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I don't know why we hadn't noticed one another before. We didn't live that far apart. We'd walked the same streets to high school. Perhaps it was because he was a little older. Or the fact that our interests were different. He concentrated on academic achievement and sports, while I was active in music and dancing.
It may have been that turning eighteen awakened new feelings in me. Perhaps, as Aunt Bern put it, upon my return from school, I had blossomed.” Whatever it was, it was exciting when he walked over to the car where my sister and I were sitting in front of the drug store sipping ice glasses of cherry coke and observing the scene on our main street.
"How'd you like Tallahassee, Marjorie?" he asked with a smile as he against the car door. Flustered at this sudden attention, I don't recall how I responded. In a few minutes he was asking if he could come by that evening. Southern girl coyness (a parry for dominance) was not my style. I immediately invited him over with, “Certainly, how about 7:30?"
What would we do? He hadn't suggested a movie. There was no party ce that evening. He didn't have a car. When he arrived we sat on the screened porch on a white wicker settee and talked. I needn't have worried about entertainment. From the outset we were comfortable with one another. I liked the warmth of his smiling eyes and the timbre of his baritone voice. It was easy to talk to him. We shared our college experiences. We discussed the relative merits and failings of our high school teachers and tried to recall when we'd seen one another at high school.
We were now walking past the grand old Knox Gillis house. It was easy to imagine an earlier, more genteel era when people took time to read richly bound volumes in the walnut paneled library, and ladies glided down the staircase lightly touching the mahogany railing. “Wouldn't you love to live in that house?" I asked. "No," he said. "It is an attractive old place, but its too big and too much to take care of."
I rarely walked by the Gus Campbells’ house without remembering a summer of my childhood when I sat on the front porch with my Sunday School teacher, Cousin Kate, as she patiently labored to help me memorize the catechism. I had worried some over the first question and answer.
Q. “What is man's chief end?"
A. “Man's chief end is to glorify God."
Now, at age nineteen, I gave it a moment's silent thought, but was soon distracted. Sam knew the story of my summer of catechism study and guessed that my thoughts had turned to religious piety and the proprieties of our town. He teased, "I don't think anyone would object if I gave you a kiss right under that street lamp." "Mercy," I whispered, "perish the thought," and picked up the pace in case anyone had heard him.
The Elliotts’ stately home with wrought iron fence and a perfect garden always caused me to stare into the yard, even at night. “What are you looking at so intently?” he asked. “Just trying to see what's surely blooming beautifully,” I answered as we languidly moved on, the warmth of the evening suddenly affecting us, while the crescendo of a cicada chorus verified the temperature.
As we arrived at the Bruce house, now the Rivard home, I reviewed ' information about how wonderful it was that Wallace Bruce had not only spearheaded the excellent Chautauqua programs and the building of the auditorium, but had once served as U.S. consul to Scotland. Jokingly Sam sided, "I suppose he personally carried home that huge Celtic cross out at Magnolia Cemetery." Unwilling to poke fun at one of our town's heroes, ! replied, “I suspect he could've."
Coming upon my childhood home, which my mother's Alabama parents had built as a Florida retirement home, brought back a flood of recollections. "O.K., here's a new story of my early childhood. Are you eager to hear it?” “Of course, what else can I say?" he answered. "When I was three years old, I packed a small bag and left home in some pique. Grandpa Tatom caught up with me and said he'd go along. We stopped two houses away and picked up banana shrubs that had fallen from Mrs. Thorpe's bush. Grandpa tied the sweet-smelling blossoms in a corner of his handkerchief and handed them to me, ‘for the trip.’ I believe we walked only a little farther before I began to miss my mother. Grandpa noticed how sad I looked and suggested we go home. I ran all the way back to the arms of my mother, who was watching us from the front porch steps. "Do you think you actually recall this?" he asked. “I think I do,” I said, "because whenever I smell banana shrubs I see Grandpa's kind face, but maybe I just heard the story from others.”
Just before reaching the Methodist Church, Mr. Ben Morris called out a cheerful greeting from a rocking chair on the darkened front porch of his house, and added, "Young fellow, what have you heard from the Navy?" Sam answered, “Nothing yet, sir. We're on our way to check the evening mail. I expect to hear any day now."
