Coffee, Tea or Me?

The story of my father meeting his second wife, Beverly, is told here in two parts: first through entries in my father’s journal at the time, which gives some insight into his state of mind in the days leading up to meeting and marrying her. The details differ between his journal entries, written only a week later, and his unfinished autobiography written 28 years later, but the basic facts are consistent. They met at around 10:30 pm on Friday, December 9, 1966 and were married less than 72 hours later.

Dec. 5, ’66 I guess I burn my bridges as fast as I erect them. Like Karen, for example. Just couldn’t take her lack of feeling. 28 years have hardened her too much. Frenchy can’t make the Gemini Ball, so I’ll not go. Back to “0” again. Still awaiting the return of the ticket from Diana—also be interested to see if she’ll reply. Mary Ann called last night—very warm and friendly for a change. Says she might come down with the boys in January. Might just be starting the new year off right. Still waiting to hear from Verena about word on her job. Two months since I heard from Suzanne & 1 week from tomorrow is the first anniversary of our engagement. So much for sentiment. Three weeks from now I’ll be in Washington—ugh! This job rat-race again. I still feel like an emotional zero—but getting out of here will surely help. Haven’t got much mail lately. 207 days left. (29½ wks)

Dec. 8, ’66 I often tell myself that I shouldn’t be alone like this—that I don’t deserve to be alone. I suppose I have had the opportunities—and muffed a good many of them. But people who love or have loved people should forgive & forget. Maybe that’s it—maybe I just haven’t been really loved. They—Gudrun, Suzanne, Mary Ann, Diana, Alicia, Carol, Nilla, etc.—all know I am alone—they’re not exactly overleaping themselves to get here. And here I am—29 more weeks! I drive at night—like to my class—or I lie awake at night—I feel as though there should be someone by my side. Where have all the young girls gone? I’m nearly 30 and my prime is passing. Not much, if anything to show. Some photos, some writings, some memories. We really live in the minds of others—even before we die. How many people think of me? Soon it will be a year since Susanne & I were engaged & soon a year since she left. Soon it will be 5 months since I was last alive. Yes, I have been dead for 5 months—five long months. But I shall be dead much longer. There are only three people who can bring me back to life—Gudrun, Susanne or Mary Ann.

Dec. 18 ’66 That was some sentence, that last sentence, “Someone new and fantastic.” Less than 24 hours after I wrote that I met Beverly. Bill came up to my place around 8:45 with a friend called Karl. We drank and talked until 10—then Bill left. Karl and I drank to 10:30 then went down to the 3rd Unit rec room where his room-mate was having a party for his fellow Philco workers. Bev was there with Karl’s room-mate. I only got to know where she lived. I agreed to drive her to her job at 4 p.m. the next day. I showed up at 11:00 a.m.—we talked, then she came over for lunch to my place—then I took her to the airport, where I was to pick her up again Sunday at 10:30 p.m.
                [On Sunday] I brought her back to my place & we never left each other’s sight until we were married 5 p.m. Monday!
                It is so nice to have someone to live for. Beverly will fill a big empty spot in my life. She has more class than Susanne, more beautiful & less screwed up than Gudrun. I am more than happy to trade in my past for a future with Beverly. I might even stay on at the NASA job!



For their first wedding anniversary my father gave Beverly a copy of the book Coffee, Tea or Me? inscribed above, which had just been published two months prior. Not the most thoughtful gift, but the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.

This would be the last entry my father would in his journal for 389 days. What follows is my father’s detailed version of his whirlwind romance with Beverly, which he wrote in his autobiography in late 1994.

                Life at the Villa Monterrey was picking up. Bill Hamilton, ever the ladies’ man, was quite a help. We shared a lot of information on the girls at the Villa. Indeed, we ‘created’ the Seven (Social) Dwarfs. It started with a girl who had distinct body odor—she was ‘Smelly’; then there was a thoroughly dense one—‘Dopey’ naturally; then there was one with a notoriously bad sleep-around reputation—she was ‘Easy.’ And on it went: ‘bashful,’ ‘rock,’ ‘bitchy,’ and ‘sloppy’. Bill and I actually took a pair of identical twins to a Villa costume party once.

                The first big event of the fall was the NASA Gemini Ball, that was to be held on Saturday, the 10th of December.

                Now there was this exceedingly sexy, sultry, attractive girl who worked at NASA and who lived at the Villa—Sharon Huvar. She was about 5'6", blonde, blue-eyed and got men all worked up just walking down the halls of the MSC. Men had wet dreams about her. I suppose, however, that most believed that she was beyond their reach. I got along with her, though I'd been warned that she had a middle-aged divorced Mom with whom she lived who was extremely jealous of her daughter and kept her under as tight a reign as possible. Well, be that as it may, I asked Sharon to accompany me to the Gemini Ball—and was surprised and delighted when she accepted! I think we had one date, a rather ordinary one, before the big night. Bill was amazed that I'd hooked Sharon for the Ball and gave me a few ‘nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ jabs. He thought that, if I performed properly, that Xmas would come early for me in 1966!

