Chapter 8 - The Magical Summer

In May of 1948 I lured my former college roommate, Corky (Corrine), from Kansas City to California with the hope of a summer job in Yosemite Valley. Since early spring I had written numerous formal application letters to Curry Company, the U.S. Park Service and Degnan’s Restaurant, all in Yosemite, with no replies. Silly girl! Little did I realize that thousands of college kids wanted summer work in Yosemite. Those prospective employers were so swamped they had no need to answer letters.

Arriving home in Vallejo with Corky as my guest, we attended my brother John’s high school graduation a few nights later. Our parents’ graduation gift was the use of the only family car for a week-long camping trip to Yosemite with his best friend. “Oh, John,” I begged, “Please, can we go, too? We need to find jobs up there.

“No way! This is a guy trip. We want to have fun. Not with my sister along!”

“We could cook for you?”

“Nope! This is my graduation gift.”

“I’ll buy the gas. The groceries?”

Dad overheard and intervened. “John, we’re letting you have our car. Why don’t you let the girls ride along and buy the gas. But you, Pat and Corky, leave the boys alone. Better treat them to a good steak dinner, too.”

Thus we signed on as slaves to my brother and his friend—buying gas, groceries, cooking, washing the dishes, and cleaning up camp. However, we got lucky—the gods smiled. We applied at Degnan’s on the morning old Mrs. Degnan fired three waitresses. She was the grand dame of the place, known for choosing Christian help and expected high moral standards from them. The night before, the three waitresses had come in after curfew and were half drunk.

The following weekend was Memorial Day with overflow crowds expected. Mrs. Degnan was desperate. “Mmm,” she muttered, “You have very good references, but you’ve had no experience. Are you both 21? I need someone who can serve wine and beer.”

“Oh, I’ll be in a couple of weeks.” I gushed.

“And you, Miss Corrine?” She asked.

“Oh, dear, I’m only 20. My birthday’s next March. But I’m a good worker and I’ll try really hard.”

Mrs. D frowned, “Hm-m-mm.”

“Mrs. Degnan,” I interjected, “Corrine is my best friend. She’s never been out of the Midwest. I’ve raved and raved about our beautiful Sierra Nevadas. I talked her into coming home with me with the promise of summer jobs. It’s both of us or neither.”

Mrs. D. grimaced. “We-l-l-l, I need you for this coming weekend, but you’d better learn fast.” Her scowl said the rest—or else! She led us down a forested path in back of the restaurant to the furthest tent cottage. There were two of these cottages for the waitresses, four to a cabin. The fellows bunked in another part of the woods. Three hours later we moved in, somewhat to brother John’s dismay. He had thoroughly enjoyed bossing around his big sister.

With the head waitress tutoring us, we concentrated on the ordering lingo, cramming as we had for many tests. Corky and I were so excited when we took orders for breakfasts the next morning our big smiles probably won over the diners and glossed over mistakes. The probation week turned into one more week—and that into another. Mrs. Degnan never did say that we were officially waitresses, but we lasted all summer.

It was hard work, partly because the restaurant had grown haphazardly. The layout was inefficient and crowded. One had to be careful going around corners not to bump into another waitress with a loaded tray. It could also be stressful, not only trying to please fussy patrons, but staying in favor with temperamental cooks—they could be prima donnas. One gave Corky a terrible time, and several times she threatened to go back home to K.C. A cook could make or break a waitress by holding up her orders. There was a modest paycheck twice a month with a deduction for room and board. However, the tips were the big payoff, earned by cheery demeanor and great service. Degnan’s waitresses worked a day shift, 7 AM to 3:30 PM one week, then the evening one, from 3:30 until 11 PM the following week, five—sometimes six days a week.

In those days Degnan’s Restaurant was in the “Old Village,” just east of the picturesque little white chapel. Across the road was the Curry Company’s general store with a fast food snack bar in front, commonly referred to as the “Greasy Spoon.” Sometime during the 1950s these two enterprises were moved to the Government Center and their new buildings were greatly enlarged. The forest and other native flora soon erased all traces of the former “Old Village.”

