By Marion Gladney-Glasserow

There was still somewhat of a post war housing shortage in 1948. My soon-to-be husband and I were even shorter on available cash and steady income. To my father’s great chagrin, his only daughter was planning to marry an unemployed disc jockey, in those days known more dignified as radio announcer.

After our quite elegant wedding atop the Hotel Pierre, we had originally planned to work and live in Washington, DC. But as Norman suddenly quit his job at WWDC Radio, we needed to retrieve the pots, linens and gadgets I had provisionally shipped to the two-room address we had rented in advance of the September wedding. My brother Ric was sent along as chaperone in my battleship gray Frazer. It soon developed a radiator leak requiring frequent stops for refills in the August heat. When we finally got to the apartment in which the three of us were planning to crash, the blast of DC summer that hit us when we opened the door sent us clear across the street to Hotel Statler’s sumptuous air-conditioned luxury. We decided we could splurge for one night, all three bunking in one room.

With not one job between us, there was no time for a honeymoon and no money either. And with no place to live it was urgent to return and milk our contacts. Norman had sold his car so he could buy the traditional flowers for the wedding. I got us one winter’s