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Abstract

nd academic achievements. However, they never met.The eye contact was enough to motivate my father, the Ag Engineer, to cross the room and make an awkward and somewhat calamitous introduction to my mother.You see, the School of Engineering didn’t offer classes in social etiquette, and my father’s tiny hometown (population less than 100) barely had enough students to field a basketball team, let alone organize school dances and other social activities.On the other hand, my mother came from a much larger Iowa town (population of 1,000), and she and her sister had recently appeared in the centerfold of LOOK magazine.Contrary to what you might expect from a centerfold photo, this was a family-oriented publication. The photo was taken at the Iowa State Fair with their Grand Champion Angus steer.At Iowa State College, especially with the Ag Engineering students, a Grand Champion steer flanked by two beautiful women was the pinnacle of popularity. That centerfold appeared on many dorm room walls, as much to show off the Grand Champion steer as to admire the two women.In any event, both recent graduates were leaving the next day to start their new careers. My mother was headed to Cleveland to test and plan the Stouffer restaurant chain’s menus.My father was headed to Clarion, Iowa, to design high clearance crop sprayers for Hagie Manufacturing.<p id

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="a348">Due to their post-graduation travel plans, a sense of urgency hung over the couple. They wanted to clean up the rather sloppy first impression and create a pledge to keep in touch.In 1945 Clarion, Iowa, and Cleveland, Ohio might as well have been in different solar systems.After my mother’s social graces repaired my father’s bumbling introduction, they pledged to write to each other. They rationalized that a 3-cent postage stamp offered a reasonable return on investment in a new, hastily-formed relationship.And write they did; every day for more than 30 months (912 days or 54.72 USD in postage for your engineering and math majors).By the Spring of 1947, my father acquired a few new social skills, secured several patents for Hagie, and summoned the courage to buy a train ticket to Cleveland to propose marriage.Their marriage lasted 72 years until my father passed away.During our weekly video chat, I asked my 98-year-old mother whatever happened to all those letters. Her comment?<blockquote id="7e79">You’re still not old enough to read them!</blockquote>I can only imagine the courtship chronicles penned by two small-town Iowans separated by Illinois and Indiana for more than two years before embarking on 72 years of smiles, memories, and dealing with . . . me!© 2022 SamBuca Partners, Inc.</article></body>

Would You Invest 54.72 USD in a 72-Year Marriage?

The lettered courtship of two small-town Iowans.

The Author’s Parents' Wedding — September 1947

The early 1940s were the embodiment of dichotomies.

The European theater of WWII was winding down, yet the Battle of Okinawa had just begun.

Allied troops liberated their first Nazi concentration camp soon before President Franklin D Roosevelt unexpectedly died.

Hope and optimism competed with mourning and despair.

War and college were also staring down a chasm.

Returning war veterans began taking advantage of the GI Bill of Rights and enrolled in colleges in record numbers. Most celebrated the veterans’ return, while the new first-year class consisted of 18-year-olds, fresh out of high school paired with 24-year-olds, newly returned from the horrors of war-torn Europe.

During a May 1945 graduation social mixer, two Iowa State College graduates, one with a degree in Institutional Management and the other in Agriculture Engineering, made eye contact across the crowded room. Only the punch bowl and about 100 guests blocked their view of one another.

Both recognized each other for their campus activities and academic achievements. However, they never met.

The eye contact was enough to motivate my father, the Ag Engineer, to cross the room and make an awkward and somewhat calamitous introduction to my mother.

You see, the School of Engineering didn’t offer classes in social etiquette, and my father’s tiny hometown (population less than 100) barely had enough students to field a basketball team, let alone organize school dances and other social activities.

On the other hand, my mother came from a much larger Iowa town (population of 1,000), and she and her sister had recently appeared in the centerfold of LOOK magazine.

Contrary to what you might expect from a centerfold photo, this was a family-oriented publication. The photo was taken at the Iowa State Fair with their Grand Champion Angus steer.

At Iowa State College, especially with the Ag Engineering students, a Grand Champion steer flanked by two beautiful women was the pinnacle of popularity. That centerfold appeared on many dorm room walls, as much to show off the Grand Champion steer as to admire the two women.

In any event, both recent graduates were leaving the next day to start their new careers. My mother was headed to Cleveland to test and plan the Stouffer restaurant chain’s menus.

My father was headed to Clarion, Iowa, to design high clearance crop sprayers for Hagie Manufacturing.

Due to their post-graduation travel plans, a sense of urgency hung over the couple. They wanted to clean up the rather sloppy first impression and create a pledge to keep in touch.

In 1945 Clarion, Iowa, and Cleveland, Ohio might as well have been in different solar systems.

After my mother’s social graces repaired my father’s bumbling introduction, they pledged to write to each other. They rationalized that a 3-cent postage stamp offered a reasonable return on investment in a new, hastily-formed relationship.

And write they did; every day for more than 30 months (912 days or 54.72 USD in postage for your engineering and math majors).

By the Spring of 1947, my father acquired a few new social skills, secured several patents for Hagie, and summoned the courage to buy a train ticket to Cleveland to propose marriage.

Their marriage lasted 72 years until my father passed away.

During our weekly video chat, I asked my 98-year-old mother whatever happened to all those letters. Her comment?

You’re still not old enough to read them!

I can only imagine the courtship chronicles penned by two small-town Iowans separated by Illinois and Indiana for more than two years before embarking on 72 years of smiles, memories, and dealing with . . . me!