I began attending high school in August 1965, but I can’t really call it attending since I never stepped foot inside a classroom at Tucson’s Palo Verde High. And it wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own.
My mom went to the trouble of driving me to school every morning and would drop me off at the entrance. I had my textbooks and a backpack with me, which was all part of the ruse. But once inside, I casually strolled over to my locker and placed all of my belongings inside. I then shut it, twisted the combination lock, and surreptitiously slipped out the back door of the school. I spent most of my days visiting with friends whose parents weren’t home, and we’d goof off the entire day. We’d eat, take naps, put on makeup, try new hairstyles, listen to records (The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, Motown, etc.), and do whatever we pleased. Then, before the final bell, I’d rush back to school, zip to my locker, grab my books and backpack, acting as if I’d just put in a full day. And my mom was none the wiser. Of course, I was only cheating myself in the end, but I didn’t care at the time. I was a kid just trying to skate through life. Of course, I paid for it later. I see now how I deprived myself of the foundation I needed to have a proper career rather than a string of dead-end jobs.
One of the best things about my day was grabbing a hamburger at a stand located behind Palo Verde High School. I could buy a hamburger, fries, and a soda for less than a dollar — and it was delicious.
And that’s where I met him.
I met Charles Schmid on August 8, 1965. I was sitting outside the hamburger stand reading a book (most likely a Harlequin romance novel) and casually talking to another girl I did not know. Suddenly the roar of a high-powered V-8 engine emanating from a shiny metallic gold ’64 Ford Falcon Sprint made me turn my head. It was an impressive and spectacular looking automobile — sporty, cool, and sleek.
But it was the twenty-something man who stepped out of the car that really grabbed my attention. Though he was small in stature standing at five-foot-four inches, he struck an imposing figure. Smitty was lean, firm, and in excellent shape I would later learn was due to his years as a state champion gymnast. He sported a glistening, jet-black pompadour, which accentuated his crystal blue eyes. So did the light pancake makeup, eye mascara, and a painted-on mole on his left cheek. He was wearing a white buttoned-down Oxford shirt, form-fitting blue jeans, and hand-crafted black leather cowboy boots. I know this may sound strange, but the effect gave him more than a passing resemblance to Elvis Presley. And I loved Elvis!
After we made initial eye contact, I put my head down in my book, thinking that was that. But he walked up to where I was sitting and asked if he could take a seat next to me. I gave him another once over — he was even better looking up close, so I gave him my approval.
“Sure, take a seat,” I said. “Knock yourself out.”
He bought me a soda, then introduced himself.
“My name’s Charles Schmid,” he said, extending his hand. “My friends call me Smitty.”
“Diane Lynch,” I replied, reaching for his hand.
We spoke for about an hour, not anything heavy. More of a getting to know you chit-chat with polite and not-so-intrusive questions flowing back and forth. He wore a long and bulky bandage on his nose, which was a little dirtied. I figured it was because he had been wearing it for a while.
“What happened to your nose, Smitty?” I asked him.
“I broke it in a motorcycle accident while riding my Harley,” he offered. Later, I discovered that his nose was not broken but he did own a Harley HC. However, it was gone by the time I met him. Smitty, I would come to learn, had a penchant for bending the truth and a gift for exaggeration. I’ve read other accounts how Smitty told people he had cancer or leukemia, that he had a dozen foster parents, that someone tried to sell him as a baby across the border in Nogales, Mexico, or that he had an insane brother that was kept locked up in a room somewhere. On the more intriguing side, he claimed to know a hundred different ways to make love to a woman because he was taught by a prostitute who was also his girlfriend. The biggest doozie was perhaps that Smitty said he was placed in a stretching machine as a baby to lengthen his short limbs. Sure, they were whoppers. Most of them were most likely originated for sympathy, sex, or to test someone’s gullibility. The broken nose was one of the first of many white lies he told me. Later, those white lies morphed into something much bigger than I could have ever imagined.
But there was something about this fella — he was smart, charismatic, funny, and engaging. He possessed an inquisitive mind, had an easy manner about him, and was quick-witted. He didn’t miss a thing. Did I mention how handsome he was?
I liked him. A lot. And I could tell he liked me, too.
At the time I weighed 87 pounds and had a very slight figure. I possessed delicate features, including long, soft brown eyelashes, and sported a brown beehive hairdo, which was fashionable in the 1960s. And I stood four inches smaller than Smitty’s five-foot-four height, which I’m sure made him feel more confident. He usually dated women much taller than himself.
