time to discuss all the shades of white that could be found on the store racks.

That dress is not pure white.

I smiled and tried to change the mood by asking, Do you like my gown?

"I would have liked it better if it were pure white," he said, still unhappy.

It was not a good start. I thought a man in love would not have noticed a hundredth of a shade off what he wanted. He would have looked with ardor on his bride and found her beautiful. Did Ed want to see me walk down the aisle primarily in a symbol of the whitest purity? Did he want credit from the guests for not sullying the bride before the wedding? What in the world could have offended his sensibilities enough for him to make such an issue of this? It made me speculate if I should have anticipated this response, been more aware of the shading of the gown when I chose it. It never occurred to me that Ed might have an objection of any kind to my bridal gown. It never occurred to him, it seemed, that my feelings would be trampled when he mentioned his dissatisfaction.

I held up, didn’t say anything more in response to his heartless utterance even though it shadowed the rest of the day for me.

While we smiled for photos, I fought to squash my disappointment in Ed. I daydreamed about our beginnings while the photographer arranged us. Ed was now twenty-four, I was twenty-one. I liked his looks, his height most of all, his good looking legs that I had glimpsed on the basketball floor when I saw