If It's Sunday, This Must Be Sweden

Gotenburg, Sweden. Eurail passes allowed us to travel by train from here, in first class, non-smoking, glassed-in compartments with space enough to seat six, and as the only occupants, room enough for us to flip up the armrests and stretch out during our ride through some of Sweden's most beautiful countryside. This was my grandmother's homeland. We were on our way to Stockholm.

CHANGE was the name of the game on this trip. Changing languages, money systems, sleeping accommodations, food, and toilet facilities every few days, wax paper in England, no paper at all in the men's rooms at railway stations, according to the report I got. Just a wall of continuously running water. In Sweden, crepe paper. Basic needs. My travel journal notes mention basic needs, often.

We bought bread and cheese, and some milk at the station in Stockholm and found a hotel nearby. The woman who ran the place spoke no English but showed us to a large room. It was quite expensive but clean, with beds hard as boards, in fact that's what they were--slabs of wood--with almost no padding or bedding. "No wonder Swedes have such good posture!" Using thread from my sewing kit to slice the cheese, we ate a little, then huddled together in the unheated room, sharing one blanket. The wind was howling outside. This was summer in Sweden? 

Next morning, we got a real view of the islands, riding to the top of a tower in a glass elevator. To get to where we wanted to be took us on an unplanned walking tour through street construction being done as part of the change to right-hand traffic. We were detoured along near impossible-to-traverse walkways, even walking under the water near bridge re-construction. You could reach the WATER in just about any direction. Steps at City Hall, built near a spot where sea, gulf, and lake met, led right down into the water. Despite the language barrier, we thought we got our request for milk and fish on a bun across just fine at a small "no English spoken here" market. It wasn't milk that we got and although we were both very thirsty, whatever it was, it tasted so bad we had to throw it away.

My brother, Keith, gave me the name of his former mission companion, who, at the time of our trip, was president of the Swedish mission. "Give him a call and say hello, from me." The president was not in his office but the branch president asked if we'd like to stay with members. We jumped at the chance. Per his instruction, we took a tram out of the city, not knowing where we were going or who we'd meet. 

Herr Frohm, an elderly gentleman, was standing there on the station platform when we arrived, hands behind his back, shuffling his feet back and forth like a young school boy, with a bunch of carnations in his hands. In addition to his Swedish, he also spoke some Danish and a little German. His wife hugged us, warmly. She was a Dane who also spoke some Swedish. We followed them home and there, a Mr. Olsen whose office was next door, said he knew a little English and came over to translate. Turned out, he spoke very little English. A three-ringed circus of languages ensued, with Frohm and Olsen speaking mostly Swedish, Frohm and Frank attempting to communicate in German, a bit of Danish slipping in here and there, plus Frank's translation to English, for my benefit, of what he thought was being said. Herr Frohm understood that my father's cousin, Ake, lived in Stockholm so he began to work the phone, calling the branch president, the mission home, the Elders, my cousin and then he'd begin again, going through his call list, until arrangements had been made for us. 

The Frohm's moved themselves to the back rooms of their home, made us comfortable in the front of the house and gave us a key to the front door, in response to that one, simple phone call from their branch president. We were complete strangers to them and their president! Mrs. Frohm kept a small table in our assigned space filled with food and drink. Anytime we looked as though we were not on the move, she would repeat the only English words she knew, "Egg n Bacone"?  and bring more food to that table. They fussed and worried about us getting lost if we took 10 steps in any direction, though we were free to come and go as we pleased.

We had dinner with Ake and his wife, Lola, that evening. Ake was recovering from an illness that had robbed him of some of his English fluency so he spoke haltingly, asking us to correct his English and speak slowly. Their lovely apartment had a nice view overlooking a park. SUNSET at dusk was a beauty. He assured us that the wine he served before dinner was non-alcoholic. Having had no experience with wine of any kind or the service of such, I drank as soon as it was poured instead of waiting for the toast. And I continued drinking, as though sucking down a soda. Frank leaned over to whisper, "Don't gulp it down. Sip it!" How could I? There was only enough in those glasses for about one good swig, anyway, and I was thirsty! 

