First Year Funnies

Our first residence was a basement apartment in a lovely home in what was then, one of the older, posh neighborhoods in Salt Lake City. We answered a family's ad, searching for someone who could check up on their aging mother who lived in the house alone, in case of an emergency, and take the garbage cans to the street for pick up each week. This fiesty little lady turned the tables on us, from the start, by keeping a close eye on us and entering our apartment on a regular basis, without warning. She wasn't shy about telling me when I'd left breakfast dishes in the sink or that I needed to clean my oven. A built-in ironing board folded down from the wall behind the door between rooms. I was standing there, still in my robe, my hair in curlers, pressing my uniform, when that door pushed back and hit me in the butt! There she was, standing next to me. I was so startled, I almost decked her, thinking it was an intruder. Well, she was that.

Despite our snoopy housemate, one of my fondest memories while living in this apartment is of walking with my young husband in a summer rain one evening, after dark, passing under old fashioned street lamps along the winding street that was our neighborhood, splashing in the gutters, talking, laughing... a bit like the scene with Gene Kelly from the musical, "Singing in the Rain", but without the singing... and without the dancing... a sweet memory, none-the-less.

Another is of a Mexican Fiesta taco night. There was quite a group of South cousins--maybe eight or ten couples--all married within a few months or a couple years of each other. We all got together once a month for dinner or group discussion on a pre-planned topic of interest. It was our turn to host and one of my salon patrons loaned me an authentic costume to wear. Was I ever decked out, in swirling skirt and beautiful, billowing blouse, a Mantilla pinned in my hair. I had learned to make tacos and a crowd-pleaser taco salad. That was such a fun night!

In anticipation of his June graduation, I'd been saving my tips to buy new clothes for Frank--grey flannel dress pants, navy blue jacket, great shirt and tie. His friend, Scott, went with me to help with sizing, then waited patiently with the store clerk, while I counted out the total price of the goods from my collection of quarters, nickels, and dimes. My customers weren't the dollar bill kind of tippers! In hind sight, surely I could have exchanged all that loose cash for bills at a bank but the purchase would not have been as memorable nor the re-telling of the event as fun!

An invitation to a formal dance? How exciting! I had just the dress for the occasion, a beautiful, full-length sheath in aqua brocade with sweetheart neckline and short sleeves. Yes, those were the days when I could do a sheath-styled dress justice! I even had fabric dyed-to-match shoes! Came the day of the event, I was sick. I'd been self-medicating quite heavily with over-the-counter stuff to get through my long day of standing on my feet at the Salon. At the Ball, during intermission, we left the ballroom and started down the elegant staircase leading to the mezzanine and the hotel lobby. With the first step down, I caught my heel in the hem of my dress but was a bit too tipsy from my day of cold meds to catch myself. As though it had been choreographed, filmed and was now being shown in slow motion, I sank to my knees, sliding down that entire staircase, my upper body still perfectly upright and looking lovely in my beautiful dress but scrubbing the toes of my precious, fabric shoes. When I reached the bottom, my slide continued right on out across the marble floor, making a half-circle before coming to rest at Frank's feet. The area was filled with people. Someone was playing a guitar in the background. I thought Frank seemed more embarrassed than I--if that was possible--and at first, pretended not to notice me before extending a helping hand up.

Finns, a wonderful Norwegian restaurant, was a perfect place to dine on our first anniversary. After dinner, we visited the Andersons at the Carillon. They had been so helpful to us in planning that part of our wedding. And that infamous "top layer" of our wedding cake? We had a slice, of course, and it tasted just as good after a year in the freezer, even though Frank was suffering with reactions to the shots he'd had that week, in preparation for our upcoming European honeymoon.

This, and more to come--insights and memories of a quiet introvert--all a part of who I am.