Lucille and Arnold -- The Untold Love Story

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The fabric of every family is woven together by stories. Some short, some sweet, some tragic. Some true, some mostly true.

In the end, fact or fiction doesn’t really matter as much as the example they provide. Why? Because family myths and legends have a singular and special purpose. They give us hope and strength, something strong to lean on when times are tough.

It doesn’t require much to spark a classic family legend. All you need is one tiny nugget of truth to start a good story rolling down the hill of genetic history.

Just as siblings tend to share physical features, family stories tend to share common themes based on the family’s roots, livelihood or interests. It could be anything from farming to football to fishing.

In my family’s case, our roots are firmly anchored in ice cream.

Once upon a time there was an ice cream shop

The Great Depression was in full swing in 1938. No stranger to hard work, Arnold Wayne Corell, like millions of other young men, had moved from place to place in search of steady work. He’d already tried his hand at several endeavors. Each began with high hopes and each summarily ended much sooner than expected. His most recent endeavor had taken him to Montana as a laborer.

Upon returning home, Arnold began casting about for a new opportunity. His sights were set squarely on a new venture. He hoped at long last that this would be his ticket to a new life and prosperity.

Our story begins when plucky 22-year-old entrepreneur Arnold made the 52 mile journey west by northwest from Waverly, Iowa to Nora Springs, Iowa. He was there to open “Arnie’s Ice Cream Shop.” If you think “Arnie” was his nickname, you’d be wrong. He very carefully selected the moniker “Arnie” because he thought it sounded less formal than Arnold.

Arnold was quiet and unassuming. He was slightly taller than average and thin, with a hawkish nose and blonde hair he always kept slicked back in keeping with the fashion of the time. He didn’t say much. Talking wasn’t his style. He preferred to listen, or read, despite an eye condition that left him almost legally blind and excluded him from ever obtaining a driver’s license. 

And then there was her

A hundred details had to be dealt with as Arnie’s Ice Cream Shop began to come to life on Hawkeye Street in downtown Nora Springs. One of the details was staff. Arnold couldn’t run the shop by himself. He’d need at least two employees.

The bell above the front door rang as Lucille Robinson stepped carefully into the shop. She had to contort herself a bit to get past the sign painter who was lettering the big plate-glass window that faced the street. Half-empty crates and boxes were everywhere. Toward the back, a tall young man was busily putting away supplies behind the wooden counter that ran half the length of the shop.

At 16, Lucille was barely over five feet tall. She had curly blonde hair and a radiant smile, despite a rather obvious gap between her front teeth.

What you couldn’t know by simply looking at her was that Lucille’s very existence was a bit of a miracle. Her mother and father had met late in life. Each had lost a spouse to illness and they’d planned to quietly live out their twilight years together on a small farm outside Nora Springs.

But God had another plan. They named the baby Lucille Mildred. When she was born, her mom was 49 and her dad was 58. A miracle for 1921. Lucille’s father died in 1937, and as 1938 rolled around, her mother was in poor health. Until recently, Lucille had been working at a private nursing home. But when the home abruptly closed, she was out of job and needed an income to help support her ailing mother. That’s what led her to Hawkeye Street.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked directly to the counter and confidently introduced herself to the man she assumed was the proprietor. She’d seen a “help-wanted” ad in the newspaper and had come to apply for a job. Arnold was taken by her maturity and friendly manner. He knew immediately she was perfect for the job. She’d be good help to him. He was quiet and reserved. She was talkative and outgoing. He knew it was a smart business decision. He also knew, immediately, that he was in love.

Changes of venue

After a lackluster year in Nora Springs, Arnold accepted the fact that he needed to move the business to greener pastures. He’d try his luck in Toledo, Iowa. His employees were told they’d have a job if they wanted to move with him.

After a long discussion with her mother, Lucille took the offer and moved to Toledo as part of Arnold’s newest adventure. It was a good move. They were married later that year.

While 1940 ushered in the official end of the Great Depression, start-up businesses like Arnold’s were still failing at a high rate. It was a sad day when he closed his shop for good. But while business was bad, life was good. The Corells loaded up their car, complete with their new baby boy, and headed north to Rockford.

The road of life

The next 44 years were a mixture of joys and tragedies. The Corells eventually took up residence in a modest home on Gaylord Street in Nora Springs. Modest is really an understatement. The house was originally a small barn, which had been enlarged by attaching a chicken coop to it. But they were happy and the family grew.

Six more children joined the family. One very briefly. Their fourth child, Arnold James, died of pneumonia when he was just few weeks old.

Following that tragedy, Arnold found work operating a wheelbarrow at the Rockford Brick and Tile Works. It was backbreaking labor, but the pay was steady. That job and Arnold’s life almost ended one day as he maneuvered a load of bricks up a steep ramp. Halfway up the ramp one of the wooden handles snapped. The massive wheelbarrow flew back, plunging the broken handle into his side, breaking several ribs along the way. He was laid up for weeks with no income.

