by Carolyn Tytler

Created on: July 10, 2008

It was 7:20 P.M. on a warm summer Sunday evening in 1955. Frances, Shirley and I stared at several stacks of greasy, gummy, gooey dinner dishes ready to be plunged into the sink full of soapy water. The band concert started at 8:30. We'd never finish this job, get dressed and out in time.

My friends' parents ran a small but elegant retirement home in the downtown area near the park. They expected the girls to do their share of the household duties, including the dinner dishes. Frances, Shirley and I had been friends since early childhood, so, on Sundays, I always showed up early at their house to help with the mountain of dishes. With luck, we would be free to leave the house a little earlier.

The band concert at Montebello Park was the social highlight of our week. We never missed a Sunday evening, but we seldom arrived on time. That was OK, because it didn't get dark until about 9:30 anyway. Anything romantic that might occur wouldn't happen until after dark. For seventeen and eighteen-year-old girls, as we were at that time, the possibility of romance was the main attraction of those summer evenings.

Of course, we also loved the mellow tones of the show tunes, the marches, and the polkas as the music drifted from the bandstand out through the soft evening air. We loved walking through the dark, fragrant rose garden, strolling across the grassy areas, past families on blankets and older folks in deck chairs. We'd sit for awhile at a picnic table under the trees, then emerge again into a lighted area, where street lights and the moon illuminated the audience of adults, children and teens.

We'd talk, and we'd giggle and watch the groups of young men, usually the same ones every week, as they walked around watching us. Shirley had one particular young friend with whom she'd sometimes pair off for a couple of circuits. Frances and I would trail behind, pretending not to notice.

One particular evening, Frances began to a conversation with a a teen she knew who was accompanied by a young sailor, at least he had on a military uniform. He could have just been a weekend cadet; neither of us would have known the difference. The sailor was introduced only as "Darky". He said he was staying at the Y.M.C.A. and would be shipping out the next day. Inevitably, Frances and her friend stopped to watch the moon, and were soon walking behind us, quite far behind.

"Shipping out!" How mature and potentially dangerous that sounded! This guy could be on his way to a war zone. He might

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