Steve entertained us with stories about Mrs. Lemmon—who cooked at Holy Names College for the nuns and students during the school year and for Bing at his summer place every June, July, and August. She spoiled Steve and Jerry serving them the special food the nuns ate in the kitchen while the girls in the dining room ate regular.
After stopping the boat at a deserted dock, the guys tied up the boat, and we two couples parted on the shore.
It was May. Romantic . . .
Almost dark by the time we got back, Jerry let Steve and me off at the corner of Boone and Superior. We took the long way home. Through Mission Park.
I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Hadn’t an inkling. Not a hint.
With just three weeks since our first dance, our first date . . . With only a score or so of kisses—exciting but chaste . . . With me not-quite-nineteen and Steve just-turned-twenty-one . . . He asked, “Will you marry me?”
In shock, I didn’t answer immediately. Not “Yes.” Not “No.”
The next three weeks are a blur. I only I remember three things for sure from that time: It never rained; Steve and I spent every single spare minute together; I got an A+ on my term paper.
Then I said “Yes.”
After a whirlwind of changed plans, I got into the back seat of Steve’s friend Marty’s car and headed to Butte, Montana to meet the parents of my new fiancé.
My eyes were closed. I felt the circular motion of his finger on my palm, the pressure of his touch, the heat of his lips on mine.
I was floating in the backseat of a ’50 Studebaker. In ecstasy, I opened my eyes. Surfaced to hear him say, “There’s Butte,” as Marty drove down the hill and Highway 10 wound toward what has been called “The Richest Hill on Earth.”
As we approached the city that May evening in 1955, it felt as if we were on a space-ship ducking through the Northern Lights on our way to a rendezvous on Earth.
“You never told me Butte is beautiful,” I chastised him.
“I didn’t know,” he confided.
He kissed me quiet.
That night I slept in a house on Grand Avenue, in a double bed, crammed between my friend Colleen and her soon-to-be niece. I dreamed of wearing a white satin wedding dress, saying, “I do,” kissing Steve on the altar of St. Raphael’s Church in front of God and everyone.
The next morning he arrived in his parent’s car and drove me up the Hill.
Having lived on the prairie of eastern Montana for eighteen years, I thought I’d seen barren hills. I knew at that moment, I’d no idea what barren meant before. The Great Plains had not prepared me for the nothingness. As Steve gave me a guided tour through the once thriving metropolis, I saw what the locals apparently didn’t—Butte was dying.
I kept my discovery to myself. Steve seemed to love his hometown.
He drove up Arizona Street, turned slightly to the right on the Anaconda Road, and then took a quick left into what seemed to be a dirt field. An ancient log cabin, sod roof and all, stood on the left. He took a quick right and said, “Here we are.”
My intended—the epitome of the fifties Big Man on Campus, who’d just been elected Senior Class President of a prestigious university—had stopped in the middle of a slum and said, “We’re home.”
Right then and there, I thought, Wow! I’ve made the right choice. Steve’s come so far in twenty-one years—on his own. He’s a real keeper!
I was not prepared for Butte. The Flats were a lot like Glasgow, Montana where I grew up—old houses mixed up with a few built after WWII. Nothing fancy, just houses.
My guide to see The Richest Hill on Earth showed me the town. “There’s Meaderville over that way.” Steve waved toward the right. “We’ll have to go eat at Lydia’s. It’s a legend. My cousin George used to have a place down there too—the Savoy.”
Approaching downtown, we saw a couple of big holes between buildings. “Just another fire,” Steve said. “They call it urban renewal,” he laughed—a hollow laugh.
It seemed to me that every other sign advertised a bar. We parked the car and began walking. I was shocked to see drunks staggering from one watering hole to another—at 9 a.m.
Later, as we drove down Park headed out of downtown Butte, Steve said, “Gotta show you the West Side.”
The first site—and I italicize that because at that moment in my life it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen—was the mansion of Copper King Marcus Daly. With four two-story white columns holding up the third floor balcony, it reminded me of what Scarlet’s Tara must have looked like. (I’d never even seen the movie—just read Gone with the Wind.)
There were two others I’d categorize as mansions—one had belonged to a second Copper King, William Clark, and the third to his son Charles. But there were scores of stately two and three story homes on streets named Gold, Platinum, Silver, and Quartz.
Steve turned down Diamond Street and said, “There’s the house where my special girlfriend in high school lived—her dad was a lawyer for the ACM.” He explained that the ACM—Anaconda Copper Mining—owned every mine on the Butte Hill. “One way or another, the ACM owns this town and everyone in it.”
In awe I looked at my new fiancé and realized another facet of his life.
At dinner that night, Steve’s father said, “Ya show her the West Side?”
Steve nodded.
“Just so you know what Butte’s really like, that’s where the Rich Bitches live,” Steve’s father said, a sneer on his face.
I saw Steve cringe.
Over the years, I learned to treasure Butte, a city where I found no one is judged by where they live, but only how they live. I’ve often said—and Steve agrees—that I understand Butte better than most natives.
During the week I stayed in Butte, Steve kept me busy meeting relatives. His folks were welcoming. Cautiously.
The first thing his sister, Sis, said was, “Those sure are funny yellow shoes.” Then she asked, “When are you leaving?” Oh, oh, I thought.
But I immediately fell in love with Steve’s nine-year-old sister Dorothy Jean—or Dodo, her nickname. I bonded with Dodo as I watched her play dolls with two little friends, Marie and Mary Jo. The nine year age gap made no difference—she was my sister.
Steve introduced me to dozens of relatives (his father had eleven siblings, his mother three).
He took me to The Gardens where we rode the (mini-sized, thank goodness) roller coaster and had ice cream. Together, we dreamed about the old days when the Big Bands played dances at the pavilion. Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Billy May—Steve had danced to them all.
We went swimming at Gregson.
I wanted to see a mine, so he took me to the Kelley. What a disappointment! We rode an elevator down to a cavern paved in green concrete. Even then I dreamed about walking in mine tunnels dug by pickax or blown by dynamite.
But I’m getting ahead of my story.