Charlene and I got married that fall in the Riveredge Episcopal Church where her mother attends services. We went on our honeymoon in New Orleans, which is where everyone goes for a honeymoon, and Deke popped for the hotel room, which was very nice of him. For an owner, I mean. He also asked me to manage the Yanquis again and I told him yes. Everything was going along on an even keel.
He became an owner in December when the majors approved his purchase of the Yankees from George. And George? Well, what would you say if I told you he ended up as ambassador to Guatemala? Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. I wonder if he had to learn Spanish.
Now, in case you don’t know how the kids did in the World Series, well, that’s another whole story in itself and I’ll get around to telling it someday. Let’s just say that winning the American League pennant made them heroes in a couple of countries and Sid Cohen got someone to work up an instant book on them.
Every day with Charlene is a different parade, and that’s mostly what I got out of that strange year. I was so darned busy not wanting to miss anything that marched through my life that I missed everything else. You know that Charlene knows the names of all the lowers? And that she reads the Wall Street Journal every morning just like it was as interesting as a regular paper? And that after church on Sunday, we can talk ourselves into an afternoon nap, just sitting together on the couch and not watching anything on TV? There were a lot of things I never knew were parades of their own and just as interesting as the ones I had been watching all these years.
It goes to show you, don’t it?