                A few days later (it being still two weeks before the Ball), Bill approached me with news of an upcoming Friday night [December 9] party in the 3rd Unit Rec Room—being thrown by a ‘buddy’ of his. He said the guy was also a GE contract worker at NASA; I would have no problem if I showed up. He was also anxious to inform me that a new “gorgeous” tenant had just moved into our unit: a tall, leggy blue-eyed blonde that I ‘would just kill for.’ He said that his buddy had also authorized him to invite her to the party; so I should definitely be there. It was the Friday night before the Gemini Ball.

                That was an interesting week: Sharon dropped by my office several times, usually with such marginally relevant questions as to what color and type of dress I thought she should wear. Only now, looking back with venerable hindsight, can I appreciate that the girl was definitely attracted to me (and probably her mother, a working class woman herself, thought a professor would make a good catch). I was proud of the fact that Bart and others would stick their heads out the door to watch Sharon's seductive fanny as she exited our hallowed halls.

                Friday night soon arrived and Bill and I, after a few drinks at my place (overlooking the 3rd Rec Room), decided that the party was getting full enough to warrant our attention at a closer scrutiny.

                As we wandered around the crowded place I was relieved to see that Sharon was not around, but curious as to this new beauty that Bill promised would be there. When I asked him, he pointed up to the mezzanine area and said that she was up there talking to our host. I bounded up the stairs to check out this babe.

                Bill was right, she was a beauty. But that twangy Southern drawl: it sounded like an audition for Scarlet O'Hara! Now, if I could just overlook that . . .

                But I succumbed nonetheless. I was delighted to hear that she was an airline stewardess (for Delta). She had just moved to Houston from Atlanta the previous Wednesday, so she was fresh meat. We made petty, pseudo-sophisticated small talk for about half an hour and then, in my usual, now-legendary, manner, I asked her if she would become my mistress. I must say this, she took it right in stride, not battering one little Scarlet eyelash: “Sonny boy, why you just couldn't afford me!” Two things I did not know at the time: (1) that within 60 hours she would be my wife, and (2) that she would be totally correct in her warning! I was not discouraged, but pressed her for a date for the following night—then I remembered the Gemini Ball. But, she said, she had to work this weekend, so . . . I quickly asked her when she was returning. She said on Sunday. I asked her when on Sunday (I clearly was not to be dissuaded). She said she wouldn't get back until just after Midnight. I offered to pick her up at the Airport. She said that wouldn’t be necessary, then looked as if she was going to turn away and enjoy the rest of that evening. My mind was churning, it had to claim some psycho-emotional beachhead. Sharon and the Gemini Ball were the furthest things from my mind! Then she turned back to me.

                “Peter, there is one small favor you could do for me, if you don't mind . . .” I was overjoyed—she had remembered my name, at least!

                “Anything, sweetheart. What is it?”

                “Well, my car hasn’t arrived yet and I could use a lift over to the airport tomorrow.”

                “What time?”

                “I have to be there by 1:15.”

                “No problem.” I paused. “But there is one condition . . .”

                “What's that?”

                “That you have lunch with me beforehand.” She looked a trifle put-out.

                “Well, I usually sleep late and then just grab a cup of coffee—cause I can always eat on the plane.” I was not to be deterred.

                “Look, I'll be over at noon, we'll take it from there.” She thought about it for one fateful moment, then decided in the affirmative.

                Her apartment was only down the stairs and about 10 yards away. I rang her bell precisely at noon.

                A voice on the other side of the door said that she couldn’t open the door because she didn't have any clothes on. She said she would unlock it and I could come in, but I was to wait about half-a-minute to give her time to get back to her room to put on her robe. I agreed, then heard the door latch unfasten.

                I waited a full 5 seconds before I tried the door. I wanted to see the goods, but all I caught was a glimpse of a pair of tender succulent bums turning into a doorway down the hall. When she came back out in her robe, she showed me her kitchen area and said I was welcome to make us whatever with whatever I found available there. I made a small cheese omelet which we downed with some white wine.

                As we walked to my car I asked her what time she returned. She said that the plane got in a little after midnight and she would be out about 15 minutes later. I said that the night would still be young and that I‘d pick her up where I was dropping her . . . about 12:20 a.m. She started to protest but I guess she realized that I would hardly take no for an answer, so reluctantly agreed. I was so delighted that I didn't give a moment's thought to Sharon or the Gemini Ball that same evening. I only remembered that I was picking Sharon up at 7:30. Hopefully, not expecting any amatory success with Sharon, 11:30 would not be too early to call it quits at the ball.

                Sharon looked lovely when I came to fetch her, and her mother was quite enthusiastic about the whole thing. I knew precious few people who would be there (Bart & Sally Hacker were not going), so was not all that enthused about the whole thing. Further, I was feeling guilty knowing in advance that I had to make an early evening of it, particularly as how eager Sharon had been. So off we went.

                The ball didn't amount to all that much—especially to relatively new people like me, who had neither participated to any real extent in the project and who had friends at the Ball. At about 10:15 p.m. the tension became too much and I just had to get out of there. It was, I thought, going to be difficult to leave so early; Sharon had been at NASA for a few years and knew quite a few people at the Ball. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—Sharon misinterpreted my urging that we make an early getaway. She thought I was so hot for her that I couldn't wait to get her back to my place.

