How My Parents Met

That's grandma Doris on the right

 

If my grandfather were reborn today, I'm pretty sure he'd grow up to be a rapper. The photos are from the family album and the words here are my mom's and my grandpa Bill's

My Father wrote poems about everything and everybody. He wrote love poems to my Mother on every occasion. I just found this among some old papers and thought it was too cute to get tossed after I was gone. Mother told us this story several times and even years later she was still irritated. I could never see why. It happened in McGill Nevada in the early 20‘s.

From every tongue the question came

“Have you met THE NURSE?”

The more it was repeated --

My embarrassment grew worse. 

I saw her passing everyday--

McGill just had one street.

My pride was hurt. I made a pledge

The two of us must meet. 

Well, Labor Day was coming up.

The Elks would have a dance.

Again, my pledge to meet THE NURSE.

This was my hoped for chance! 

My pals gave me a ribbing

But what made matters worse

I said I would go dancing

And my date would be THE NURSE. 

They all screamed in chorus:

“YOU HAVEN’T MET HER YET!

Here’s five bucks says you’re crazy”

Well, I covered EVERY BET. 

At seven they were leaving

For they all had a date.

They made some nasty wisecracks

About the hour being late. 

I always like the challenge

To capture things beyond my reach.

With the help of a desert Cherry

I met the Utah peach. 

And as we walked into the dance

We had barely hit the door,

My pals paid off their five buck bets,

And then THE NURSE got sore! 

September 6 will always be

A most important date.

We revere the cherished memories

And we always celebrate. 

Some say it was all pure luck.

Still others call it Fate.

But I think my Guardian Angel

Really arranged that date. 

Thirty nine years have now gone by.

All happiness. Not a tinge of regrets.

Yet sometimes I feel sort of chintzy.

Making those five buck bets. 

I hope that I am forgiven

For I seek no wedding woe.

But frankly, Doris, I needed

Every dime of that doggone dough.

-Blog by Jean Clarice Walsh

-Poem by her father, William S. Bolger

 

And here are Doris and Bill at grandpa Bill's 65th birthday party...

 

Can't really tell if she's forgiven him yet...
Isn't that a knife in her hand?