In front of the Methodist Church, its warm vibrations always seemed to reach out and touch my heart. Without even being inside the church, I could envision the beautiful stained glass windows,, and my mother seated at the organ.
Next door, the porch light was on, as usual, at the turreted Victorian home of the Burrus Cawthons. Mr. Burrus was taking his regular automobile ride around the lake. “Does anyone know why Mr Burrus circles and circles y and evening?” I asked, “Maybe the man loves the lake more than anyone else in town,” he replied
At the L. & N. railroad station we crossed the tracks to the business section, closed except for the drug stores, on our way to the post office. ‘How about a coke?" he asked. "No, thank you, I'll fix some lemonade when we get to my house.”
Not finding the expected mail, we walked back to the Circle Drive past the Presbyterian Church with its happy and sad memories. I was quiet as I thought of the tragic love affair between a handsome pastor and the attractive church organist, both of whom were married. Now, both were gone. The pastor resigned and left De Funiak. The organist died, it was said, from humiliation and heartache a few years after their romance was discovered. Her own husband had left De Funiak never to return. This shocking tale was never discussed publicly, but over the years I had learned the story through whispered closed-door conversations. Grief, not the titillation of gossip was what the church family felt over the affair.
Between the church and my home was the open, always beautiful and soothing view of the lake and the grounds (called the lakeyard) which surrounded it. During the day the sunlight made the lake sparkle, and as the sun moved on its course it created varying patterns of shade and light with the pine trees, oaks and flowering shrubs. In early morning light the lake took on almost mystical qualities for me. On moonlit nights it remained pure magic, perhaps having powers of its own over human behavior.
I think we walked around the lake that summer of 1942 mostly to ease the tension of ever more intense feelings between us created by being together every evening. The walk around the lake also helped soothe the anxiety caused by the uncertainty of waiting for orders from the Navy.
Following graduation, Sam had been accepted for officer training sn the Navy, but without clear knowledge of where he'd be sent. Finally, the orders came: three months' officer training. Then we speculated he'd be sent overseas, very likely the South Pacific, where naval effort was concentrated, and battles were making continuous news.
At this time, the war to me was mostly the drama I saw on movie newsreels or read about in scanning newspaper headlines. It was unreal, beyond my comprehension. It mostly meant an aching sadness at the thought of our parting. Still, Sam did look especially handsome in his uniform. Not affected by these superficial trappings, he, being more mature, realized the dangers that lay ahead.
What neither of us could know was how long this duty would be. Or that the forthcoming experiences of our lives would change us despite declarations of enduring love.
War time separation of months growing into two years, however, created strains we couldn't handle. Misunderstandings occurring over so many miles became enlarged. New persons who came into our lives especially the attractive men in uniform I dated and carelessly described, and the cute girls he wrote about meeting at the several places he was stationed before shipping out caused a rift. Even before the war ended we had begun to drift apart, with our letters less and less frequent. Upon his return from overseas, we soon realized that in those long years of separation we had each been changing into persons different from those of college days. Still, realizing the end of what was once dear was not without melancholy moments.
By chance, we took another walk around the lake five summers after the first. The War was over and I'd heard he was finally home to stay. I, too, recently had come home, released from service in the American Red Cross where I'd worked in Army and Navy hospitals. Separately, we attended a high school graduation at the auditorium by the lake.
I suppose we were each hoping to reestablish links to our townspeople, to once again feel a part of our community. I know I needed to forget for awhile the men still in hospitals, the tragic hospitalized casualties of the Battle of the Bulge, the Bataan Death March and other horrible places of war. Their faces and their injuries, mental and physical, still haunted me. But the familiar graduation ceremony couldn't hold my attention. Neither, I guess, did it hold Sam's.
Almost simultaneously, we each left the auditorium, unexpectedly meeting outside. With a few words we acknowledged one another's leavetaking and intention to walk to our respective homes.
“Graduation ceremony hasn't changed much, has it?" I began.
“No,” he replied, “but it seemed longer tonight than I remembered.”
"It's awfully hot in the auditorium, so I'm going to walk on home."
“I'm walking too," he said.
