Courtship - Part Two
#9 in the series, "A Legacy of Stories." Written by my dad, Forest Jordan
(Read about A Legacy of Stories, here.)
“Hi, I heard you were back, what’s new?” This from Lou, a girl I dated for some months before leaving for the Army. And now we meet again at a lakeside resort. She is dancing to a jukebox with some girlfriends from Niles.
It wasn’t a serious relationship back in our high school days we were sort of casual toward one another. We went on dates, almost always double dating because I didn’t have a car and she lived out of town.
She is slimmer now and prettier than ever. Same long brown hair with bangs and blue eyes and soft cheeks. What a peach “Let’s burn some wood,” Lou suggests but I don’t want to, I want to slow dance or just talk. We talk about this and that and arrange a double date with friends.
Dates followed with friends supplying the wheels. Sometimes it was difficult to arrange transportation, and I hitchhiked the seven miles to her home, and we spent an evening playing records and listening to the radio. And of course, smooching. Her mother’s bedroom was directly above us, and Momma let us know when it was time to call it an evening.
For a time, we caught rides to the dances with Charlie Tidball. Charlie was extremely nearsighted and complained of night blindness which lent a note of adventure. Also, there was something comical about him, maybe it was the way he walked, like Groucho, with his torso tilted forward and his legs hurrying to catch up. Anyway, he was a good guy, and we appreciated his generosity.
Though I worked in various jobs during the two years we went together, I never could seem to get enough money to buy a car. I hitchhiked to the country to see Lou once or twice a week. Times must have been safer then, because I never felt any danger in doing so, although I should mention the time a drunk picked me up and we wandered all over the road. That was scary, and scary too was the time I caught a ride in a hearse. The driver was delivering a body and the casket latches rattled behind us, but it was the softest and smoothest ride I can remember. Too bad the passengers couldn’t appreciate it. Sometimes, no cars stopped, and I walked home, not hard when you’re 21.
In the fall of 1948, I was out of a job again. Laid off. The boss said I would be hired back when the company got a new contract. That was enough of uncertain jobs. I applied for college and was accepted to begin in the winter term in early January.
Through winter and spring terms Lou and I saw little of each other. I would catch a bus or hitchhike the 165 miles to see her when schoolwork allowed. At last, I said “I think we should get married. I’ll get an apartment. What do you say?” She made a face. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Is that the way you propose to a girl? ‘I think we should get married’.” I thought about this for a minute. She was getting teary. “You know I love you.” She still looked unhappy. “I don’t like to hear you say ‘you know I love you’. It’s like saying ‘well of course I love you.” “Okay, here’s what I should have said: I love you, I miss you a lot and I want you to be my wife. I’ll always love you and I’ll always be true.” It was a better effort, and it worked. We married in June, 51 years ago next month.
And I am still learning how to say the right thing.