I did not go.
I thought that it might be nice to be part of a church community. To be part of the American life was paramount. The Methodist Church on the corner of Charles and Lake Avenue looked so cheerful and friendly, and I attended a service there. Lutheran looked as something I should try because of my German heritage, also the Presbyterian Church. None caught my imagination. It was not until I got married to Dick Foley in 1962 that I found my church home. He insisted that we attend every Sunday, even though we had to drive from the Towson area, twelve miles into downtown Baltimore to attend the services at Emmanuel Church. Dick felt that the discipline of attending regularly was important. Dr. Alfred Starrett, the priest, held sometimes controversial sermons. They fit into the times of social change and were supported by his ten years in China, which included much yin-and-yang philosophy. I warned him, “One of these days, someone is going to challenge your ideas.” “I wish they would!” he answered. The beauty of the church softened any thought that seemed to be threatening our conservative outlook on life. The large choir added depth. They consisted of trained voices; the Peabody Institute of Music was just around the corner. Margaret Freed sang her solos way beyond the required level of a church service. Our heavenly gain. Dick knew about singing since his voice had been trained by the Peabody and Mr. Bibb as well, although he did not pursue a singing career. After the service, we gathered for refreshments and conversation in a special room with comfortable furniture and a library.
Then I was confirmed by the bishop and became active in the Altar Guild, an exclusive group I later understood. We met regularly for an evening meal after which the church was put in order. Water was boiled in big kettles to soften the wax clinging to the candleholders. The linens were washed, ironed, and put back with pink ribbons into their designated drawers. And the church had to be dusted. That included the altar, even the benches, and this was a large church.
I realize that I was drawn to the colorful formalities. Behind the altar, carvings reached high up, covering the entire wall. There were two chapels on either side. From where we usually sat, on the right side, we had a view of a life-size white marble angel holding a basin. This was the baptism chapel. Sun coming through the stained glass window behind it gave the statue a special shiny glow. On the other side, that chapel was rich in wooden carvings, reminding me of the fancy works found in the churches in Bavaria or Austria. I felt at home.
Dick and I were not allowed to get married in the Episcopal Church because both of us had been divorced. Friends introduced us to the Second Presbyterian Church in Guilford, and Dr. Warren was willing to perform the ceremony. First, of course, seated across from his desk in the rectory, we had the usual session of pointing out the importance of the sanctity of matrimony. On October 20, 1962, the church wedding was held in a small wooden chapel on the edge of the Chesapeake Bay on Gibson Island.
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Dick and I met in May on board the Lord Baltimore at a Chesapeake Bay excursion with dinner and dance organized for the travel industry. We saw each other across the room, and I was immediately intrigued. Here was a person with the same family background and thinking, I found out later when we dated. And he was quite handsome in a distinguished way.
But before that, there had been Geza. Five years . . .
After returning from Europe, I worked as librarian at the aeronautics department at John Hopkins. The word was that a Hungarian student was in the hospital with an appendectomy. I went to visit, and he was pleased to see me. He had been part of the Hungarian Revolution and suddenly saw himself in another country, another culture without a soul he knew. We bonded.
He stood by me when I had medical problems in a most generous and comforting way. His mother sent colorful Hungarian handcrafts, rugs, pillows, and a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers. When I moved to an apartment on Roland Avenue, he even built a bookcase for me. All of this still surrounds me. I was deeply involved with him for five years. We had being European in common and each other, but our backgrounds did not mesh. He was angry; it was hard for him to adjust.
Dick Foley fit so well into my life and into my thinking. I felt that I needed to abandon the Hungarian student, although with a sinking heart.
Dick and I decided to get married on October 20. Dr. Warren agreed to the location: the little chapel by the sea on Gibson Island. The island is small with a house here and there, a yacht harbor, and you have to pass a gate to get in.
Mutti and Micaela had come from Europe, and Dick’s family was there. Alex Dietrich was the best man. Zsiga Toth gave me away and really scared me when he whispered, entering the church, that Dick had fainted. To my great relief, there he was in his full handsome glory, and the marriage then executed lasted for twenty-three exciting years until death parted us. A reception in the house of the Wolfe family, friends of Cindy Sturgiss, a friend from work, followed. These were intimate, warm moments.
Dick was slightly taken aback when he was to release the garter then to be thrown on to the onlookers. But he managed after a slight hesitation. Photos were taken. I kept all the proofs.
Our honeymoon was a preview of the life to come. Dick had committed himself to an experiment he believed in, bringing cruise liners to ports other than New York harbor. His reputation hinged on the success of filling the berths of a ship sailing from Baltimore. Moore-McCormack with their Argentina participated. This was so new an idea, and the convenience was remarkable. Persons from Pennsylvania, Virginia, Washington DC, and beyond liked the idea of leaving their cars on the port territory and their drive was certainly much shorter than to New York. Dick himself, then working for American Express in Baltimore, had booked seventy persons. Well, this became our honeymoon party. Photos were taken by the press, and we made it as a headliner into the Baltimore Sun newspaper.