Once again the summer night was soft, the scene tranquil, the lake beautiful with the dome lights of the auditorium and the moon reflected on it. The difference was the awkward silence between us as we began to walk.
I did make a feeble attempt at conversation.
"What are you going to do with your summer?"
"Just take it easy for a while,” he replied in a flat tone.
“Me, too. And I want to spend some time at the Gulf. There's no place like Grayton Beach.” Lest he should think I was referring to the happy times we'd shared there, I rushed ahead with, “What are your plans after vacation?"
‘I'm not sure yet. Business administration, somewhere, I guess. Will you return to teaching?” he asked.
“I suppose so, though I'd certainly like to earn more than $150 a month. Do you think salaries will improve?"
“In a paper I wrote at the University, I suggested that the same conditions of inflation followed by a depression could occur in post World War Il as after the first World War, but the prof emphatically said this would not happen. The government now has too many support systems in place for another depression to take place. But I don't know if teachers’ salaries will improve."
“I remember," I said, "hearing your name called for awards when your class graduated.”
“I know you played in the band," he said, "and weren't you a class representative to the student council one year?"
“Yes. Remember the party the principal and Mrs. Bailey gave for the student council? I think that's the only time we ever spoke."
Having run out of conversation for the moment, we noticed the full moon which made the night almost as bright as day. And we decided to walk around the lake.
The lake, a perfect circle one mile in circumference, is the center of the town's design. Actually, it was the reason the town had been founded. A walk around the lake was standard activity. However, most people walked during the day or early evening.
By the time we decided to walk there were few cars on the drive, which encircled the lake. We encountered no one on the walk. The town seemed asleep, except for the smooth sound of a Glenn Miller recording floating through someone's open window. Only the street lights on every other block provided sentinel company. The moonlight on the lake, the fragrance of magnolias and honeysuckle made the night magical. How could all this enchantment previously have escaped me? Walking hand in hand, this simple gesture of connection created a feeling of belonging I had never before experienced. Falling in love was blissful. A time when we and the world seemed perfect. When we got back to my house, I asked if he'd like a glass of lemonade.
“Sure " he said, “but it's getting kind of late." As we approached the house, we d noticed that only the lights in the living room remained on, indicating everyone had gone to bed.
“Sure " he said, “but it's getting kind of late." As we approached the house, we d noticed that only the lights in the living room remained on, indicating everyone had gone to bed.
"It won't take long to make," I assured him. "Why don't you sit on the porch? T'll be right back." The lemonade could have been champagne on that evening On the moonlit porch. It had the same effect.
From that night on through the school year and holidays, much of my thought centered on being with Sam and anticipation of the next time I'd see him. Our feelings must have been mutual for he made frequent weekend yisits to my school and the letters between us increased. On the day the sheet music of a current Sinatra hit, "This Love of Mine,” arrived from him, I walked oblivious to all about me from the post office to a piano practice room, where I played the song over and over and in school girl fashion dreamed over the lyrics.
When vacation came again in 1942, the first summer after the War began, we took the same walk around the lake many times. The sidewalks no longer level after years of root action by large oak trees; the houses, their histories and occupants; even the varying heights of curbs at street crossings were as familiar to us as the feel of one another's hands or the sound of our voices. But, each night there were some variations on our conversations depending upon the people we met or memories stirred by the homes.
As we began our walk, the first house next door to mine was that of Aunt Bern and Uncle Stuart Gillis. The front of their house was always brilliantly alive with light. If there were no radio broadcast of a major league baseball game, Aunt Bern and Uncle Stuart would be sitting on the terrace enjoying the early evening, reviewing the news of the day. We always received a warm greeting followed by a brief exchange with my beau on baseball scores and players.
Next to their house was the dimly lit home of a relative of Uncle Stuart's, Mr. Duncan Gillis. Uncle Stuart and Mr. Duncan had not spoken in over thirty years. When I asked Aunt Bern the cause of this "falling out," her reply was, "Don't worry about it, honey. I can't even recall the reason. The Gilises may be smart people, but some have a peculiar, stubborn streak." Then, for levity, she added, "Of course, our people, the Morrisons are perfect."
