Meeting Albert Mohr

Leta and her husband Ralph had been separated since February, and their opportunities for reconciliation continually failed. Leta and their children Vivian and Dale had moved in with her mother Julia. While the situation was comfortable for all—Leta and Julia were compatible living companions—financially they struggled. The Great Depression was in full swing, but fortunately for both, they were accustomed to living frugally. Still, by the time summer arrived, Leta knew she would have to find steady work in order to support herself and the children.

She had finally agreed to work in a hat shop, plying her craft as a woman’s hat designer and mender, and assist with sales. The income would be rather low, but it would be income nonetheless. She would start officially on July 5.

           

To celebrate Independence Day, Leta’s brother Aaron and sister-in-law Florence invited them to a picnic hosted by Aaron’s factory for its employees, one that would conclude with a few fireworks to celebrate the country’s birthday. That there was a picnic and that there would even be fireworks was a sign that there was some hope in the air. It was a pleasant day, not too hot and humid, mostly sunny with chunks of cumulus clouds marching across the sky in a steady pace.

Leta brought apple and rhubarb pies, and enjoyed the company and food, while the children partook of both organized and impromptu games and activities.

It was much later in the afternoon, when Leta was retrieving her empty pie tins from the dessert area, that she encountered a friendly gentleman.

“Hello again,” a deep, pleasant voice said.

Leta turned to acknowledge the voice and saw a familiar face, but she could not place it.

“Hello,” she replied.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man asked.

Leta shook her head sheepishly. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Did you make the rhubarb pie?” he asked, looking at the empty, but still dirty tin in her hand.

“Yes, one of them,” she answered. “There were a couple, I think. Rhubarb is in season.”

“But did yours have the dash of cinnamon and perhaps a drip of lemon in it?” he inquired.

Leta blushed.

“Well, yes. Yes, it did,” she stammered, suddenly feeling as though her entire world had reduced itself to this conversation, to this man at this picnic, late in the afternoon on Independence Day at the height of the Great Depression in 1922. He was wearing a straw hat and lightly striped long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his dark arms, lightly covered with blonde hair. His pants were a light brown, and while he was not overweight, he had a little tummy, one common to mature men. He was taller than Leta, but did not dwarf her, and for a moment, she envisioned the two of them standing together, his arm nestled comfortably around her waist.

Just then she turned her gaze and looked right into his eyes, his blue eyes, and she nearly gasped.

He laughed loudly and easily.

“Now you remember me!”

“Oh my!” Leta agreed, “Of course. I am so sorry.”

“Yes, from the diner. You were with several other ladies. It was a hot afternoon.”

“It was very hot,” Leta corrected pleasantly, re-feeling—or so it seemed to her—the same burning sun and humidity that she felt that same day.

And for a moment, she and the gentleman stared at each other.