The Love of My Life

A bit earlier in this treatise, my Uncle Dan came into the picture as a big-time gambler in Detroit and Reno. Well, as I was trying to decide who or what organization would benefit most from my recently acquired liberal arts knowledge, Uncle Dan suggested I see a friend of his who was doing quite well catering to folks who enjoyed betting on a horse now and then. What this friend needed was someone to bet on a horse at a race track to cover a heavy bet he was holding in his shop. Let’s say a rancher from Texas called in wanting to bet $5,000 on a horse to win. The guy booking the bet would “lay-off” $2500 by betting on the same horse at the track. That way, if the horse lost he would only gain half of the amount of the bet, namely $2500, but if the horse won, what he would have to pay the bettor would be cushioned by what his bet won at the track. It sounded exciting to me, the traveling and all, so I gave it a whirl and was sent off to my first post, Monmouth Park near Asbury Park in New Jersey. Money was wired to a friendly ticket-seller and whenever I would get a call to place a bet, I would approach his window and he would punch out whatever amount I requested. Some days, it required no action at all. Other days were busy; I was loving the excitement; and I was getting paid well, too. But the greatest and life-shaping benefit of all was to occur by accident.

Asbury Park was a major attraction along the Jersey shore, and because I was bedded down in Long Branch, I naturally had to make the jaunt over to Asbury to partake of all the resort activities. As a friend from the track and I were making the rounds one evening, we spotted two attractive girls having a drink while listening to music in the hotel lounge, so we proceeded to move in and attempt to ask if we could join them. I suppose because we were well-dressed and decent-looking chaps, they apparently decided we didn’t fit the predator category, so despite the hovering headwaiter who asked the girls if we were bothering them, we were allowed to make it a foursome. How we paired up I can’t remember, but I was drawn to the petite one with dark hair and a radiant smile. We introduced ourselves and in no time, were talking up a storm. The girls were from Bradford, Pennsylvania, booked into this hotel for a week’s stay, and almost deciding to cut it short and spend the week in New York City instead because of unhappiness with the accommodations. But that thought got sidetracked as we exchanged notes on who we were, where we were from, what we did, likes-and-dislikes, etc., and before we knew it, a most enjoyable night had passed and we were making plans for dinner the next night.

And so it went for a week: dining, dancing, swimming, and having fun being together. We talked a lot, laughed a lot, held hands, flirted, eventually kissed, and became sad as the week neared its end. Her name was Dorothy Ann Ventura and I had become captivated by this beautiful, charming, and vivacious girl who enkindled feelings that were new to me. I liked the way she looked, the way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way she felt in my arms when we danced, and the way her eyes expressed a warmth that lingered long after she was out of sight. Earlier attractions were nothing like this and I didn’t want it to end, yet here we were getting ready to say goodbye, not sure that we’d ever meet again. We’d had fun, promised to write, but miles were going to come between us and I wondered what would come of what had been a great week.

A day or two passed as I fretted about feeling lost while trying to fill the void her absence had created. Nothing worked until I finally decided a dozen roses would let her know I missed her and hoped to see her again. She wrote back thanking me for the flowers, saying how she’d enjoyed our time together, and that was about it. My flame was perhaps burning more brightly than hers, but I was not discouraged. Weeks went by during which phone calls and letters brought about exchanges of pleasantries, but nothing more. I finally decided I had to see her again so I wrote suggesting I drive up for a visit. To my extreme pleasure, she agreed, and I was on my way.

By this time I was back in my home town, St. Louis, so the drive to Pennsylvania was a major trip. I drove for 23 hours, only stopping for gas and coffee, anticipating the thrill of seeing her again. I was not disappointed. We had a ball just being together, meeting her family and friends, learning more of her home life. When I had gotten the green light for this visit, I had consulted a Marine buddy who was a gemologist, asking him to create a ring for me to carry along. I was that serious. On the last night before I was to leave for home, I made known my feelings and asked if she felt the same. Well, sort of, but this was so sudden; she needed more time; and let’s think about it for a while. So back into my pocket went the ring, and back home I went, feeling good but not elated. There was more work to be done.

It was that way for the next year or so as I continued my race-track exploits at Atlantic City, in Maryland and Florida, with letters and phone calls coming from wherever I was at the time. Buffalo, New York, was fairly close to where Dorothy Ann lived, so we met there once for a weekend. We booked separately at the Hilton, actually on different floors, because that’s the way we wanted it to be. Another time she came to St. Louis and I again drove to Bradford, with no commitments. That last time I drove home discouraged because it didn’t seem as though we were destined to be wed. However, in a few weeks a letter came: friends would be driving to Kansas City, Missouri, passing through Hannibal, Missouri, and if Dorothy Ann were along, could I, would I meet them there and provide her with comfort and lodging until they came through St. Louis on their way back? Yes, I could and I would, and besides, I had always admired Samuel Clemens as Mark Twain and had longed to visit his home town, so I readily agreed.

We had a glorious week together during which she asked to see that ring again and, after I had put it on the appropriate finger, said she would cherish it always as my wife. My dreams and desires had come true and I was as happy as any one person could be. Unfortunately, when her friends came back for the ride home, she left me again but with a totally wonderful feeling this time. She had an aura about her that left her close to me, and her womanly scent combined with the captivating lotion she wore kept her with me over the miles. It was to be that way for some time yet, actually until I made the last drive to Pennsylvania to be married.