On the corner, the wide porches of the Wickersham house always brought back memories of the beautiful wedding reception of their daughter, Sadie. "Did I ever tell you about the souvenir each wedding guest received?” I asked. “No,” Sam obligingly replied. "What was it?” "A small, white satin box, which held a piece of wedding cake. For weeks, I slept with that pretty box under my pillow, but never dreamed of my future husband, as promised.” Sam hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you also believe in the tooth fairy and palm readers?"
From that night on through the school year and holidays, much of my thought centered on being with Sam and anticipation of the next time I'd see him. Our feelings must have been mutual for he made frequent weekend yisits to my school and the letters between us increased. On the day the sheet music of a current Sinatra hit, "This Love of Mine,” arrived from him, I walked oblivious to all about me from the post office to a piano practice room, where I played the song over and over and in school girl fashion dreamed over the lyrics.
When vacation came again in 1942, the first summer after the War began, we took the same walk around the lake many times. The sidewalks no longer level after years of root action by large oak trees; the houses, their histories and occupants; even the varying heights of curbs at street crossings were as familiar to us as the feel of one another's hands or the sound of our voices. But, each night there were some variations on our conversations depending upon the people we met or memories stirred by the homes.
As we began our walk, the first house next door to mine was that of Aunt Bern and Uncle Stuart Gillis. The front of their house was always brilliantly alive with light. If there were no radio broadcast of a major league baseball game, Aunt Bern and Uncle Stuart would be sitting on the terrace enjoying the early evening, reviewing the news of the day. We always received a warm greeting followed by a brief exchange with my beau on baseball scores and players.
Next to their house was the dimly lit home of a relative of Uncle Stuart's, Mr. Duncan Gillis. Uncle Stuart and Mr. Duncan had not spoken in over thirty years. When I asked Aunt Bern the cause of this "falling out," her reply was, "Don't worry about it, honey. I can't even recall the reason. The Gilises may be smart people, but some have a peculiar, stubborn streak." Then, for levity, she added, "Of course, our people, the Morrisons are perfect."
On the corner, the wide porches of the Wickersham house always brought back memories of the beautiful wedding reception of their daughter, Sadie. "Did I ever tell you about the souvenir each wedding guest received?” I asked. “No,” Sam obligingly replied. "What was it?” "A small, white satin box, which held a piece of wedding cake. For weeks, I slept with that pretty box under my pillow, but never dreamed of my future husband, as promised.” Sam hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you also believe in the tooth fairy and palm readers?"
We were now walking past the grand old Knox Gillis house. It was easy to imagine an earlier, more genteel era when people took time to read richly bound volumes in the walnut paneled library, and ladies glided down the staircase lightly touching the mahogany railing. “Wouldn't you love to live in that house?" I asked. "No," he said. "It is an attractive old place, but its too big and too much to take care of."
I rarely walked by the Gus Campbells’ house without remembering a summer of my childhood when I sat on the front porch with my Sunday School teacher, Cousin Kate, as she patiently labored to help me memorize the catechism. I had worried some over the first question and answer.
Q. “What is man's chief end?"
A. “Man's chief end is to glorify God."
Now, at age nineteen, I gave it a moment's silent thought, but was soon distracted. Sam knew the story of my summer of catechism study and guessed that my thoughts had turned to religious piety and the proprieties of our town. He teased, "I don't think anyone would object if I gave you a kiss right under that street lamp." "Mercy," I whispered, "perish the thought," and picked up the pace in case anyone had heard him.
The Elliotts’ stately home with wrought iron fence and a perfect garden always caused me to stare into the yard, even at night. “What are you looking at so intently?” he asked. “Just trying to see what's surely blooming beautifully,” I answered as we languidly moved on, the warmth of the evening suddenly affecting us, while the crescendo of a cicada chorus verified the temperature.
As we arrived at the Bruce house, now the Rivard home, I reviewed ' information about how wonderful it was that Wallace Bruce had not only spearheaded the excellent Chautauqua programs and the building of the auditorium, but had once served as U.S. consul to Scotland. Jokingly Sam sided, "I suppose he personally carried home that huge Celtic cross out at Magnolia Cemetery." Unwilling to poke fun at one of our town's heroes, ! replied, “I suspect he could've."
