As our bus roared between El Paso and Dallas the land was becoming flatter and flatter. Our bus leapt towards the wonderful, open spaces of Texas. It was hard to tell distances since the horizon seemed to blend in with the sky.  The only relief was an occasional Burma Shave sign. The four-line verse was written one line at a time on a separate sign posted along the side of the road. Traveling a normal speed you had time to leisurely read one verse at a time and then the next.

        One of my favorites was  “ The answer to a maiden’s prayer is not a chin of stubby hair” Another good one I recall was “To kiss a mug that’s like a cactus takes more nerve than it does practice” Soon everyone on the bus was singing the rhymes out together.

        On that trip, each time we left a new terminal, everyone just gave their first name to the passengers around them and announced their destination. Mom usually asked the young serviceman sitting closest to us how long since he’d seen his family. The answers varied to a few months to sometimes a couple of years.

        There was no air conditioning on the buses then, but I don’t remember it being hot or uncomfortable. Deodorant wasn’t a big grooming item back then either.  Probably as a kid I didn’t notice those things as much as the grownups did.

        Nearly all of the fellows smoked in those days during the war. Cigarettes were provided to the men in the service and most of them were addicted by the time they were discharged.  A smoke filled bus was something we just took for granted and no one thought of complaining.

        When our bus pulled into the Dallas terminal we had been on the road for four days. Ileane said goodbye to a young, blond sailor she had been sitting with. They stood talking quietly for a long time.

        Earlier, at a little café in Midland at the depot, some one put a nickel in the jukebox and the strains of “Always” came on. The blonde sailor had risen from the booth filled with other sailors and never taking his eyes off her, he walked to our table. He held out his hand, silently. Without looking at mom for permission, Ileane rose and took his hand for the slow dance. I don’t know about my sister, but I was certainly impressed. 

        The station in Dallas was crowded and I kept expecting Mom to tell Ileane to come on, but she seemed to hesitate. I wondered why. Looking back on it now, I have come to realize that she knew these mini friendships were important to the girls and the young fellows too.  They caused no harm.

        In Dallas, Mom led us directly to the rest room to get cleaned up.  Sponge baths were becoming routine and easier. As we approached the rest room, I stopped short. The sign above one door read White Ladies and the sign above the other door stated Colored Ladies. I looked down and in front of the rest room were water fountains with similar signs. White or colored. “But why, Mom” I asked over and over.  I think my mother was a shook up as I was.

        Her slow reply was, “I don’t know, honey, I just don’t know.” My twelve-year-old world was expanding. We continued to see the signs of segregation on our travels through Texas. If the black soldiers went to the back of the bus, as now when thing about it, I’m sure they probably did, I wasn’t aware of it. Later on in our journey as our route swung north, the signs of segregation gradually disappeared.

        Actually, my world had started expanding a couple of years earlier in Phoenix when I was on an outing with my Girl Scout troop. Our troop had spent every Saturday collecting scrap metal and paper for the war effort.  Now as our reward, we were allowed to go on a cookout to work on one of our projects.

        We noticed the men working nearby as we started cooking our breakfast, but we paid little attention.  Soon the bacon was sizzling in the skillets as the pancakes turned a golden brown around the edges.

        “Nothing tastes as good as the first meal you cook yourself, especially on an open fire.” Observed our patient leader, Mrs. Taylor. 

        The Girl Scouts of troop eleven were earning their cooking badges!

        Earlier that day, a chilly Saturday morning in December, our group of excited ten and eleven year old girls, along with their leader, had gathered at the bus stop. We carried large paper sacks filled with skillets, mixing bowls and assorted groceries….everything necessary to cook a pancake breakfast.  Several Mothers had generously contributed precious ration stamps so we could buy bacon, butter and even a little brown sugar for homemade syrup.

        After transferring city buses three times, we arrived at our destination, Papago Park, a beautiful desert refuge. As we started hiking up the dirt road into the park filled with paloverde trees, smoky mesquite bushes and massive red rock formations, an U. S. army truck filled with German prisoners of war passed us, heading into the park.

        “There goes those German,” one of the girls said, contemptuously. “I hate them!”

        “Why did they have to start the war?” another complained. “My dad’s been gone for so long, almost three years.”

        We all had fathers, brothers, uncles or someone close fighting in Europe.

        After breakfast was over, one of the girls started a scouting song as we cleaned up our cooking site. One by one, we all joined in. Our leader started another and our songfest continued for a while.

        Suddenly, we heard male voices! A beautiful melody sung by deep, strong voices filled the desert air and drifted down to us.

        We looked up to see the cavernous natural shell in the red sediment boulders, called “Hole in the Rock”, filled with the German prisoners and their guards.

        Then they finished their song, we began another. They reciprocated with one more haunting melody. We couldn’t understand a word they were singing, but to our delight, we exchanged songs throughout the morning in the clear, bright air!

        Then, one of the girls began Silent Night and we all joined in. A few moments of silence followed and…. The familiar melody flowed back to us.

        “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht:…..

        “How could they know our Christmas carols” one of the girls asked our leader. They were our country’s enemies!

        We continued to listen in awe with feelings of peace and joy, and even a little bit of understanding; we took home more that day than our cooking badges.