We were served small, open faced sandwiches--raw fish, smoked beef, liver sausage, and cream cheese with peas and carrots--and tomato juice to drink. Then came Ox steak, dilled potatoes, salad and another drink of some kind. Dessert was rye crisp with Swiss cheese and pears. I would not have refused anything but I did swallow the raw fish quickly, without chewing. Yikes! Just not something I'd ever had before. I felt a bit squeamish about it but tried not to show that. Ake gave us a lesson in Swedish. We had a grand time. Then he and Lola rode the tram with us, all the way back to Frohm's. Our hosts were waiting up for us.

Venturing into town, we found the very narrow, cobblestone street leading into the old part of Stockholm with Swedish flags flying all along and lots of interesting shops to investigate. We took flowers home to Sister Frohm. She seemed thrilled! Our gesture, though a common custom for the area, we'd learned, brought on another round of hugs and kisses. Missionaries--one from Ogden, UT--had been invited for dinner. After the meal, we took the Tunnelbana to the branch house for MIA. All the young Swedes spoke English. We were taken on a tour of the ultra-modern building with its unusual steeple. I was asked to play the organ and give a critique of the instrument. It was different from anything I'd played on before but very nice, just like the building, itself. In addition to the Swedes, we met Germans, Finns, Norwegians and even a few Americans, there.  

Ake and Lola took us on a bus tour of the city. We stopped for pastry at a beautiful roof garden cafe atop "NK", the largest department store in Stockholm at that time. We went home with them to have Swedish pancakes. Aw-w-w...I really was in Sweden! The only problem was that when we returned to Frohms, there was, on the table, a fresh torte--thin crepes stacked with Lingonberry Jam between each layer and we were expected to eat it all! I spent a good part of that night in the bathroom. Despite that experience, I still love, love, love Swedish pancakes!

Bro. Frohm wanted to go everywhere with us and like doting grandparents, he and Ake bought us postcards and ice cream wherever we went. Bro. Frohm took us to see a 16th Century Swedish war ship called, Vasa, that sank on its maiden voyage and had just been brought up from the ocean floor for a restoration attempt. That process was very interesting to see, the shell of a ship cradled and braced within a specially built platform, being misted and sprayed constantly to keep it from drying too quickly. Wooden walkways zig-zagged all around the structure, giving curious onlookers, like us, a view of history.

Apparently, the camera had malfunctioned, so we boarded a night train an hour or two before midnight one evening to make the 10-hour trip back to Norway to retake some pictures. Bright sunshine through train windows woke us by 2:00 am. Getting enough sleep in a part of the world where there was more daylight than nightlight was a challenge. We had flown into Oslo the first time we were there. Arriving by train and seeing everything from ground level was a whole new experience. We rode a cog tram to its last stop up the mountain, through some of the most beautiful scenery we had seen yet, then hiked higher to reach a ski lift that took us to an observation tower near the top of a mountain. We walked to a ski jump site. That was amazing even in summer. Kids were swimming in a nearby lake. It was wonderful to hear bird calls. The hot dogs were delicious, served with onions dried in some way and a very hot sauce. This day-trip back to Norway was so worth it! 

Back in Stockholm, we went to Djergardon to see Skansen, an exercise in the preservation of houses, landscaping, costuming, skills and craftmanship from Swedish history. In the evening, we shared smorgbrod and soppa with Lola and Ake one last time, then returned to what had been our home away from home to say our goodbyes to the Frohms.

Traveling at night again, we awoke very early, finding ourselves on a ferry--the entire train car--heading towards Denmark. Lucky thing, since that's where we wanted to go! On shore, the car was connected to another train and we were off to Copenhagen. Almost everything in Stockholm had been expensive. I'd hoped to buy even a small piece of Royal Danish Porcelain, but like Stockholm, nearly everything was expensive in Copenhagen. Everything, except the pastry. Affordable and the best tasting thing of its kind I'd ever eaten, we lived on it the entire time we were there! Oh, you just had to ask. The answer is,"Yes", we both gained a bit of weight even though our infatuation with Danish pastry was brief.