Coming upon my childhood home, which my mother's Alabama parents had built as a Florida retirement home, brought back a flood of recollections. "O.K., here's a new story of my early childhood. Are you eager to hear it?” “Of course, what else can I say?" he answered. "When I was three years old, I packed a small bag and left home in some pique. Grandpa Tatom caught up with me and said he'd go along. We stopped two houses away and picked up banana shrubs that had fallen from Mrs. Thorpe's bush. Grandpa tied the sweet-smelling blossoms in a corner of his handkerchief and handed them to me, ‘for the trip.’ I believe we walked only a little farther before I began to miss my mother. Grandpa noticed how sad I looked and suggested we go home. I ran all the way back to the arms of my mother, who was watching us from the front porch steps. "Do you think you actually recall this?" he asked. “I think I do,” I said, "because whenever I smell banana shrubs I see Grandpa's kind face, but maybe I just heard the story from others.”
Just before reaching the Methodist Church, Mr. Ben Morris called out a cheerful greeting from a rocking chair on the darkened front porch of his house, and added, "Young fellow, what have you heard from the Navy?" Sam answered, “Nothing yet, sir. We're on our way to check the evening mail. I expect to hear any day now."
In front of the Methodist Church, its warm vibrations always seemed to reach out and touch my heart. Without even being inside the church, I could envision the beautiful stained glass windows,, and my mother seated at the organ.
Next door, the porch light was on, as usual, at the turreted Victorian home of the Burrus Cawthons. Mr. Burrus was taking his regular automobile ride around the lake. “Does anyone know why Mr Burrus circles and circles y and evening?” I asked, “Maybe the man loves the lake more than anyone else in town,” he replied
As we reached the Walton Hotel, we ran into Dave and Peggy walking home from a movie. 'Any idea how much longer you'll be here, Dave, before leaving for basic training?" I asked. "Wish I did,” he replied. Army rushes its invitation but then leaves you dangling. Peggy and I_} didn’t finish the sentence. We waited a minute for him to continue b>f saying in unison, "Well, so long," and walked on towards town In a few moments we shared what each of us had heard, that Dave and Peggy were considering getting married. "But," I offered, “they are both so young. Peggy's still in high school, and Dave's just graduated.” "The War 1s changing a lot of lives,” Sam said quietly.
At the L. & N. railroad station we crossed the tracks to the business section, closed except for the drug stores, on our way to the post office. ‘How about a coke?" he asked. "No, thank you, I'll fix some lemonade when we get to my house.”
Not finding the expected mail, we walked back to the Circle Drive past the Presbyterian Church with its happy and sad memories. I was quiet as I thought of the tragic love affair between a handsome pastor and the attractive church organist, both of whom were married. Now, both were gone. The pastor resigned and left De Funiak. The organist died, it was said, from humiliation and heartache a few years after their romance was discovered. Her own husband had left De Funiak never to return. This shocking tale was never discussed publicly, but over the years I had learned the story through whispered closed-door conversations. Grief, not the titillation of gossip was what the church family felt over the affair.
Between the church and my home was the open, always beautiful and soothing view of the lake and the grounds (called the lakeyard) which surrounded it. During the day the sunlight made the lake sparkle, and as the sun moved on its course it created varying patterns of shade and light with the pine trees, oaks and flowering shrubs. In early morning light the lake took on almost mystical qualities for me. On moonlit nights it remained pure magic, perhaps having powers of its own over human behavior.
I think we walked around the lake that summer of 1942 mostly to ease the tension of ever more intense feelings between us created by being together every evening. The walk around the lake also helped soothe the anxiety caused by the uncertainty of waiting for orders from the Navy.
Following graduation, Sam had been accepted for officer training sn the Navy, but without clear knowledge of where he'd be sent. Finally, the orders came: three months' officer training. Then we speculated he'd be sent overseas, very likely the South Pacific, where naval effort was concentrated, and battles were making continuous news.
At this time, the war to me was mostly the drama I saw on movie newsreels or read about in scanning newspaper headlines. It was unreal, beyond my comprehension. It mostly meant an aching sadness at the thought of our parting. Still, Sam did look especially handsome in his uniform. Not affected by these superficial trappings, he, being more mature, realized the dangers that lay ahead.
