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It was one of those moments when a middle-aged son finds
himself in awe of what he has just heard his 89-year-old mother say.
She was sharing something very special with me during one of our many monthly
long distance phone calls.
Mom took me back to1947.
She had often recounted the story of how Dad and she met.
I enjoyed every retelling of this wonderful event in her life for two reasons.
First of all, she loved to tell it and, secondly, it was the stuff of dreams
befitting at least a romance novel, if not a movie.
However, she was about to remind me of a little event
that, although having no significance to me, was one that went to the very
soul of all the good that they had experienced together before his untimely
death in
1962.
Before sharing her accounting of the event, I must tell
you some of the background of what was a very special romance. It
goes something like this...
It was the mid-1940s. Bernice had been abandoned
with her two small children in the rough 'n tough mining town of Butte,
Montana. Having been born in Minnesota, raised in Detroit, Michigan, survived
the Depression of the 1930's, and lived through the events of World War
II, a series of events led to her finding herself in a very strange and
new place. Her first husband had become an alcoholic and a gambler.
Having won an extermination business in a poker game in Denver and then
losing it a few years later, they lost everything. He decided to
head to California to build a new life for them. In the meantime,
he left her and their two children with his sister and her husband.
Not too many months later, she received a note from him that he would not
be returning nor would he be sending for her. She had been abandoned.
A few more months passed by. Having out-stayed
her welcome, her soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law helped her find a small apartment
and even paid the first month's rent. Unable to find employment,
she soon found herself destitute, broke, and having no idea from where
the next meal would come.
Every time she told this part of the story, my eyes would
water up when she mentioned how that it was she had only one Hershey chocolate
candy bar left after what little food she had was gone. She split
it between her two children knowing that there was no more money, no more
food, and no more time to avoid the stipulations of the eviction notice
from her apartment. A mother's love always considers the children
before herself.
These were the days before governmental funds were available
to women in similar circumstances. No child support was forthcoming
from her husband. Jobs for women of that time who were not trained
nurses, secretaries, or teachers were rare. She had run out of places
to seek employment. She had run out of options. In desperation,
she considered one last possibility. Desperation finds hope in places
others would never consider to look.
Since Butte's entire economy was bolstered up by the mining
industry, she reasoned that miner's union might have some funds available
for women in need. She took the children with her and walked the
two miles or so to the uptown commercial area. The Miner's Union
Hall and headquarters was her destination with only a hope and a prayer
to guide her. It would also prove to be her destiny.
The receptionist insisted that she would not be able to
receive any assistance from the union since she was not the wife of a miner.
However, while she was making her case, she kept noticing what was a full
head of wavy brown hair floating across the top of an office divider. We
call them cubicles these days. It seems that the man who belonged to the
hair was listening to her as she told her story and was deciding wether
or not to intervene.
Bill Mason was the president of the union. He came
to America as an immigrant from Croatia when he was but ten years of age.
Two years later, he dropped out of school and became a miner when his father
abandoned his mother and her two children. He eventually became a
union steward and worked his way up to the position of editor of their
newspaper, an officer of the union, and eventually it's president.
Mom told me that it was a case of love at first sight.
As he stepped out of office, she immediately sensed his warmth and gentle
spirit. Bill asked her how long it had been since she and the two
little children had enjoyed a decent meal. It had been all of three
days. He invited her and the kids for lunch at a small restaurant
around the corner. Of course, she accepted and he immediately grabbed
his coat and took the three of them to get a sandwich and some soup.
She couldn't take her eyes off of this manly but gentle soul. He
could not take his eyes off of her, either. Bill offered to pick
her and the kids up for dinner after work. Again, she accepted. |
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Mother would describe their courtship as a very sweet
one. Bill never took her out to eat but what the children were always
invited and included. They married in 1947. I was born in 1948.
Four years later, they purchased a new home in a sub-division on "The Flats"
(Butte is in a valley surrounded by the Rocky Mountains) and the woman
who once had no way to feed her hungry children became the wife of one
of the most important men in a city of some 60,000 people.
I have a copy of Life Magazine (April, 1954) which chronicles
a battle that took place for the leadership of the union between my father
and Murray Travis. Interestingly enough, his photo in the article
reveals a very greasy looking Mafia type of character. Believe it or not,
he even wore a black patch over one eye. In all due honesty, I have
no idea whether Travis had won the presidency of the union fairly and squarely.
All I know is that my father found himself defeated in the election by
the members of the union and eventually involved in an investigation which
ended up in Travis going to jail for extortion and embezzlement.
Dad helped put him away.
After losing his last bid for the union presidency, Bill
recuperated by opening up the Trieste Bar & Lounge. He, my mother,
and my brother did the bartending while trying to make the business work.
However, it failed a few years later and Dad ended up as a pipe fitter
for an electrical plant that was being constructed in Helena, Montana.
It was sad to see such a great man come to a place in
his life where he no longer felt needed nor enjoyed the status that was
once his. Yet, he did what he had to do. There was a mortgage,
bills to pay, and a family to support.
On a September 24th evening in 1962, he was the passenger
in a pick-up truck that rounded a corner, broadsided a large cow that had
gotten loose, was thrown through the windshield, and died a few hours later
in a Helena hospital. His younger brother tried to get my mother there
in time but Dad passed away just moments before their arrival. It was my
aunt who called me that night to let me know that my father was gone.
I was fourteen years of age.
It would be impossible to describe in any words the wonderful
intensity and love that my parents displayed to each other on a day to
day basis. Even though I was young, I realized that my father and
mother were very deeply in love with each other. In fact, it was
not uncommon to see my father sneak up behind my mother while she was washing
the dinner dishes in the sink, hold her close, and sway back and forth
with her while he sang "Ariova Dici Romana" to her. Like any couple,
they had their ups and downs. Nevertheless, if ever two people were
in love, it was them.
As for Dad, he was indeed a romantic. There were many ways in
which he displayed his love for her, Mother always took comfort when remembering
how it was that she would send him off to work and, from time to time,
find a single rose left on the bed for her to find.
One day he went off to work.
She never saw him again.
He died.
Mother was cut in half.
It was during one of my monthly phone calls to her that she
revealed something that I had not known.
As she described it, on the day of his funeral, the pall-bearers
carried his casket to the waiting vehicle. The funeral director had
taken all of the many flower arrangements that were contributed by family
and friends and placed them around his casket.
Only one flower was accidentally dropped on the sidewalk
in front of the waiting car.
Mom could be a bit mystical at times. However, when
she related that little event (one I did recall myself), I knew exactly
what she was thinking when she reminded me of it.
Still there it was....
Lying on the sidewalk.....
A single rose. |
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