The Girl Who Became the Wife

My wife and I drove up to Bakersfield on a rainy Saturday to attend the 60th anniversary of her graduation from Washington School in East Bakersfield.

Since I do not drive, Denise was at the wheel of her 10-year-old car, a lemon she professes to love. She is not a reckless driver. Her reflexes are excellent. But she is impatient, so most of the trip was a thrill.

The Ridge Route was beautiful. The mountains were dark green with scrub and spotted with yellow patches of Scotch broom. Before the Palmdale cutoff we pulled up behind a miles-long traffic jam, which slowed her down considerably. The highway was cluttered with heavy equipment repairing earthquake damage.

Since the picnic was to start at 11 o’clock, we had left home at 9, figuring two hours should do it. However, when we got to Bakersfield, my wife got turned around trying to find the park where the picnic was to be, and we lost another 20 minutes going in the wrong direction.

“You’re going south,” I told her.

“No,” she said, “I’m going north.”

We were on a street whose signs identified it as South Real Road. I noted that the block numbers were becoming larger, which meant we were going south. When I finally convinced her of this, she explained that she must have been turned around by an off-ramp that apparently made a complete circle. We were about 40 minutes late when we found the old grads gathered at a picnic table in the park.

There were about 20 of her classmates and their spouses. “This must be boring for you,” one of the men said. “No,” I said, “I like being around younger people.” (I am four years older than my wife.)

*

There were squeals of recognition and hugs when we arrived. The women were just beginning to unload their picnic baskets. Fortunately, my wife’s sister, Suzie, who was in an earlier class but had come to be with her, had brought some Bud Lite, apparently just for me. I had two cans, which considerably raised my spirits.

The sky had turned gray and threatening. Bakersfield weather can be surly. I felt tiny raindrops on my cheeks. But we had dressed warmly and were undismayed.

One of Denise’s classmates, Iva Mae Dudley, had brought a photo album and opened it to a large class picture. I picked my wife out in an instant. Her dark hair was cut in a Buster Brown bob. Her eyes were mischievous. Her smile was precociously sensual. What a fifth-grader! That was seven years before we met.

Denise pointed to one of the boys in the class and said, “I was sweet on him.” Apparently, though, nothing came of it. He didn’t look like much to me. Anyway, I don’t see how he could have resisted the little girl with the Buster Brown bob. I was glad he had left her for me.

If he’d had my eye, she would have been taken. I met her on a blind date arranged by our mutual friend Cliff Gill. While I stayed in my car, he went to the door of her little house in Nile Street in East Bakersfield to get her, and when she walked out in the porch light I knew instantly that she was the girl for me. She was going to be my wife. It probably took her a little longer to get the idea.

It was easy. She was a senior at Kern County Union High School, quite unsophisticated, and I was a hot-shot sports reporter for the Bakersfield Californian. I simply dazzled her with worldly charm.

She knew nothing about sports. Once at a football game, she overheard another girl say, “They’re puttin’ in 11 new men!” She said to me: “You think I’m dumb--that girl doesn’t even know there are only nine men on a football team.” How could you not love a girl like that?

*

It had begun to sprinkle and the dark sky promised more. Having no shelter, we began to pack up. We said our goodbys and started home. By the time we reached Gorman, the sky had erupted. It was raining hard.

I had read in the paper that Gorman was for sale for $13.6 million. We passed through it in less than a minute--three gas stations and a restaurant, and I decided I didn’t want to buy it.

It rained hard most of the way home. I wondered at our common sense in undertaking such a journey in that kind of weather.

Oh, well, my own 60th anniversary is coming up in July (Belmont High School, Class of ‘34) and I’ll want the kid with the Buster Brown haircut to be there. It’s going to be at our house, so, thank God, we can’t get lost. (Classmates: Write to me for details and map.)