What neither of us could know was how long this duty would be. Or that the forthcoming experiences of our lives would change us despite declarations of enduring love.
War time separation of months growing into two years, however, created strains we couldn't handle. Misunderstandings occurring over so many miles became enlarged. New persons who came into our lives especially the attractive men in uniform I dated and carelessly described, and the cute girls he wrote about meeting at the several places he was stationed before shipping out caused a rift. Even before the war ended we had begun to drift apart, with our letters less and less frequent. Upon his return from overseas, we soon realized that in those long years of separation we had each been changing into persons different from those of college days. Still, realizing the end of what was once dear was not without melancholy moments.
By chance, we took another walk around the lake five summers after the first. The War was over and I'd heard he was finally home to stay. I, too, recently had come home, released from service in the American Red Cross where I'd worked in Army and Navy hospitals. Separately, we attended a high school graduation at the auditorium by the lake.
I suppose we were each hoping to reestablish links to our townspeople, to once again feel a part of our community. I know I needed to forget for awhile the men still in hospitals, the tragic hospitalized casualties of the Battle of the Bulge, the Bataan Death March and other horrible places of war. Their faces and their injuries, mental and physical, still haunted me. But the familiar graduation ceremony couldn't hold my attention. Neither, I guess, did it hold Sam's.
Almost simultaneously, we each left the auditorium, unexpectedly meeting outside. With a few words we acknowledged one another's leavetaking and intention to walk to our respective homes.
“Graduation ceremony hasn't changed much, has it?" I began.
“No,” he replied, “but it seemed longer tonight than I remembered.”
"It's awfully hot in the auditorium, so I'm going to walk on home."
“I'm walking too," he said.
Once again the summer night was soft, the scene tranquil, the lake beautiful with the dome lights of the auditorium and the moon reflected on it. The difference was the awkward silence between us as we began to walk.
I did make a feeble attempt at conversation.
"What are you going to do with your summer?"
"Just take it easy for a while,” he replied in a flat tone.
“Me, too. And I want to spend some time at the Gulf. There's no place like Grayton Beach.” Lest he should think I was referring to the happy times we'd shared there, I rushed ahead with, “What are your plans after vacation?"
‘I'm not sure yet. Business administration, somewhere, I guess. Will you return to teaching?” he asked.
“I suppose so, though I'd certainly like to earn more than $150 a month. Do you think salaries will improve?"
“In a paper I wrote at the University, I suggested that the same conditions of inflation followed by a depression could occur in post World War Il as after the first World War, but the prof emphatically said this would not happen. The government now has too many support systems in place for another depression to take place. But I don't know if teachers’ salaries will improve."
That, I think, was the end of our stilted conversation.
From across the lake, music of the band's playing its final selection for the graduation ceremony filled the silence between us. Overhead, the moon momentarily went behind a cloud, casting even brighter but colder illumination when it reappeared.
When we reached my house, gentleman that he was, he escorted me up the path to the front door, the scene of tender partings in past years. I did not ask him in for a glass of lemonade, nor would he have accepted. Our relationship was now too strained. Besides, after what we had each experienced during the war years, a glass of lemonade seemed out of place.
"Be seein’ you," he said as he turned to leave.
"Thank you for walking me home,” I automatically replied.
As he walked away, and I slowly closed the door, I smiled a bit as I thought of that quaint lemonade custom now relegated to memory of a simpler time when romance flourished on magnolia-scented, moonlit walks around the lake.
From across the lake, music of the band's playing its final selection for the graduation ceremony filled the silence between us. Overhead, the moon momentarily went behind a cloud, casting even brighter but colder illumination when it reappeared.
When we reached my house, gentleman that he was, he escorted me up the path to the front door, the scene of tender partings in past years. I did not ask him in for a glass of lemonade, nor would he have accepted. Our relationship was now too strained. Besides, after what we had each experienced during the war years, a glass of lemonade seemed out of place.
"Be seein’ you," he said as he turned to leave.
"Thank you for walking me home,” I automatically replied.
As he walked away, and I slowly closed the door, I smiled a bit as I thought of that quaint lemonade custom now relegated to memory of a simpler time when romance flourished on magnolia-scented, moonlit walks around the lake.
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