Denmark was celebrating its 800th birthday! We joined the celebration, attending the parade, then visiting the "Little Mermaid", a "must see" if you are in Copenhagen. In that part of the harbor, there were beautiful gardens, and plush restaurants. The royal yacht was anchored across the way. If it was a sunny day, a carved figure of a girl on her bicycle appeared atop a weather tower. If it was rainy, she appeared with her umbrella. We said ,"Hello", to Hans Christian Anderson, took a look at the tower sculpture with dragons at the stock exchange, and found the Lutheran church, built of towers of bricks to resemble organ pipes. It was bright inside and inviting. So many religious structures we'd seen, so far, were tomb-like. Inside, there was a beautiful, pipe organ and the traditional model ship hanging from the ceiling. http://www.danishmuseum.org/fhgc/aoat/Viking_church_ship.pdf

Tivoli, another "must see", was an amusement park with rides and carnival acts, a live orchestra playing, a ballet being performed, and lots of gambling tables in full operation. [I didn't know then that I'd end up living stateside in a place known for its gambling casinos.] A young boy's marching band dressed much like the Royal Palace guards, came through the grounds, winding along paths, playing as they went by. Enjoying the park, we barely made our train connection. Crossing another span of water by ferry, we stretched out to catch some much needed Z's. A little after midnight, we were awakened and told we must change cars. This meant picking our way down train tracks, half asleep. Once we were aboard the new car, several conductors passed through at least a dozen times, checking passports and tickets. It was a pretty sleepless night.

So, ... what day was it? We had bypassed Brussels and the view from the train now was of flat land, few trees, no pines, thatched roofs and windmills. This must be Amsterdam. Closer to the city, it appeared that every house had what looked like a TV antenna attached. Entering our hotel required pulling a rope while standing on the third step from the bottom to unlatch the door. [Did I say earlier that hotels were boring? Seemed a bit complicated at first but this was just plain, old fun!] Our room was on the third floor, up narrow stairs. Everyone shared ONE bathroom, two flights down. I think it was here that the toilet tank was affixed to the wall high above the throne, literally a throne, with the antique-looking appliance bolted to a platform maybe a foot or so off the floor. 

The entire city was built on wooden piles. A cruise through the canals informed us about the land of Amsterdam, too soft to support buildings, and what little there was of it was made possible only by constant pumping. Buildings were decorated, every one with a different facade. Windows on the "ground" level were large. The house owner lived there. Windows got smaller on the next level and so on. They were quite small at the top floor, where the servants of the household lived.  

We learned quickly to dodge bikes. In a population of 600,000 at the time of our visit, 400,000 bikes were on the roads, the streets, everywhere. Museums captured our attention, though I wasn't educated, prepared or mature enough to truly appreciate the fact that I was seeing the original works of Rembrandt--"The Nightwatch"--and Van Goghs--one entire museum dedicated to his art, exclusively--and other priceless works of art. The diamond factory tour was certainly interesting. It took a worker eight hours just to cut the facets on one small stone. We took the guide's word on that and didn't stick around to watch the entire process.

Food was inexpensive, often served family style and SUPERBLY delicious. For about $5, both of us were served steak and potatoes, vegetables and salad, about twice as much as we could eat! Whipped cream appeared on almost everything. Sandwich shops were popular. Roast beef was served VERY rare. In the street markets, you'd find a guy with a wooden mallet in hand, ready to kill a fresh eel for you, just for the asking. The real delicacy was raw hamburger, eaten on a soft bun, and raw herring with chopped onions. Amsterdam had a peculiar odor, all its own. You couldn't escape it. Was it the canals, the raw meat and fish, or the onions?

Seeing the countryside of Belgium where men and women were working in the fields, wearing traditional dress and wooden shoes, was a BONUS, on our way to Paris, France. We traveled through field after field of flowers, hay piled in little stacks, then hung on frames to dry, herds of cows, on very flat landscape. As we got closer to Paris, the land rose up a bit more, became more hilly and green. It appeared to be a mighty friendly place, people kissing all over the place. Well, what could be more romantic than moonlight on the Seine? Paris--the Louver, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame--was fully lighted at night. Just for us, announcing our arrival? Just kidding, but it sure made the night tour of the city impressive. 