Some time before all this came about, I had ended my affairs with race tracks and had gotten into a business venture selling gas. This had been one of my part-time jobs while I was in school, and it loomed as a lucrative affair enabling me to put a down payment on the house I decided to buy when we became engaged. This was in late 1951, and the price, by the way, was $11,750 for a three-bedroom house in a delightful subdivision, where we would spend our first years after marriage.

All the arrangements had to be conducted over the phone or by letter, with my bride-to-be getting stuck with most of the planning. However, I did buy that house so we’d have someplace to live, and while I didn’t have the nerve to do anything about furniture and stuff, I did make a big tulip garden in the back yard. And so it was that on May 24, 1952, Dorothy Ann Ventura and Daniel William Smith became as one in Holy Matrimony.

It rained so hard that morning I was wondering how we could get hold of Noah and his ark, but we hitched a ride on a cloud instead and stayed above the torrent. It was a beautiful wedding featuring Dorothy Ann, of course, enchanting in her bridal gown, and her bridesmaids elegant in a soft shade of blue. All that needs to be said about the guys is that they were there.

The reception was perfect with the usual toasts and cake-cutting and drinks for all. The Valley Hunt Club was the scene of the gathering, and it was a fortunate choice because in an indoor arena, horses were performing and the little ones were drawn there instead of  where the celebrating was going on. With no help from her long-distance friend, Dorothy Ann—whom I will begin referring to as DA—handled everything in stellar fashion with no problems. Well, almost none. The excessive rains flooded the photographer’s dark room and ruined many of the shots, but a few of the critical ones were saved.

Between the day we became engaged and the day we were married, many weeks had passed with nothing but phone calls and letters between us. And that’s the way it had been since we met back in 1949, a few days here and there, totaling about two months of actual time together in a three-year period. Now we were together for real, driving to Bedford Springs where we spent the first night of what was to be and still is a glorious relationship. But first, the honeymoon.

We drove to Miami where we boarded a Pan Am flight to Cuba. I don’t remember why we chose that island country as our destination, and when we got off the plane in Havana, we weren’t too sure that we’d made a wise choice. Guys with rifles were everywhere and they herded passengers into lines and kept us moving. Fidel was up in the hills at this time getting ready for his big push so nerves were on edge. Once we got to the Nacional Hotel, things looked better and we enjoyed Havana, particularly, some of the restaurants on side streets. A night at the Sans Souci, an extravagant club with an outdoor revue, was particularly pleasing. A bus ride took us to the Veradero Beach Resort Hotel on another part of the island where we were treated to Isle of Pines grapefruit, the meatiest and most succulent we’ve ever had. We spent the rest of our stay in Cuba at Veradero, having used up our limited Spanish vocabulary which included si, gracias, and muy poco.

The drive back to St. Louis was marred somewhat by a vehicle accident—which wasn’t our fault and was quickly remedied—and was made memorable by lunch at a truck stop somewhere in Alabama where the blueberry pie was the greatest. It was dark when we pulled up to our house, and the true mettle of the girl I had just married was about to be tested. I had bought the house, moved in a three-quarter bed, a desk, and some chairs, but that was about it. We had stopped at a store and picked up essentials in the way of food, and though a homelike atmosphere was totally missing, DA took it in stride, getting us up early the next morning heading for the nearest furniture store. Within days, our house became a home and I learned something else about this wonder woman: she had all the instincts of a designer. Soft colors and attractive yet functional pieces filled the rooms, creating a delightful ambience. Nor did her artistry stop there, for she immediately exhibited culinary skills to dream of. Being of Italian ancestry, she began to intrigue me with Mediterranean delights that brought my Irish-German palate to life. I had no idea of the many variations of pasta and what could be done with the different sizes and shapes. As a kid I had been served Franco-American spaghetti from a can, but now it was antipasto, spaghetti and meat balls, minestrone, spaghetti and clams, spaghetti with pesto sauce, pasta e fagioli, eggplant Parmesan, and the list goes on with American, French, Thai, Indian, Chinese, and Mexican dishes thrown in for variety. I had struck the mother lode in gastronomic delights.

Our two sons, Daniel and Mark, were born while we lived on Tutwiler, just a stone’s throw from Lambert Field, the airport that still serves St. Louis. We were happy there, had nice neighbors, threw great parties, played ping-pong in the basement, and bought our first television set, a used, black-and-white affair with a seventeen-inch screen. The rabbit ears or indoor antenna had to be adjusted frequently to get the best picture, but it was a welcome addition. A short in the wiring began to spark as we slept early one morning, awakening us and calling for emergency action. It was hot; there was no air conditioning; I was sleeping in the raw; but with the sight of smoke urging me on, I grabbed the TV, DA opened the door, and out onto the driveway I went. No shoes, no pants, no nothing, and thank goodness, no paparazzi. Such an event today would have been caught by someone and displayed internationally and I probably would have been charged with lack of appropriate attire while in public view. We did without TV for a bit.