We had rented the ground floor of a large house on Orkney Road. It had a bit of a garden in the rear. Our motley collection of furniture had to do. In fact, we never bought new furniture ever. I still have a chest of drawers in my living room, which we bought secondhand for $5.
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The mail waiting for us included a call to the courthouse for my citizen procedures the day after our return. First was an office interview. I was not prepared for the question: “Under what name do you want to become a citizen?” I had no idea. Was there not a law one had to follow? The clerk was waiting for an answer. “Excuse me,” I said, standing up and running to the top of the large marble stairs at which bottom the relatives of the applicants were waiting. “Dick,” I yelled, “what is my name?” He was nonplussed but then understood my dilemma, and he solved my problem. First, the first name, then the maiden name, then the legal last name, and that is how I became Edith Noordewier Foley in the good American tradition. The ceremony in the courtroom hall was deeply impressive. I was reminded of the duties and obligations to the United States of America, of the cut of any previous associations with any other nation or birthplace, the possibility to carry arms against such nation or birthplace. In those days, dual citizenship was impossible.
I had to wait at least five years before being considered for my American citizenship. The year was 1962. These were the immigration laws at the time: quotas were assigned to countries from which persons were considered to enter the United States if needed. I had entered in 1955 with my Dutch husband because Westinghouse needed engineers, which granted me alien status and a green card.
53
Dick worked for American Express on Charles Street, selling travels and organizing conventions to groups. I worked for Pan American World Airways, the American flag carrier. Pan Am had Juan Tripp as founder and president, who was said would wander the street to look into the offices of the company just checking. It was an exciting time. Once or twice I was even stationed at the airport to check in international passengers for their flight. In the city office, I sold airline tickets, of course, but also tours, booked hotels, and
made sure that health regulations were followed and visas obtained. We had fine reference material; the customers never fared wrong.
What annoyed me were businessmen coming in just to chat. They were “coming on to us.” What an embarrassing nuisance. “And they are married,” I thought. Many years later, John Gray, PhD, published his research in book form titled Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, a charming explanation of men’s and also women’s behavior. It then all became very clear to me.
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Dick was obviously doing very well in his job. New York headquarters of American Express noticed and promoted him to a position at the Wall Street executive office. It was a difficult decision to make for him. Dick sat all night in our little garden, thinking it over. He decided in favor, one had to move on in life and one’s career. It was decided that I would drive to New York and look for a place to live.
A new highway had just been opened connecting Washington with New York City. The ride was smooth on the six lanes winding through a wonderful landscape. No billboards on either side anywhere. There was also no traffic. It seemed as if I was one of the few cars on it. Today we know it as Route 95 and avoid it when possible because of its congestion.
“We absolutely must not live in Manhattan,” Dick decided. “Too busy, no moment of quiet.” Long Island became, therefore, our choice. A pleasant real estate agent showed me around. It turned out that she was the mother of Gordon McRae, a then well-known performer. I remember his happy singing in the show Oklahoma.
After several roundtrips to New York City and beyond, a small house was found fitting not our taste, but our budget. After the Second World War with the soldiers returning, housing was scarce. A Mr. Levitt designed and built a whole village of small affordable homes with a bit of garden near Westbury. It became known as Levittown. We were right in it, 9 Plum Lane. This was the first time I entered a house with the kitchen right by the front door. We moved. It was 1963.
To reach our respective offices, we drove to the Westbury railroad station to take the Long Island railroad to the edge of Manhattan, where we changed to subways. Mine to Forty-second Street and Dick’s to Wall Street. Total time traveled one-way—one and a half hours. Mr. Waterhouse, the manager of the Pan Am office in Baltimore, pulled strings, and I was ladled into a plum job, working at the street office at Rockefeller Plaza. From the Forty-second Street subway station, when reaching street level, I had to brace myself against the unending compact stream of people heading toward me. And the wind was so strong and terribly cold in the winter.
The Pan Am ticket office was very fancy, the showplace of Pan American World Airways, still the flag carrier of the United States. A modern eight-sided skyscraper proudly proclaimed their importance; the Pan Am Building in the middle of Park Avenue, crossing it. This is where I saw in one of the hallways Mr. Charles Lindberg, who, together with Juan Tripp, decided where their planes should fly, thus establishing the world routes for the carrier. It was said that a woolen thread was held on a globe connecting New York with Tokyo, and this was the way these men established the polar route.
Here are a few of the occurrences at the office where I worked. Daily, a fancy elderly lady arrived at the office, opened up a small black leather satchel, pulled out a little spray bottle and some tissues, and cleaned all the phones. I thought that this must have been a Russian princess who had fled the communist government, arriving in the United States without income. Juan Tripp gave her this job. I liked that idea. I still do.
We stood on rubber mats behind a long counter, probably five or six agents at one time. A small round wooden disk could be pulled out to sit on. But we did not; we needed to reach the computers we had to use in front of each of us. Ah, the computers, so new. In fact, we were the first office to try them out. The management did not take chances. Psychologists were standing by to help us through any kind of crisis.