Paris was not nearly as impressive in the light of day but Frank thought I should attend the Follies Bergere performance to complete my European cultural shock experience. I agreed to this but while standing in line, I kept looking around and over my shoulder to be sure that no one who knew me would witness what I was about to do. You know what the Follies are, right?

The Metro required lots of energy to climb at least two flights of stairs and then descend again in order to reach the track needed and to get anywhere usually meant a couple of train changes. That amounted to a whole lot of stair climbing, in hot and humid weather. We didn't dare drink the brown, smelly water but found it difficult to find anything to drink that hadn't been made with that water. Locals drank wine, almost exclusively. We finally talked one waitress into bringing us hot milk as she served our typical Continental breakfast of french bread, coffee or tea. By lunchtime, we'd found the BEST steak and pom fritz, ever, for about a dollar and began a Coke Cola habit. That became our one meal of each day while we were in Paris. And our evening drink, when we could find it. 

Streets were narrow. Everyone seemed to be carrying a loaf of french bread, sans any wrapping. French men all looked feminine to me, and were often rude. I didn't see fashion on the street like I had expected to find. City traffic was not to be believed, with three speeds, wound, maim, and kill. It seemed to be one, big free-for-all. I packed a box of things we didn't need with us and would put in storage, to be picked up later, on our way back through Paris, to get to the boat to go home. The message had already been made clear that Parisians had a strong dislike for "Americans". The store clerk made our purchase of string to tie up our box, difficult, first by pretending she neither spoke nor understood English--not true--then being uncooperative about the purchase. Our accommodations in Paris had been crummy, dirty sheets when we arrived, and hot water, infrequently. To take a bath or plug in my iron cost extra. We were glad to check out. The front desk person refused our request for a cab call.

It was a L-O-N-G way up, to the top of the Eiffel Tower but the view of the city from there was terrific. A boat tour along the Seine took us past many landmarks and a whole lot of bridges. Frank left me sitting with our bags in a park at the Louvre, while he took pictures. Two Frenchmen sure took an interest in me. Or was it our bags? Having seen all that french bread, we bought some, and cheese and had a picnic, just like the natives, on the train ride to Barcelona, Spain. We had the misfortune of having company for this leg of our journey. Even when she realized that we couldn't understand her, the woman would not stop talking.  We turned the lights out to stop the noise and changed trains just across the border, going through customs yet again.

Terraced hillsides, fields and arbors of grapes, Spanish architecture, a train with no drinking water or bathroom facilities. That last stretch to Barcelona was rough. Amazed that the train stayed on the tracks, right side up, transportation in this part of the world was not what we'd grown accustomed to, but the view of the Mediterranean was grand and so-o-o BLUE. The breeze coming off the Sea in the South of Spain was welcome; It was their warmest summer in a long time. 

What was going on with the cab drivers at the station? Some drivers refused to take passengers and just sat in their taxis. Some would drive off with an empty cab. Some took fares only when customers ran into the street and got, what appeared to us, physical. One of the drivers came to us. Watching the hustling and goings on made us suspicious of him. He tried repeatedly to have us understand what he was offering. When we didn't, he would walk away, throw up his hands and say, "Momma Mia", but then return to us to try again. Finally, we followed him to his taxi. All the way to our hotel, he kept talking. About us and how difficult we had been? Why could we not see how very simple it all was? Even laughing at us, the dumb Americans? We didn't know but his fee was so small, Frank gave him double the amount for all his trouble. The hotel was a bit of paradise after the place in Paris and the wreck of a train ride we'd had. Having a shower, the first in about 10 days, was paradise.

