Quick, what’s the most valuable thing you own, the thing that in case of fire you simply must get out of the house safely? If it’s the Waterford, skip this column. If it’s a photograph or your grandmother’s recipe for that one dish that has to be on the holiday table, keep reading.
My mom and dad met after World War II in the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad depot in Chicago. She was a stenographer and lost baggage tracer, he was a baggage clerk. He was a strapping former Marine who survived the battle of Saipan, she was a slim auburn-haired Italian girl. They both had lost their only brothers to the war. Daddy was an avid outdoorsman, Mom loved to read and loved the arts. But because she was a really smart girl, she knew the way to dad’s heart was through an ice fishing hole or duck blind. My mother’s photo albums, captions written in her hand in white ink on black paper with snapshots fastened to the pages by the corners, showed them by a fire in a pavilion while tobaggoning at a forest preserve, or at the end of a farm field hunting pheasant.
My father was smitten. They dated for about a year, and it was time for commitment. Now, the next part of the story can no longer be verified so you’ll just have to trust me. I have proof but not of the story that goes with it.
My mom died two months ago. Preceding her by 22 years was my dad. Amid the tears and glum throb of grief shared by my sister and brother was the task of cleaning out the only house I ever knew while growing up. The modest frame two-story contained the objects and memories of our lives. And because Mom was Mom, most of those objects had been there for the 55-plus years she had lived in the house. And in the corner of the basement, on a stand built by my dad, was the Evinrude motor. It was a silver and blue outboard of minimal horsepower that powered the wood and canvas Penn Yan rowboat over the glassy surfaces of Wisconsin lakes in search of crappie and bass. That motor had been out West and it had been up the rivers of Illinois. But for the last couple decades it had been attached to a stand that my dad made of spare lumber in the basement.
So what to do with an old outboard motor? Well, nothing, unless of course it had actually been your mom’s engagement ring. When it came time for dad to pop the question in 1948, my practical mother, who had been won over by the outdoor life, reasoned that she really didn’t need or want a diamond ring, and wouldn’t it be nice to get that outboard motor that they both would really enjoy? Dad bought the Evinrude. Maybe it didn’t make it down the aisle, but it sure skimmed many bodies of fresh water for the next 40 years.
Last month my brother and sister divided up the artifacts of our childhood and my mother’s belongings. A woman who preached frugality and sustainability, my mom really didn’t have all that much. She lived simply. Working our way through the house, garage and basement, we came to the motor perched on its stand in the corner of the basement on the cold cement floor. I spoke for it, and my siblings offered no resistance.
And here’s what I’ve done with it. There is a fellow here at the college who is a master carpenter. He can do nearly anything in terms of keeping the campus humming smoothly, but his real gift is creating masterpieces out of wood. So he has made a cabinet for the motor. It has glass on three sides and the top. He made a new stand, and the motor sits in there like a display at the Louvre.
Above the beautiful shrine for the motor is a photograph of my parents. They are walking down the aisle of the church, just married. Dad is looking at the photographer, double-breasted suit and his Marlboro man look pierced with a wide smile. Mom is resplendent in a dress she made herself, nifty late ’40s shoes, and a stunning hat, flowers in hand. She’s looking down but smiling, her hair falling down her shoulders and hand clasped in my father’s. It was June of 1949. Their honeymoon was a camping trip. I can’t prove this either, but I’ll bet that motor was on that journey to the Western states.
Now doesn’t that just beat the heck out of a diamond ring? Told you it was a love story. Such are the memories of good lives lead, good lives that created mine, for which I will always be grateful.
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