The summer of 1942 not only yielded me Jean Etta, but before her arrival a romance had begun to bloom -the first of any consequence for me. I can say that now, but then I was desperately lost in a maze of new emotions.
The young man, Duane Henry, had also arrived in town because of a need in the offices at the depot. He was twenty years old and had chosen me to pursue. What an exquisite stroke for the ego of a sixteen year old! It was Duane’s desire to join the Air Force and become a fighter pilot, which he eventually did, but I’m a bit ahead of my story.
In spite of my nose being out of joint because Jean Etta seemed to be taking over our household, we did become friends. In due time, she moved into her own apartment and I began to realize what a jealous baby I’d been. We do live and learn. To make things even better, she had a boyfriend who arrived periodically. The four of us double-dated and in general had some good times.
There was no problem in my home about my going out with Duane, for he’d managed to win my mother’s good graces, by being very proper, promising to obey all rules and take exceptional care of me. Most of the time that was very true, but I was dipping into areas I had not been near before, and parents certainly aren’t told everything. But then again, perhaps they know they have to trust the safest way they have at hand.
My grandmother, though, was not greatly charmed by Duane’s manner. She mentioned to me many times that she felt he was too serious and wanting me to make promises I was to young to keep. How right she was. Strange, I don’t remember much comment from my Dad. I think, he honestly trusted my very young heart to use sensible judgement. Perhaps that’s why I tried so hard to do so.
The summer wore on and I entered my last year of high school. That September I was seventeen years old. Wow! Even with the war, the world seemed to be my oyster. However, as the year moved along, Duane became more and more possessive. He didn’t want me to attend my high school parties, dances, etc. even though he was welcome to attend with me. He mentioned many times he’d been away from school long enough to be beyond that sort of thing. Enamored as I was, I refused to give in to that demand, only to find him waiting outside to take me home when each affair was over. Many times he accused me of flirting with any young man who happened to be leaving with me, and perhaps I did, who knows?
I also played piano for dances on many Saturday evenings. Because this generated extra cash for me, he couldn’t really ask me to give that up, though he made it known he felt it was not a good idea for me to be doing such a thing. Again and again, he made me feel miserable, yet I remained infatuated. Youth is often spoken of as impulsive, quick tempered and brash, but at times it can operate at the speed of a tortoise.
Christmas came and Duane’s gift for me was a Schaffer fountain pen. My sister-in-law about had a fit. She thought the gift could have been a bit more romantic. I must admit it wasn’t what I expected, but secretly I was pleased it was not a ring.
In January of 1943, he went home to Auburn, Washington. He needed to put on some weight to pass a certain requirement for the Air Force and felt sure with some good home cooking he could accomplish this. Before he left, he extracted the promise from me that I would always be his girl. There would be a ring when he got back from the War. I felt within a week after he’d gone, that maybe I’d been too hasty, but I’d given my word.
In February, I visited him and met his family. I was quite uncomfortable in his family’s home. I’m sure they tried to make me welcome, but still I didn’t feel the warmth of real acceptance.
While I was there he spoke to me of the various functions I had attended and said that he thought I’d had too good a time without him. He had spies, and I was shocked. By the time I got home, I was beginning to wonder what to do. Grandma, of course, offered a quick solution -end it! Still, I hung on.
In the meantime, my dream of going to secretarial school in Spokane was coming to fruition. Much to my surprise, my Dad thought it was a good idea and Mom went along with it. In March, I made my second and last trip to Auburn. At that time, I didn’t say anything to Duane about my plans for the future. He expected me to be waiting until his return, however long that might be. I knew instinctively Spokane would not fit into that picture, so I said nothing. I guess I didn’t want my dream to explode.
I didn’t know what was going to happen, but by this time my independence was asserting itself again, and turmoil ruled my mind. I was beginning to realize Grandma was right. I wasn’t in love and certainly not ready for the future I’d foolishly agreed to.
Shortly after my visit in March, Duane was accepted into the Air Corp and sent to basic training. He wrote regularly, and I answered as best I could. In a short while, plans were completed for me to go to Spokane. I was registered at Kelsey-Baird Secretarial School to start in June, and had a place to live until I finished my courses. I needed to clear things up between Duane and me.
About two weeks before I graduated, and after much soul searching, I wrote Duane and told him of my plans. I told him that I wanted to be released from my promise, that I was not ready for such a commitment, and if, when the War was over, we both felt the same way, we could talk about it again. In those days letters like that we called “Dear John” letters.
The minute it was sent, guilt became a pressing companion. Still I felt I’d done the right thing. I never told anybody about my letter except Grandma. She said, “One day you will see that this is the best for both of you.” She was right again.
Needless to say, I received a quick reply. His letter was explosive. He said I was too innocent to be considering such an adventure, that I was very unpatriotic, that he didn’t care if he ever came back again, and on and on for two pages. He was most explicit and wrote things I never expected to hear from him.
At seventeen, that’s quite a lot to carry, even if there is a War on. It was then, I went to my Dad, feeling like the lowest human that ever lived. He said anybody can make a mistake -it’s admitting it that’s often difficult. He went on to explain that I owed no one my future if I didn’t want them to have it -war or no war. And that if I’d been as honest as I could, it was up to Duane to be adult enough to take it from there. After that talk, some of the weight left my shoulders.
I was about to write an answer to Duane’s letter, when I received another from him. This one, much calmer, suggested that perhaps I had a point. He made no mention of Spokane, but did say that he’d like to continue hearing from me. Our correspondence from that point on became rather casual, as we kept each other posted on our lives. Several months later our association came to an end.
Even though this was a time of personal confusion and stinging growth, for me, I was not unaware of the war. The radio and papers were as available to me as to anyone. The propaganda was vicious. In June of 1942 the German government proudly announced to the world that it’s picked murderers had razed the tiny village of Lidice, Czechoslovakia.
Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote a poem called “The Muder of Lidice” about this incident. Many think this poem is the finest piece of true propaganda to come out of that war. It taught me a graphic lesson about man’s inhumanity to man. I still have a copy of it to read now and again, so as not to forget what really can happen.
In 1943, things were not going well for the United States. By this time I had a brother and two cousins in the service, as well as some of my schoolmates. As the War raged on, I felt the deaths of the very young, in a most significant way, as I knew some of them. I didn’t know then, Duane’s name would be added to that list.
At that point in time the best any of us at home could do was to accept the small sacrifices asked of us, engage in every helpful patriotic effort we could and go on living our lives.
Graduation time came and the five of us, three young women and two young me, marched down the aisle, up on stage and received our diplomas. Our school didn’t have caps and gowns, so we three girls were wearing formals, and the boys wore suits. In addition, I was wearing a coveted pair of silver sandals, thanks to my Dad’s shoe allotment coupon. Three of us had started in first grade together. We were sad to have such a long association end, but knew it must and were happy about each other’s future plans.
By the middle of June of 1943, I was established in Spokane, going to school, excited and happy with my decisions. At this point, life had delivered to me those “stepping stone” that gave me a healthy appetite for living, and the courage to step out onto my very own path: to turn each corner accept and learn from whatever was there, knowing full well there was more to come.