A tour of the city included some sights like the unfinished monstrosity called a church, a bull fight where two soldiers tried to pick me up, a night club flamenco performance and Coke Cola! We were not soda drinkers until we ran out of safe drinking water after leaving Copenhagen but we reasoned that the water in Coke had been treated during the bottling process, making it safer to drink than plain water. Evidently, Spaniards in Spain disliked Americans, too.

 Along Ramblos, Barcelona's main street, there was cart after cart of flowers. A big open air market along the promenade sold everything, fruit, fishes and meats, snacks of many kinds. We'd been cautioned so we kept to bread, cheese, and fruit that could be peeled. Hustlers practically dragged us onto a boat for a harbor tour, one far more industrial than picturesque. Our tour entertainment was a guy playing around with an accordion, not actually playing any music, then asking for money. Young boys took great delight in peeing in the streets. We had to really hunt to find places to buy bread and cheese safe to eat. Fresh vegetables were off limits. I think it was here or nearly so that Fanta orange soda also became another staple in our diet. 

We were in a taxi and on our way to the train station when Frank discovered he still had the hotel key in his hand. We had to go back. At the train station, again, we were told we must stand in a line. Tickets, even though we had passes? That line we stood in for quite some time put us on a train much nicer than the one we'd traveled into Barcelona on, an express train all air conditioned and comfy. An old Englishman caused quite an uproar. He spoke only English, really, but tried to use the few words of several languages he'd picked up, all in the same sentence. No one understood him. Even his English was questionable. Each time the train slowed down, he thought it was time to change trains. He'd been told a dozen times that he'd be advised of stops or changes but every time an official came through the car, he'd follow them along, asking questions they could not understand. Poor dear. He needed a travel companion.

We changed trains, thinking we were going, as planned, to the Riviera. Wrong train. We jumped off at the next stop, then decided not to go through what it would take to get back to board the right train so we jumped back on just before it pulled away from the station, literally, passing through some beautiful country, green valleys and mountains, a little like Austria. We were not far from the Swiss border so we saw lots more greenery than any part of Span or France had displayed before. Changed trains again in Marsharey and found it so comfortable, we stayed on to Rome, and from Rome, a train to Naples.

No wonder there was such activity going on in the Rome train station, with people jockeying for hotel, taxi, and train space. What a ride it was to Naples, Frank and I and others stood in the aisle in the end car the entire way. It was summer vacation time for the locals and the trains were jam-packed. It seemed that to get along with Italians required shoving, pushing, and a lot of hollering. That's how they seemed to cope with each other. It was a very, hot trip with another train change along the way to Sorrento. As the train climbed up the side of a mountain a bit, passing orange and lemon groves, row upon row of olive trees and grape vineyards, the air cooled a little. Run-down houses and dirty, unsupervised kids were also a part of the scene. Some people seemed to be existing in holes in the ground. From Naples, we made brief runs to Sorrento and Capri.

Sorrento was small, without the hustle and bustle of bigger cities, built on cliffs that rise straight out of the Mediterranean Sea. A purple flowering vine of some sort hung along walls. Flowers were everywhere. Our hotel had a shower in the room! We wandered the street, enjoying the best Italian Ice--reminded us of Snelgroves--and had dinner in an outdoor cafe, created by simply placing tables at the end of a dead-end street. I had spaghetti. Frank had some bad chicken. And against our better judgement and the cautions we'd been given, a green salad. That would come back to haunt us, later on. Like Sorrento, Capri was a city built on cliffs but it lacked the atmosphere of Sorrento. The return to Naples was a pleasant ride, cool and damp, passing fishing boats and flying fish along the way. We walked across the city. It was a dirty place. At the train station, we were soon on our way back to Rome.

It was clear as we approached, that the train station in Rome was on fire. Heavy, billowing clouds of smoke made it difficult to tell how much of the station was in flames. We had left most of our baggage there in storage to make our travel to Sorento easier. The closer we got, the surer we were that we'd lost everything. Finally off the train and in the station, we were allowed to retrieve our smoky bags from the storage unit that had escaped the fire. With a few clean clothes, we checked the rest of our bags at an air terminal, hoping of course that there would be no danger of fire there, and caught another train to Venice that evening.