Smitty asked me if I wanted to take a ride in his car and cruise Speedway, a major Tucson thoroughfare that ran through the city. It sounded exciting, so I took him up on his offer and we drove past bars, bowling alleys, restaurants, fast food joints, and large billboards wherever you looked. Speedway was Tucson’s version of The Sunset Strip, except it stretched much longer.
We also darted off into various neighborhoods, visiting a few of his friends like sisters Jabron and Sharon Breeze and Larry Waddell. They were all very nice to me and we’d shoot the breeze, have a few laughs, and got to know one another. In hindsight, perhaps he was seeking their initial feedback about me. I think I got the thumbs up from just about everyone. (A few weeks later, he’d introduce me to an alternative set of friends whom I didn’t like so much... but we’ll get to that in due time.) All in all, our first day together was jam-packed with fun, laughter, and adventure. I was pretty much smitten with Smitty from the get-go. I’d found my Prince Charming, or at least, a mini-sized version of him.
Smitty made sure to get me back to Palo Verde High on time to meet my mom. Right as I was about to get out of the car, he asked, “Same time tomorrow?” I looked at him and smiled.
“Sure,” I smiled back. “That sounds great!”
This became our daily routine for a while.
We put a lot of miles on his ’64 Falcon Sprint, exploring every inch of the city. Sometimes we’d stop at Johnnie’s, a local drive-in hamburger joint where he was greeted like a rock star because he’d hand out $1 bills to anyone who asked. Or we might shoot pool at the Hi-Ho, a teen only club that was popular at the time. There was also the Copa Bowl where he’d drop in on a few friends and buy everyone a round of beers while we drank soda and munched on French fries. Funnily enough, we never bowled because Smitty was practically glued to his black cowboy boots, which were handmade for him in Nogales, Mexico. Even after we got married, he’d refuse to take them off in front of me. Later, I’d discover why.
Our dates also included romantic drives out to Sabino Canyon, a recreation area in the Santa Catalina Mountains on the northeast edge of Tucson, or evenings at the drive-in, where on weekends they’d play five monster movies in a row. When the last picture ended, the sun was already shining. Then we’d stop off at Sambo’s restaurant in the wee hours of the morning for French toast, a favorite dish of his. Other times I’d talk with him while he washed his Falcon, which was truly his baby. It was a big part of his image and identity. He loved it when he’d drive by one of his favorite haunts and get recognized by a crowd. He’d wave, acknowledge everyone, and smile widely as the wind hit his hair just right.
Every day with Smitty was a new escapade; something to be explored, something to be discovered. I must say, it sure beat going to algebra class.
With each passing day, I saw more sides to Smitty’s personality, but I didn’t spot anything that I perceived to be negative, weird, or that gave me strange vibes. He never raised his voice; I never saw him lose his temper or do anything untoward with me or my family. I caught him one time applying mascara to his eyelashes. I didn’t say anything or make a big deal out of it because I think he did it to accentuate those beautiful blue eyes, which worked on me just fine. He also rubbed toothpaste on his lips because he wanted them to appear fuller. Smitty felt his lips were too dark and thin. And, of course, there was the strange bandage on his nose, which became a permanent fixture. None of these weird quirks — and that’s how I saw them — were a dealbreaker for me. I loved this man, and he could do no wrong in my eyes. Sure, he was different, perhaps even a little offbeat. But Smitty was never boring, that’s for sure.
Smitty was truly the perfect gentleman. He was sweet, kind, courteous, and generous to friends and strangers alike. He was a soft touch to all his friends, who constantly hit him up for immediate cash or small loans. The same applied to total strangers. If someone were in line at the grocery or at the convenience store and was short, he’d quickly fish out a bill and cover the difference. He didn’t even blink when that occurred, and it occurred more times than I can count. He showed respect to his elders, was kind to children, and was polite to the wait staff at restaurants.
It might shock people to learn that Smitty was very easy going and got along with everyone. He was also very loving toward me. He was quite the romantic. I received cards, flowers, and candy all the time. He serenaded me daily with his acoustic guitar. Smitty knew Elvis Presley’s entire catalogue and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” became his go-to song with me. I’d melt every time he sang it to me. He courted me the old-fashioned way and he’d also take me shopping. He bought me a beautiful green dress, shoes, and other various items of clothing and accessories. Smitty truly went out of his way to make me feel special. No one had ever done that before, and he absolutely swept me off my feet.
Smitty’s largesse did make me wonder how he was able to pay for everything and make himself available to me daily. He told me that he received a $300 monthly stipend from his parents, Howard and Katherine Schmid, who ran a nursing home. In exchange for the money, he distributed nightly meals to the patients, helped with the laundry, and did general maintenance whenever required. His parents also put him up in a cottage-style home next door to them. It was across the street from the nursing home, and both were a stone’s throw from the University of Arizona campus.
