I had just got out of the bath tub after a good hot bath and shampoo, when the telephone rant. It was the president of the “Young Business Girls Club,” desperately soliciting members to come to the Y.W.C.A. dance. It was 1941 and the National Guard had been federalized. Soldiers were bivouacked in and around El Dorado, a small town of 20,000 in southern Arkansas. The Young Business Girls Club thought it would help the lonely men, some very far from home, if we held a dance and invited only the officers, for there were too many soldiers to extend invitations to all.

The frantic call was made because many non-invited soldiers had crashed to party and there were not enough girls to dance with all of them. I had not planned to go. These soldiers were from New York, and my father, a strong, stern Scotsman, whose values for his daughter did not include dancing with “Yankee soldiers,” had already expressed his disapproval. I asked the president of the club to relay the details to my father and he reluctantly consented to my attendance. My hair was still damp, but off my father and I went to the “Y.” He drove me there and gave me fare to take a taxi home. Little did I dream this dance would change my life forever!

The dance was wall to wall with soldiers. As soon as I stepped inside, someone grabble me and off we went to the dance floor. One soldier cut in and said there was a soldier who wanted a proper introduction to me, so he danced me over to the side lines. It was so noisy I couldn’t quite make out the soldier’s name. I thought he said, “Pot.” What a name. I wouldn’t be caught dead with someone named “Pot.” I was, however, very impressed that he wanted a formal introduction.

As we danced, “Apple Blossom Time” was played, and when the lyric “And change your name to mine” was sung by none other than “Pot,” his arm tightened around my waist. A warm feeling came over me that this soldier was going to do just that!

At midnight the dance was over, and a mad scramble to the telephone ensued, causing a long line of girls, each eager to obtain her taxicab. It was finally my turn to dial for a taxicab, only to find out that none were available. I didn’t dare call home; my father worked long, hard hours, and he needed all the rest he could get. “Pot” was standing beside me, aware of my dilemma. I decided to walk home. It was not far, and in 1941 this was not an uncommon thing, and I thought nothing about it. “Pot” would not hear of my walking home alone, and I would not dare let him walk with me. My father’s last words as he let me out at the “Y” were, “Do NOT bring any Yankee soldier home.” “Pot” said he would walk a block behind me. I agreed, and this was the turning point of my life!

I enjoyed the walk home very much. I found out in the interim that his name was really Pat. He was such a gentleman and when he asked to see me again, I invited him to help my family the next day shell peas under the shade of a tree. He had never shelled peas before in New York City, and now under the scrutiny of my family he was putting forth his best effort to appear comfortable and relaxed.

My mother and father, my two sisters and brother fell in love with Pat. And I did too. While bivouacked, he would come see me, bringing along 4 or 5 of his buddies in an army jeep. Iced tea was the drink of the day, fried chicken (we raised them) was the main dish. Often my father would go out and wring a chicken’s neck, and mother would cook a gourmet meal for him. Pat would shine the wish bone and carry it back to his buddies.

His company was in and around El Dorado for six months. We saw each other every time he was close, and we become engaged to be married. The wedding was set for December 15, 1941. The “Day of Infamy,” the bombing of Pearl Harbor, happened on December 7. At that time Pat’s division was located in Anniston, Alabama. All leaves were cancelled. Our church wedding was only a week away—it was so confusing; I did not know what to do. Cancelling our plans was, to me, a devastating thought.

Pat called and said his commanding officer was letting him come to me and would mark him present; however, if he got caught, he would be A.W.O.L. As the time drew near for him to leave Anniston, the bus workers went on strike. He finally made it to El Dorado, just before the wedding.

Our wedding was set for 10:00 a.m. Just before we left for the church, the phone rang. It was his commanding officer from Anniston, commanding him to leave immediately. The division had orders to move.

We were late arriving at the church. We went through the wedding ceremony. For the reception we stood at the door of the church and greeted the guests on the way out. We drove back to my parent’s house, changed clothes and began driving toward Anniston. My brother, Bill, who was the best man, offered to help drive. We arrived the next day and as we were nearing Anniston, freight cars loaded with tanks, jeeps, etc. with the “69” on them were heading in the opposite direction. He regiment-the “Fighting 69th” was pulling out from Alabama. Pat was getting increasingly nervous by the minute. We drove to Pat’s company and there sat his buddies with Pat’s gear all loaded, ready to go. They gave a resounding cheer and hurried away. My husband, as of one day, was leaving to I did not know where!

In reflection: “How I knew It was True Love” When he tightened his arm around me during that first dance and he sang “Apple Blossom Time”—Perhaps, I did not realize it then, but after these many years, I know it now.