                We got back to Villa Monterey just before 11 p.m. Because I was thinking in terms of taking Sharon back to her apartment, I took the turn on the path from the garage in that direction. Again, she saw this as an admirable lack of presumption on my part—and steered me back in the direction of my own place, reminding me that a gentleman always invited a lady for a cup of coffee after an evening's drinking, so why shouldn't I? Egads!, the less interested I was, the easier it became.

                When we got into my apartment Sharon made a lunge for me. Not only was it a hungry, intense kiss, but I felt one of her legs rise up as she rubbed me very obviously with her thigh! Well, as Confucius say, “a stiff prick knows no conscience” so, putting all thought of Beverly aside for the moment, I obliged Sharon in the large Naugahyde recliner that dominated my sitting room (why soil good sheets when they might soon be used again in such a short time?!) It was still just a little past eleven and I guess, in her mind, my performance rated an encore, so Sharon moved on top of me this time in the recliner and I was ready in a flash. Next thing I know, Sharon is urging me towards the bedroom. I sneak a furtive peek at my watch. It was almost 11:30 p.m., I had to walk Sharon home, clean up the place a bit, then drive over to pick up Beverly by 12:15 a.m. It was definitely time to give it a bit of a rest, besides, I got the first half of a hoped-for twofer, why screw it up now? Besides, if I listened to that voice of the little man inside of me and opted to linger with Sharon, there were still two additional considerations: first, I would have to bring Sharon home to her overbearing mother, second, going all the way plus lingering or steeping in it, would only connote a more serious, potentially marital-type, relationship. So, in this, one of my final moments of rationality for that year (read: decade), I took Sharon home, promising her that there would shortly be a re-match, but that right now I was past it, and needed to get my beauty sleep. Lord only knows what path my future would have taken had Sharon said to hell with her mother and insisted on sharing that night with me! But she didn't and, in a few minutes, I was in my car, heading towards the airport. I picked Beverly up at exactly 12:15 a.m.

                My psycho-traumatized memory will not allow me to recall the events of that night. Suffice it to say, the hour, the booze, the loneliness and poverty of my existence in Houston, job dissatisfaction, when coupled with the beauty, intelligence, and interest of this Southern beauty, led me to propose to this woman. We naturally tested the relationship in the sack and—surprise! surprise!—it worked! When dawn broke I roused Beverly, boinked her one more time (to make sure I'd contacted reality) and insisted on going into the Marriage Bureau in downtown Houston. I remember driving, top-down, in my TR-4A convertible, with my super-duper Blaupunkt radio blaring Happy Together by the Turtles, oblivious to the world and its responsibilities (it was, after all, a workday that Monday a.m.).

                At the Marriage Bureau I was informed that, while there was no waiting period and no blood test in the state of Texas, a Doctor’s certificate attesting to a negative Wasserman test was a requirement. Undaunted, I took us from City Hall directly to my friend [Dr.] Joe MacLemore's office.

                When we got to Joe’s office, his secretary had only just opened up the door. When I told her I was an old friend from Cambridge, England and it was an emergency, she let me straight in. I grabbed Joe and told him he had to do me a pre-marital blood certificate, stat! But Joe was not one to be pushed into anything that quickly. He urged me to slow down, catch my breath, send Beverly back to his office so he could meet her himself, then he might consider my request. Beverly duly went back to see Joe in his office, while I paced around the waiting room.

                When Joe came out of his office, having left Beverly sitting inside, I collared him.

                “Well? . . . How about it?” I looked questioningly at him.

                “Well, let's put it this way,” he said, looking quite seriously, “If she’s got a twin sister, I’d join you in a double ceremony!” So that was it, another nail in my bachelor’s coffin. Now, back to City Hall!

                City Hall was enjoying a slow day at its Marriage Bureau. We had forms to fill out. In the middle of it all, while the clerk was typing out the forms, I looked over at her and stammered “Are we really doing what I think we’re doing?” And she stammered back “I think so . . .” When the forms were ready, we had to ask what we did next. We were told that all we had to do was find someone to perform the ceremony. Then, as we looked quizzically at each other, the clerk informed us that any judge we could find in chambers on the 4th floor who was willing, could perform such a ceremony—unless, of course, we had a preference for a religious ceremony. We headed for the elevator, and the 4th floor

                Despite it being only 10:30 a.m. the judge we found was obviously intoxicated. But he was obliging. He started the usual ceremony, but about 1/3rd of the way through reading it, his eyes started to fail him and he handed over the little book to Beverly and I to read aloud to him, then cut us off just before the end and declared that we were married. He fell back into his chair and I tucked a $10 bill in his handkerchief pocket and, thanking him profusely, took Beverly and left. By 11 we were back in the car, heading south, married. It was December 12th, 1966; total elapsed time of knowing each other beforehand: 4+ hours. The marriage, with two children [Jennifer and Jessica], would last until October, 1977.