Corky and I usually worked the same shifts, and if we worked the evening shift, we had much of the day to sunbathe or swim in the near-freezing Merced River. That was after we washed, starched, and ironed our uniforms and aprons. Mrs. Degnan insisted on immaculate uniforms. That took a lot of time—long before “wash and wear” erased most of that drudgery. If we had the day shift, there were dances almost every night, a movie theater—with one old movie, or a ranger’s campfire program. I was an explorer and a hiker. Corky was not. And especially not after I lured Corky up the steep “Four Mile Trail” to Glacier Point on one of our days off. That proved too much for both of us. We bribed a ride back down 30 miles by road with a nice couple we met at the top and treated them to dinner at Degnan’s with all the trimmings. We worked hard, played hard, and made the most of all that Yosemite offered.

Years later, the old dance hall, which most of the college-age employees frequented, burned down as did the movie theater. However, the dance hall held great memories for me. Corky was cute and had a bubbly personality, so she danced almost every dance. On the other hand, I was tall and skinny with my long, blonde hair, probably my greatest asset, and I was shy around fellows.

One evening, a young man looked across the room, turned to his friend, Alfred, and pointed to me, “Hey, I dare you to dance with that tall gal who just sits over there.” Al did ask me to dance and won that $2 bet. I coyly introduced myself as Pia (which I guess sounds Italian). He shyly apologized for a not being a very good dancer. I discovered he also liked the outdoor life and hiking, had been in the Air Force during World War II, and attended U.C., Berkeley on the G.I. Bill. He worked on the government road crew that summer. And he liked Italian girls. I only smiled—I didn’t have a drop of Italian blood in me. We danced the next dance and the next. As Corky and I left to beat our 11 PM curfew, Al asked me, “Will you be here tomorrow night?” I was very attracted to this tall, handsome fellow with the wavy black hair, and of course, I showed up the next night. That night he apologized for his rumpled shirt, and confessed that he had a lot of trouble learning to iron his dress shirts. The fellows wore shirts and ties and the girls wore dresses to these dances. Ii smiled and baited my hook, “Would you like me to iron them for you? I do a pretty good job.” I had to work evenings for the next week, and this way I’d see him again if he brought his shirts and picked them up.

Al’s eyes lit up, “Hey, would you really do that for me?” .

Of course, I would! A few nights later a guy who looked a lot like Al—that dance hall was dimly lit - came into Degnan’s late in the evening. He sat at one of my tables. “Hello there,” he greeted me warmly. “I hope you have a piece of Mrs. Degnan’s great berry pie left. And à la mode, please.”

Serving the pie I wondered. He’s so friendly. Same height, football build, black wavy hair. It has to be Al. I asked, “Did you bring your shirts?”

He wrinkled his brow, “Shirts? What shirts?”

My cheeks flushed. I stammered, “I thought you were a guy named Al.”

“Nope, I’m Joe from the Greasy Spoon across the street. I don’t carry shirts, but I can sell you a great ice cream cone.”

Embarrassed, I avoided him most of the summer and always sent Corky to buy our ice cream cones. Al did come in later that week with his shirts. When he picked them up, I treated him to his favorite—apple pie à la mode. The following week, we became better acquainted as we met two or three times at the dances. On Friday night, he asked, “Do you really like to hike? I’ve always wanted to climb up Yosemite Falls. Do you have Sunday off? Want to go with me?”

I frowned, “You can climb Yosemite Falls? From the Valley floor?” “Yeah. It’s a lot of steep switch-backs off over to the west side. You’ll need hiking boots or good sturdy shoes.”

“I’d love to go. Will these do?” I pointed to my work shoes. “They’re all I have.”

Thus, we went on our first official date, huffing and panting to the top of Yosemite Falls. To cool off, we swam in a pool back from the falls. Before leaving, we took pictures of each other standing beside the precipice where the water plummeted down 2,000 feet before crashing on rocks far below. Even those pictures would give any park ranger apoplexy. Today, there are probably chain link fences fifty feet back from the falls.

Thus began a magical and romantic summer. That is how I met your father, and that first date lasted forty-nine years until he died in 1997.