There have been moments in my life when I was truly frightened.  In 1957, we moved to Camp Pendleton, California.  We were living paycheck to paycheck--and not doing it very well.  My old record books have every entry for every dime we spent for two years:  25 cents--toothpaste.  15 cents--shoe polish.  Every necessity that we bought was entered in the book.  Down to the last penny.

Before we were married, Ken had bought a 1955 Jaguar XK--something or other.  New.  Robin egg blue.  Two seat convertible.  Of course we couldn't afford it.  So a year later,  he sold it and bought an old, old piece of junk.  (The price a young bachelor pays for getting married?)  It ran.  That's about all.

For a year and a half, I had saved pennies.  I wanted a picture for our bare walls.  So we drove to San Diego.  Ken, me and our new daughter.  After two years I was going to buy something we didn't really need.  It was a first.  I was excited.

He let me out at the top of a hill in front of a department store, and said he would drive around the block and be back in a few minutes.  I bought the picture--Van Gogh's "Sunflowers"--and went back out on the street to wait.  But Ken didn't come back.  There I was, standing on the corner, in a strange city.  I didn't know a single person in California.  No money, no friends, no family.  And every few minutes some sailor would try to pick me up.  I just kept standing there.  Waiting.  In a panic.  I didn't know what to do, so I began to cry.  I was scared. Things were different back then.  No cell phones

I waited for three hours before he finally showed up--driving a strange car.  Come to find out, the clunker had given up the ghost after he let me out, and Ken had rolled it down the the hill for a mile or so, and turned into a used car lot.  He called my dad, asked him to find a bank that would give him a loan, and wire the money.  Which my dad did.  Ken bought a car, transferred the baby, and came back to get me three hours late.  "Hop in," he said.  Calm.  Like this happened every day.  Marines.  God love them. 

I never see a picture of Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" that doesn't remind me of that day.