Sometime in late summer of 1944, Myrtle was walking through the guarded gate to her new job. At the age of 19 she had qualified and trained for an unusual and unique position. She was now a civilian defense employee at Palmdale Air Station. She was the weather observer for this extension of Edwards Air Force Base.
The Control Tower Operator looking down from his vantage point, immediately called the only other woman on base, the switchboard operator. “Hey, who’s the new gal?” He was 23 at the time, and had joined up when he was 18. He wasted no time making his move.
I don’t know the actual date they met, but I know it was a whirlwind romance. When war blows across a generation, that tends to stir things up. It was a couple of miles between the airfield to her parents home in downtown Palmdale. Over the next few months those miles ate a lot of shoe leather to save gas rationing, and then ate gas anyway to beat curfews and shift deadlines.
They were learning about the things they shared. They were often blind to how they were different. They were both tall. At 6 feet 1 and ¾ inches she topped him by ¼ inch. But most of her height was in her long legs while he had a long torso. They never knew that her mom secretly giggled at the sight of them walking. His arm went naturally around her hips rather than her waist. They both grew up in mountains, but his mountains were in North Carolina and hers were the Ozarks in Arkansas. They were both musical, but he played guitar and sang country, she played classical violin and sang choral music.
They were soon in wild, passionate love. They started calling her Daisy May, to match his nickname of Li’l Abner. It didn’t really fit her and quickly faded. But Abner was easier to say than Nahum, and he carried it the rest of his life.
They were married on October 8th, about a month after my mom's 20th birthday. It was a simple ceremony at the Presbyterian Church her family attended. None of my dad's family was able be there. There are very few photos from the day, no professional portraits. Soon he was being sent to Clark Field in the Philippines. He took and developed the photos of his very own pinup girl to carry him through the time apart.
They were fun, a little wild, and very passionate. They were not the parents I grew up with. It was just over a decade later when I was born, and the years were not easy. My dad saw horrors in the Philippines he could never talk about. They lost babies to miscarriages. My brother was premature, and a sister was born three months early in England and did not survive. After 13 years in control towers, my dad was burned out.
Returning to the states and civilian life meant settling. They bought a two bedroom tiny tract home in Santa Monica, accepting that my brother would be the only child they would ever have. They were surprised by another pregnancy, sure it would be a boy if this one survived. They were completely unprepared, emotionally worn down, and weary. I don’t think they quite knew what to do with me.
My parents grew up in the depravations of the depression, came to adulthood in wartime, and faced challenges and loss they never knew how to express. I have stories and photos of the happy times. I wish I had known them then.
No comments:
Post a Comment