Neil and Helen Taylor let us use their house in Waterboro Center, Maine for our two week honeymoon. Because of wartime restrictions we couldn't use a car, but we could take the train from New York to Maine and that is what we did. The house had to be seen to be believed. A 14-room home dating from before the Civil War, it had been kept in its original condition and used as a summer home. The library had wonderful old volumes; the panelling was a work of art with interesting patterns in the grain of the wood; the rope-springs on the beds were a reminder of Yankee ingenuity; the countless artifacts and treasures were all intact and fascinating. The plumbing was still primitive -- with a pump as the source of water in the kitchen and no indoor bathroom facilities. Cooking on a wood stove, we managed to have a pancake breakfast by three in the afternoon. I used to claim that the reason Bob thought I was such a good cook was that he was half-starved before he got to eat.

Marriage was easier for us than for most couples. We were both ready for it and grateful to have each other. We had each been working hard all year and it was good just to explore the landscape and each other. Whether reading in bed by candlelight, skinnydipping in the moonlight, or climbing the beautiful Maine hills we found peace and joy in being together.

It was fun to come back to Englewood and realize I didn't have to pull away from my family any more. I was part of a new family. We settled in quickly to the 4th floor apartment in McGiffert Hall, one of the two room apartments for married couples adjacent to Riverside Church.

Every morning I would set off to walk to my secretarial job at Teachers College while Bob went to his classes. He had acquired the part-time position of Director of Youth Activities at the Yonkers Methodist Church so we usually spent a part of our weekends going up there by subway. Dr. Wilson, the pastor of the church, seemed very stodgy and lazy to us. He wanted Bob to transform the youth program with very little to work with. It was a tall order, but thanks to Bob's skills in dramatics, he managed to give the kids some creative activities. The Wilsons' daughter was a juvenile delinquent who was disappointed when we didn't give her a lot of sympathy. One Sunday morning Dr. Wilson really chewed the congregation out--he told them he was going to be appointed to another church and he told them what rotten, selfish oafs they all were. We thought it was a sad joke on him when he got reappointed after all and had to start being nice again.

Union was exciting. It was the last year of Henry Sloane Coffin's tenure as President. We went to functions in his home and also the home of John R. Mott, though at the time we didn't realize that this grand era of Protestantism was slipping away.

Reinhold Niebuhr, Paul Tillich, John C. Bennett, and Dean Roberts were among the faculty who were most generous in inviting students and their wives to their homes. Harry Emerson Fosdick's wife was one (of a number of faculty wives) who invited the student wives for a social evening and discussion of "How to be a Good Minister's Wife." The advice was far different in 1943 than it would be in 1985. But in some respects it was the same. For instance, she said that we should not plan to have a big family, that one had plenty of responsibilities that would conflict. She also said that we should always remember that "it is your husband's church, and not yours -- so let him run it, and don't interfere." At the same time one should be interested in everything and seek a role that would be complementary.

The second semester I audited one of the classes that Bob was taking with Reinhold Hiebuhr, and I loved it. I particularly remember being in Tillich's home and thrilled by his obvious erudition in art as well as theology. Dr. Terrien met Bob and me on the street one day and referred to me as Bob's "blonde scholarship." I thought it showed something dear in Bob that he didn't make a big production of my being "the breadwinner", knowing that many years lay ahead for him to continue the role. We used to buy a CUE magazine and figure out what special play or movie we could see to celebrate our "monthiversaries", and so the days flew -- soon he had to write a Senior paper and prepare for ordination as a Presbyterian Minister. (This was a solemn affair conducted by William Merrill, author of "Rise up O Men of God" and other members of the Presbytery at the Brick Church in New York.)

How proud I was of my tall handsome husband. But best of all was the daily confirmation that he was essentially good, but very funny and human too. I remember my father saying, "Just plain goodness isn't very attractive..." I couldn't have stood being married to one of the pious self-righteous sort. At the same time Bob needed me. I think he needed my belief in him, for the deeper our relationship became, the more I realized his inner insecurities. He needed my encouragement and my sense of proportion too.