In the late 1950s, Arnold took advantage of a job-training program through the Iowa School for the Blind. There he learned to upholster furniture. He’d spend the rest of his working days as an upholsterer in Mason City and finished his career as the proud owner of Federal Auto Upholstery.

Arnold died the Sunday after Thanksgiving in 1984. Lucille was heartbroken. She had loved Arnold with all her soul. Sure, they had their ups and downs. But who didn’t? Their marriage had passed the test of time and many bumps along the road of life. She would have given anything for just one more day with Arnold, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

Grandma’s steadfast faith in God buoyed their marriage. Her faith, and their unrelenting support of each other through the worst of times, gave us courage when times got tough. If they could do it, we could too.

As Grandma always reminded us, “It’s not how you start that matters. What matters is how you finish.”

An unexpected revelation

It was cold and rainy as I stepped into Grandma Lucy’s house one night in 2009. I found her asleep in her chair at the kitchen table. That chair at that table was her special place, her sanctum sanctorum, her chapel. It’s where she went to think and where she went to pray.

In that chair, at that table, hands folded in her lap, she had prayed for every member of her family, and her legion of friends, every morning for 69 years. Lucille was one of God’s soldiers and proud of it. Prayer to her was like drill to soldiers – part of an essential daily routine.

Her body was failing and she understood that soon she’d have to move into the local nursing home. The clock was ticking, and she knew it.

That’s why I believe she’d decided it was time we had a talk. Grandma and I were very close. We had a special bond. Because of that bond she shared things with me. I was used to that. But I was wholly unprepared for what came next.

Grandma instructed me to go into her bedroom and look under the antique wardrobe in the corner. There I was to find a small metal box. I retrieved the locked box and returned to the kitchen. She asked me to open it. She didn’t have a key, so she asked me to break the lock with a screwdriver.

Inside the box was a small bundle of love letters Grandpa had written to her when the kids were little and he was on the road looking for work. She asked me to read them to her. As I did so, I could hear his baritone voice in my mind extolling the trials and tribulations of life on the road. With each page, I felt like I was turning back time.

The last page of the last letter came too soon. I could see it on her face. She wanted to hear more from her beloved Arnold. But that was that.

“I have one more thing for you to do, James,” she said quietly. “There should be one more piece of paper in the box. Read it.”

At the bottom of the box, folded once and slightly yellowed was an official-looking document. It was a marriage certificate. Grandma patiently waited as I skimmed from line to line, reading quietly aloud, “Certificate of Marriage…Lucille Mildred Robinson…Arnold Wayne Corell … on this date, 1976…Sioux Falls, South Dakota…” I went back and read it again. “Certificate of Marriage…Lucille Mildred Robinson…Arnold Wayne Corell … on this date, 1976…Sioux Falls, South Dakota…”

Hold it! 1976?! Sioux Falls? What in the world? Everyone knew they were married in Toledo in 1939, right!?

I looked up to find Grandma staring at me intently with a benevolent smile on her face. “I’m sure you have questions,” she said matter-of-factly.

Questions! I didn’t even know where to start! I was speechless. Grandma saw her opening and took over.

She explained that they were in love and that “things happened.” Before they knew it, Roger was born. In those days you didn’t often need to produce an actual marriage license, so they simply did the math and came up with a date that properly corresponded with Roger’s birthday.

When they returned from Toledo, they were married and had a child. No harm, no foul.

I took it all in. Then I asked, “Why did you drive all the way to South Dakota to get married – and why 1976 – when I was in sixth grade?

She said they realized that if something happened to either one of them, they needed an official document to prove they were indeed married -- for insurance purposes, etc. In 1976, South Dakota was the only state within driving distance that allowed someone to get a marriage license in one day.

She spent another hour filling in the details and reminiscing about Grandpa, the love of her life. Then she became very serious.

“James,” she started. “You’re the only one in the family who knows about this and I want to you keep it that way until I’m gone. You can share it with the family once I die.”

This was a sacred trust. She gave me the document to keep safe. She didn’t want it to be accidentally found and cause a lot of undue concern.

She then took my hand in hers and told me she wanted the family to know the truth, but more importantly know why. She wanted me to make sure the family understood that she and Grandpa loved each other more than she could explain. She wanted us to know that times were very different when they fell in love and that having a baby out of wedlock just wasn’t condoned.

She wanted us to know that God forgives. And God gives second chances. And she and her beloved Arnold had taken that second chance and done their very best. While their life together started as a struggle, it was a wonderful life – and they had a wonderful family. Theirs was a great love story. The truth about how it started was immaterial.  

Her mission in life was to raise her family and quietly set an example we could all be proud of.

Her final words that night still ring in my ears, “James, remember. It’s not how you start that matters. What matters is how you finish.”

And finish well she did.

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Epilogue:

Grandma Lucy died on Jan. 28, 2012. While her body failed her, her mind was sharp to the very end. And to the very end, she continued to pray for each and every one of us daily. And in my heart, I know she continues to do so today.

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