March 12, 1972
My mother used to tell me, “A son is a son till he takes a wife; but a daughter is a daughter all her life.”
Our children are all incredibly close, loved and loving, and we adore each one. And each one has enjoyed, or lovingly tolerated, a time as "Daddy's Baby."
In Columbus, Ohio forty years ago today Linda was in labor. My assigned task was not to take my eyes off the tape of a heart monitoring machine that was hooked up because this was a footling breech birth in slow process, and the delivering physician was concerned about the umbilical cord. He was in the adjoining room, and I was to get him instantly if the baby's heartbeat slowed, so he could do a caesarean. All turned out well though.
The tape is still around here in a box labeled “Cathy’s Heartbeat.” We named her Cathlyn Marie Lucile, and called her Cathy. But when she started talking she pronounced it “Tassy” and Tassy stuck. Tassy. Tass. Tassa. Tassy Marie. T-Marie. Tassaree. Our youngest. When she was born, her sister was thirteen and her brother eleven. Which made her Daddy's Baby for many long and happy years.
Some things about the birth day come to mind. The evening before, we were leaving our house to drive to a party at the home of a fellow military officer (an Army lieutenant colonel, I forget his name, what was it, Norm?), when Linda’s water broke. We went to the hospital instead. The weather was cold and some streets were icy that night, the car slipping and sliding all over the road. It was dicey.
After the baby was born I drove home and took Malinda and Joe out to a drive-in restaurant for supper. When we got ready to leave, a recurring problem occurred yet one more time again with the car, a Ford Thunderbird sedan with the suicide doors: it wouldn’t start. And wouldn’t start, and wouldn’t start. Abandoning the T-Bird at the drive-in for the night, we took a taxi home. My mother, age 59 at the time, flew up to Columbus the next day and instead of a luxury T-Bird, I met her at the airport with my trusty, reliable beat-up Volkswagen bug with her suitcases in the back seat because those VWs had little to zero trunk space under the front hood.
This morning has been a struggle of memories to keep this birthday celebration from turning into a car story, a losing struggle because the fingers have a mind of their own. Years earlier, in 1966, fresh from a Navy tour in Japan, we were stationed in Washington, DC, living in Annandale, Virginia. In nearby Fairfax, H. B. Lantzsch Volkswagen was advertising totally rebuilt VWs for $695. My car, love at first sight, was a light green 1959 VW bug, chosen while it was sitting up on a lift, wheels off, engine and transmission out, no seats, just a bare shell. It was ready a few days later, no dents, no rust, well worn body and interior, original, not repainted but completely rebuilt mechanics and four brand new recap WSW tires. We drove it (I drove it, Linda never drove it, it was stick-shift) from 1966 to 1974 with nary a problem, except for the rattling, banging driver side window, occasioned by a missing window gasket. The 1959 year model ...
... had the large rear window but still had the tiny taillights.
Some folks will remember the "fuel gauge," a foot lever that one kicked over to the right when the car ran out of gas.
The VW bug took us reliably from Washington, DC to Newport, Rhode Island to San Diego, California to Columbus, Ohio. The end of the Columbus tour, co-worker Wayne Haughey bought a new Chevy and had his perfect 1970 Olds Cutlass Supreme coupe for sale, which I bought for $1700 and sold the VW for a song and half a song.
The T-Bird was repaired and back in service in time to bring mother and newborn infant daughter home from hospital in luxury if never total reliability.
Happy birthday, Tass, you have delighted us with forty years of happiness, joy, pride, love and beautiful smiles!
Dad