Bob had given me a leather bound diary as a wedding present -- I kept it faithfully that first year, and I notice how often it records "being tired". Actually, in those days combining a career and marriage included more domestic toil than women expect today. I had no vacuum cleaner, no automatic washer or dryer, and clothes must not only be hung up to dry, but most everything had to be ironed too. It was wartime and hard to get certain items. I thought it was an unnecessary chore to have to color margarine, but butter was not only expensive but rationed. So was meat and sugar. There were other scarcities too.

One day as I was hurrying home to get lunch, I noticed a small crowd of people in the middle of the street. A vegetable truck had spilled part of its contents, and cabbages, carrots and onions were rolling into the gutter. I gathered as much as I could and felt elated at the windfall.

But life was easy for us compared to the upheaval in so many lives. John and Sally were expecting, with all the pain of separation and no prospects for the future. My brother Dick faced going into the Navy upon graduation from Swarthmore. So many of our friends were in the service, and even though the tide of battle was turning, there were many tragic events ahead. We were terribly conscious of the privilege of being in a Seminary and needing to make some gift the the world. Idealistic? Unrealistic? Oh course. Who feels when they reach my age that they have been "God's gift to the world"? But I'm still glad to talk to young fresh idealistic young people. I think young people should be idealistic. What else is there to be? One never knows the real accomplishments of one's life anyway, so why not bet on the positive side.

Bobby and Buzz came to Bob's graduation from Union, and then we planned to spend a few days with them before starting on our journey to California where I would meet Bob's family. However at 2 a.m. on the morning of June 17 his mother telephoned from California to tell him that his father had died of a heart attack. At the time Bob was running a high temperature from a case of flu, and the shock of the news had an almost unreal quality. We were all the more anxious to get to California to be with his mother, and as soon as Bob was well enough we started out by train.

We had planned to make several visits along the way. First was Bob's brother Frank and family in "Oak Ridge". We had no idea when we visited this Tennessee community what Frank was doing or its significance. The immense security at the entrance to such a large development made us know it was something very big, but it was hard even to imagine. I remember the following year, when the atomic bomb was dropped, Bob looked at the headline and said, "That must have been what Frank was working on." What I remember most about Oak Ridge was what seemed like miles and miles of new homes and installations nobody talked about. Betty welcomed us, and Roger and Mary Jane seemed like adorable children. I was impressed with Frank's inventive streak in having converted the hot and cold faucets into one stream by simply swivelling them around -- so obvious after one saw it done, but the average person wouldn't even think of it.

When it was time to be on our way, Betty wakened us at 4 a.m., and Frank drove us to Knoxville where we entrained for Little Rock, Arkansas to see my sister Molly who was head of the U.S.O. there. Wartime trains were crowded and uncertain. We travelled standing up all night, but finally found a seat in a Jim Crow car. For a part of the trip we had a heavy set companion who had a skinful and waved the nearly empty whisky bottle ominously.

The train was so slow from Chattanooga to Memphis that we missed our connection and had to tip the porter to wire Molly, and we paid an extra fare on the Missouri Pacific. Molly met us at 2 a.m. and we had a couple of days to share with her. We were impressed with her heavy schedule, the large dances she had to arrange, and the wide variety of people. We also managed a memorable holiday to Hot Springs. At last we took off for Tucson, Arizona where we would visit with the Wirts and Hoffmans and Betsy Hand Malloy. We were so dirty and our ankles were so swollen that we didn't feel very sociable at first. The Wirts and Hoffmans gave us advice and reassurance.

Soon it was time to get back on the train for California. We got as far as Los Angeles where we would stay with Gerry Newhall at her mother's home in Santa Ana, and Bob would be interviewed for the job of Associate in Charge of Youth and the imposing Presbyterian Church. All our prejudices about the artificiality of Southern California were confirmed when we attended a wedding in that church, and found it was staged a-la- Hollywood: they had bridesmaids coming down all three aisles at once, and more candles and flowers than had ever been seen before. The minister's clothes and home reflected the same emphasis on excess in material things. It wouldn't seem extravagant now, but this was wartime. We had travelled cross- country in incredibly poor conditions, and we just rejected such ostentation.

Our last visit was with Bob's Uncle Don and Aunt Georgia in Beverly Hills. Uncle Don was Chief Engineer of N.B.C., Hollywood. He and Aunt Georgia were very friendly and saw us off on the final leg of our journey. We were ready for a new chapter of our lives.