The one-bedroom home was built in the early 1900s and was one the first homes in the neighborhood. It was tiny and no frills. It featured a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room so small that it could barely squeeze in a loveseat, a table, two chairs, and a television. While his house needed a woman’s touch — and it would receive that shortly — I was impressed that Smitty had his own place, a nice set of wheels, and cash in his pockets. Certainly, a step up from what I was used to.
Even more impressive was the fact that Smitty got along with everyone, including my immediate family. After a week, I felt comfortable enough to introduce him to my parents and siblings who fell in love with him almost immediately. That was important to me. Smitty especially connected to my father, whom he affectionally called “Buck.” They had long conversations about cars, guns, ammo, the war, and “guy stuff.” Smitty was impressed with the fact that Buck served in World War II and was a decorated veteran. My dad, I believe, enjoyed the company of another adult male who was not only courteous, but showed him tremendous and authentic respect.
Smitty also made a considerable impression on my mother, often popping into the kitchen to lend a helping hand whenever she cooked dinner. He loved her biscuits and gravy and could eat a lot when he liked a certain dish. She also liked that he was polite and got down on the ground to play Monopoly or other games with my younger siblings. He’d also bring his guitar and play for my brothers and sisters. They’d dance around in a circle, carry on, and have fun, which brought a smile to my parents’ faces. He’d also play gin rummy or blackjack with my parents once everyone went to bed. Smitty’s presence brought joy to everyone around him. He was unconditionally loved and accepted by my family.
And let me just say for the record that my parents, especially my father, were hard people to fool. My dad had an almost psychic ability to read people, and it would be a cold day in hell before anyone put something over on him. He had no qualms or suspicions about Smitty whatsoever.
Smitty and I frequently went on double dates with my sister and brother-in-law, Thelma and Don, who’d moved back from California. We’d visit their apartment on weekends and play cards. Or we might head out into the desert to go target shooting or take in a movie at the Cactus or Apache drive-ins, which usually carried double features on weekends. We all genuinely got along and Smitty, who was an only child, and now felt like he’d inherited a brand-new family. That was important to him because I’d later discover his home life lacking in a lot of things, chiefly true warmth and affection.
When we weren’t hanging out with my family, Smitty and I spent most of our private time in the desert. He’d set out a blanket and we’d have a night picnic, gaze out at the stars, listen to the transistor radio, and make love. We’d end most of our nights lying on a blanket entwined in each other’s arms, talking about almost anything, mostly our future hopes and dreams. He talked about forming a rock band, writing and singing his own songs, and becoming rich and famous. That was fine by me. I supported Smitty in whatever he wanted to do... as long as I was included in his plans.
Smitty confessed to me one night in the desert that he was adopted. Furthermore, he said his birth mother was a Hispanic lady who lived in the nursing home and literally handed him over to Katherine the day he was born. He said his real name was Angel Rodriguez and that his birth mother now lived somewhere in California.
“How well do you know her?" I asked.
“I don’t know her at all,” he replied. “She wanted to go to college and said she wasn’t ready for a baby. So she gave me to Howard and Katherine to raise.”
He gave no hint that this was an upsetting or taboo subject, nor was he resentful to his birth mother for giving him up. He seemed fortunate that Howard and Katherine Schmid adopted him, for they gave him whatever his heart desired growing up, including private schooling in his early adolescence. That turned out to be a big mistake on their part.
Smitty said his biggest wish was to have a large family like ours. My wish was simply to be with him. He stressed that having a large family would make him an extremely happy man. I told him I’d give him a family, but not as large as he’d like.
“Two or three kids would be nice,” I said firmly. “But definitely not nine.”
Smitty laughed and knew what I meant. He loved the idea of a large family but sensed my parents’ financial struggles in trying to make ends meet. Still, he loved them with all his heart, and the feeling was most definitely mutual.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that I wanted to marry Smitty, have his children, and start a family of our own. I had gone out on a few dates with others, but no one made me feel the way Smitty did. I don’t know what it was about him, but there was an instant attraction. I loved him more than I thought I could love anybody. I was ready to move out of our house and enter the next phase of my life as quickly as humanly possible. Smitty was going to play a permanent role in my happiness and better sooner than later was the way I looked at things. My heart was beating with pure joy, and I was head over heels in love with this man.
I thought I had found my Prince Charming... but he turned out to be the Prince of Darkness.