Arriving in the early morning, we hopped on a boat going to Lido Island, intending to sleep on the beach but the sun was already up and it was hot. There was also a pricey fee to get onto the beach. Finding a half-shaded park bench, we took turns sleeping. The place filled up quickly so we took a boat back to the main canal of Venice. There had been flooding and much damage done to priceless works of art--the homes and building facades--but the grandeur of the city was still reflected in much of what we saw. Like no other city, all travel was done on water. No cars, no bikes allowed. The famous gondola's had fallen victim to racket pricing--too expensive for us to consider--so we stuck to bus boats, slow but cheap. Our ride down the "Grand Canal" was...GRAND! Watching artisans blow glass was fascinating. Spaghetti and soup for lunch and window shopping. Elegant lace, hand worked tablecloths, beautiful jewelry, and much more. We sat at the Piazza San Marco Square to watch day turn to evening. Light posts in the water glittered. Buildings were all lighted at night and with an orchestra playing in a sidewalk cafe at our right, the Canals of Venice to our left it was such a lovely evening drinking in the charm of a truly different atmosphere and way of life. The pizza--nothing like what we called pizza at home--was Really good. At midnight, we took a train to Florence and from there to Pisa, just to see the Leaning Tower of. Yup, it was leaning, alright, just one of the three structures of the same building but all separated from each other, the church, itself, the dome sitting on the ground, and the tower, leaning. The question that hung in the air? "How far can it lean before it falls?"

Europe on Five Dollars a Day, More or Less

Journal entry from May 31, Wednesday, 1967...

"This is the day we have been waiting a long time for. Our day was full with errands to run, travelers checks to get, odds and ends shopping, packing and re-packing. Finally arrived at the airport [Salt Lake City]. Lorraine and Ruth Ann and Susan came to see us off. Also, Aunt Valois and Uncle Paul, all the South's and Scott. Frank is nervous and getting a bit scatterbrained. He has asked everything, twice! Boarded the plane, a United Airlines Jet. Karen and Dale came rushing on[to] the plane, handed me a package and asked me to unwrap it. Darling, yellow nightie!"

It was a rough ride to Denver--made dinner service difficult to balance, between bumps--and raining. Changed planes in Chicago, arriving in Baltimore at 2:30 in the morning. Despite ear pressure  and headache, we took turns sleeping on a bench in the airport until we could claim a rental car at 7:00. By 8:00 AM, the agency had not received the car reservation from our travel agent so we took a bus into Washington, then set out on foot to see what D.C. was all about. My first impression? GRAY, but that changed as we closed in on the historic sites I'd only read or heard about--the White House and the Capitol Building, Lincoln and Washington Memorials, and the Natural History Museum at the Smithsonian. What a way to break in new shoes! By day's end, our feet were shot! I had worn a girdle and hose all day. It was the 60's but I hadn't been liberated, yet!

The plane out of NYC was crowded, every seat filled by tour group old ladies whose loud chattering was endless and crying kids. I had a window seat. The pilot flew along the coast before turning and heading out over the Atlantic. That was the strangest feeling, watching the landmass get smaller, the coastline disappear from sight, then just water, as far as I could see in any direction. Dinner was served about midnight.

See Europe on five dollars a day? That's what the travel guidebook claimed and we were sure we could do it by: Renting a room in homes of a few listed as willing (cheaper and more interesting than hotels), Using Eurail for travel while sleeping, Eating cheaply, Limiting souvenir purchases. Saving what we could, after bills were paid, from my salon tips and paycheck and Frank's wages, the entire trip was paid for before we left the US to fulfill Frank's dream of seeing friends from his mission days. Pretty impressive for two kids in their first year married, I'd say.

My watch said it was 4:00 am. Through my window, sea and land were coming together again. The pilot announced that it was actually 9:00 o'clock, as we landed in Shannon, with immigration cards already complete. Even without any hitch through customs, the 9:15 flight to Dublin left without us. It was cold and damp when we arrived there, an hour behind schedule. Customs? Again? "Flying in from the US? Any cigarettes or spirits?" If we'd had any spirits, a good, stiff drink might have warmed us up a bit.

