The year 1946 was historic for
Marjorie Vines and Dink NeSmith. Some of their memorable milestones were:
§
Post-World
War II romantic reunion
§
Married
on Feb. 3
§
Wedding
dance: Bing Crosby’s “I Truly Love You”
§
First
Valentine’s Day celebration together
§
Dec.
2, an early Christmas present
There
are so many stories that “live” within our family, long after the deaths of our
parents. Since Valentine’s Day is near, I’ll pick this one. And the best place
to start is at the beginning.
Side by side, the two families lived in Putney, south of Albany in southwest Georgia. Between them, there were nine children and one radio. No one complained about the lack of television, video games, computers or the internet. None of the children imagined such modern-day possibilities any more than a man walking on the moon.
That’s
why the blended band of Great Depression Era children were in the yard and up a
tree playing. The limbs were shaking with laughter until the youngest girl
dropped her doll. When its porcelain face shattered on the hard Dougherty dirt,
the curly-headed 6-year-old started to boo-hoo.
Scrambling
down, eight kids were pelted with drops of tears. All of the playmates vanished
except one. An 8-year-old boy helped his grieving neighbor to the ground. Patting
her shoulder, he said, “Please don’t cry. One day, I will get you a baby doll
even prettier than this one.”
Before
long, the train whistle blew, calling the boy’s father to another railroad job
on the other side of the state. Seven years slipped by. The little girl’s
father decided to take a trip to see their old neighbors, who then lived in
Jesup. With his wife and children—packed into their Packard—they were surprised
to see an older but familiar face greeting them on the Cherry Street curb. The
carhop was startled to see them, too.
When
the white-jacketed teenager attached the refreshment tray to the car, he
noticed the curly-headed girl wasn’t little anymore. Nor was she crying. She
was a beautiful young woman with sparkling blue eyes. And she was smiling.
The
chance encounter made an impression.
Another
five years rolled by, and a handsome Army private appeared in Panama City,
Florida, where his old Putney neighbors owned a beachside motel. Before he left
for the South Pacific, he had to say what he had been thinking to the girl who
once dropped her doll. He looked into her azure eyes and said, “I love you.”
The
private was the first to correspond from the Philippines, asking, “Why don’t
you write to a lonely soldier?” A handwritten romance flowed back and forth. By
the end of World War II, love letters filled shoe boxes in her parents’ home on
Ichauway Plantation, where Howell and Essie Vines operated the country store
for Robert W. Woodruff, president of the Coca-Cola Company.
As
1945 drew to a close, the young woman was washing dishes and looking out the
window when she saw someone kicking up Baker County dust in the lane leading to
the store. Closer and closer he came, until she could see it was a soldier.
By
the time the corporal got to the edge of the front porch, Margie sailed into
Dink’s eager arms. And that’s where she remained for 52 years. (Feb. 3 would
have been their 80th anniversary.)
On
Dec. 2, 1946—23 days before Christmas—there was a knock outside Room 321 in
Ritch-Leaphart Hospital on Cherry Street. The door swung open. The visitor was
holding a bundle in his arms.
“Margie,”
Dink said, “do you remember the time when you dropped your doll and cried? And
do you remember I promised you that one day I would get you an even prettier
baby doll? Well, here she is—our daughter, Sandy.”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