Across the counter were seating arrangements for about twenty persons, always crowded with people who needed our help changing their plans or getting information. This required organization. One of us was designated to be the “floor walker” for an hour or two per day, directing the next in line to the proper counter position.
The floor was a fancy light-colored stone or marble. Anyway, my feet, in their high heels, suffered. They spread into one size larger and needed the help of a podiatrist. But it was an exciting time in our office in the heart of the city, helping people from all over the world.
Did Dick and I enjoy Manhattan? No, we were there only to work. On weekends, we were too tired to think about anything but relaxing at home. The people we met maybe lived in New Jersey, three hours away from our home. But we had careers and made money.
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Dick was contacted by Guy Erway from Baltimore. He owned the WAYE radio station the first good music station in the United States, an insurance agency, and a travel agency in Baltimore. He was planning to sell all and thought that Dick might be interested in the travel agency.
We visited Guy Erway and his family in his house in Baltimore. He explained that he was moving to Florida and getting rid of his businesses. All he owned were well run and first-class operations. The travel agency, located at Sutton Place, was called WAYE Travel. The radio station was located in a penthouse, and the name in large letters visible for blocks away proclaimed its existence there. The travel agency on street level had been designed and furnished by Chambers, a well-known design company. At the entry, as a reception area, stood two chairs and a small table. Today I still own these chairs, although reupholstered, and the table. They had cost $500 each in 1962, quite pricey and rather classy. The color scheme of the walls and furniture was light blue, with yellow built-in cupboards and large sturdy desks. We needed $10,000, the purchase price of the agency. Dr. Zsiga Toth, seeing an investment possibility, lent us this amount, and we purchased the agency. What an excitement! American Express New York did not want Dick to leave, telling him about their plans for him as a vice president. In those days, it was considered good business sense to place management two years here and then two years somewhere else, not necessarily places of one’s choice. Dick was a Maryland man and was glad to be able to return to his home state.
We rented a townhouse located at the former Ruxton rail station, easily reached in twelve minutes from downtown by Route 83 heading straight north, leaving the city behind. Ruxton is a neighborhood with individual houses, large gardens, and a lake. The townhouse was an end unit, which provided a fireplace. We felt very good about our new life and the challenge of owning our own company. Naturally, I worked for Dick as a sales agent, doing what I did for Pan American, plus handling trips within the United States. I was successful but had to endure much teasing when mispronouncing the various destinations within the United States. The customers played along, thinking that this was part of my accent, but after they had left, there was laughter (Yosemite).
Fortunately, we had inherited the Guy Erway’s staff. The travel business was involved. Dick employed the best professional people to guide him, for example, through the intricacies of bookkeeping. There was advertising, developing travels—Dick’s specialty—and the brochures describing them. There were the computers and their special programs connecting us with the airlines of the world and the binding contracts. We plugged along; I was often meeting deadlines by driving to the main post office in downtown Baltimore just before midnight to get the airline report stamped with the proper date. This to avoid penalties. When we took a four year course and obtained our CTC certification, we discovered that we had done things right all along.
Dick was marvelous. He looked so handsome in his well-pressed business suit. Everyone liked him. Such a gentleman. He went over to Charles Street to a bakery to stretch his legs and to pick up something for lunch. “Look what I found,” he said, returning with a furry light beige dog cuddled in his arms, still a puppy. “It was hovering at the curb under a car starting
to drive away.” Well, what to do? We took her home, named her Lucy, and she decided to adopt us. Her fur was blond, long and silky, her eyes dark brown, and her tail, an opulent plume, held proudly in the air. She had a positively motherly attitude toward us, making sure all was well. She came to work with us, sitting on the backseat of the car with her paws placed on my right shoulder, keeping an eye on traffic. At work, Dick took her for walks. In the Bolton Hill neighborhood, dogs were of the finest lineage. So when Dick was asked what breed of dog Lucy was, he answered, “An African Feather hound.” “You see, Edith, when they ask me, I cannot possibly disappoint them by telling them that I am walking a mutt.”
All seemed to be normal when one day, a crackling sound was heard. I looked over to where Dick was sitting at his desk and saw the ceiling bulging, then break open with horrible brownish stuff cascading all over him. He did not move a muscle. A major disaster. I screamed, picked up Lucy, and ran out of the office. Obviously, a sewer pipe had broken on top of Dick!
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Dick asked me whether I would enjoy having my own office. He was negotiating with Johns Hopkins Hospital and School of Medicine to open a travel agency for them. That thought appealed to me.
And that is how I became the manager of the Johns Hopkins branch of the Via Waye Travel Bureau. One of the Hopkins buildings was located across from the hospital, the 550 Building. That is to say, 550 N. Broadway was the address. It was a modern building with a roomy glass-enclosed lobby, doctor’s offices above, and apartments for interns and their families. Sheraton had a hotel next door. My business was exclusively for Johns Hopkins travels. I had a direct line into the offices of the physicians and hand-delivered ordered tickets. That is how I lost my way and ended up in the morgue. Oh well.
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