Dublin was so GREEN. Fields were divided by rows of trees. Everything looked miniature. Houses constructed of rough cement were soot-stained from many chimney-burnings. Every window was dressed in beautiful, Irish lace curtains. Mrs. Tyrrell made us feel at home almost immediately. She ran a boarding house for students in winter months, tourists in summer. Figuring out the phone system to let her know we'd arrived was a challenge, then getting there by taxi was a thrills-a-minute event and...wait a minute...weren't we driving on the "wrong" side of the road? Offering us cream crackers and hot milk, she then suggested we take a rest. So in the middle of our first day abroad, we put on our PJ's--much too cold for that sexy, yellow nightie gifted me as we prepared for takeoff in SLC--and climbed into bed with the hot water bottle she provided. Stampeding, wild horses could not have awakened us until, in the early evening, we dressed to go out, caught a bus into downtown for some sightseeing and ate what the natives called a hamburger. It was more like a sausage but a nice ending to our first day away from home.

The call to breakfast came early. It was not the Continental meal described in the handbook but healthy portions of juice, oatmeal, bacon and sausage, eggs, two kinds of bread and milk! Delicious! About in the city, I loved hearing the brogue roll off the tongues of locals but the traffic was pure pandemonium. No one paid any mind to anything. It was just one big, bumper-car amusement-park ride! Air travel had its own problems. During the flight to Scotland, there was much groaning and creaking and the door of that rickety, bucket of bolts popped ajar repeatedly.

Frank was looking like a pro by now, stepping right out into the street to whistle for a cab in Glasgow. Mrs. MacCullum showed us to the room I described as: "Darling, large, and comfy but cold--they all seem to be--with a large bathroom, the best I've seen in Europe so far! I can hardly wait for my first bath in four days!" Our window on the second story overlooked the chimneys of all of Scotland or so it seemed. The breakfast/sitting room, its period furnishings and white fireplace, looked out on expertly, manicured gardens. I was relieved that I could understand our host. Though said to be English-speaking, Scots were hard to understand.  There was also a "charming" Pomeranian puppy in residence. 

On Buchanan St., lawn bowlers asked to explain their game said they couldn't explain it to themselves, let alone to us! Gothic architecture, lawns covered in tiny, white daises, this was part of a huge park that surrounded Glasgow University, an art gallery and museum. Observing that drinks were not automatically served with ice, I ordered mine with ice, at lunch. It was served with ice cream in it, and quizzical expressions from the server. Perhaps the idea of floating ice cream in one's drink caught on once I'd introduced it! We had not seen the SUN since leaving US shores.

After Sunday morning breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and milk--both milk and bacon had an unfamiliar flavor--and I'd commented on the unique toaster with heating coils exposed on two sides, we took the Underground to catch a train to Edinburgh. Another bus ride took us to the base of an old castle built on a massive mountain of rock providing an incredible view to anyone willing to make the climb. We made the climb to the top, through cobblestone streets, passing Scottie dogs and men in kilts. Wow! I really was in Scotland! Along the way, beside the shrine to those lost in battle, was a dog cemetery, honoring Yum-Yum, Major, Gyp and other dogs of soldiers. The Royal Mile, with a lot to see along the way, ended at the Palace of Holyroadhouse. The twists-and-turns design of huge, heavy wrought iron gates gave them a lacy and light appearance.  Surrounding fields divided by rocks piled without mortar presented a landscape different from Ireland. Oops, not the right place to exit the bus. We simply rode back to the castle and walked into town. I wanted pictures of the gardens. Frank was focused on history and architecture. Taxi's here were plush, like riding in a stateside limo. Men were required to pay three cents to use the bathroom; I was charged only one penny. Well, I think that's what it cost. Changing money every few days, I often just held out my hand with coins in it. 

The plane from Glasgow to Manchester, England was another old crate that rattled and bounced along. Hearing that one went down just two days before, five or six miles away, didn't ease my mind, any. Yet, I was a bit intrigued by England. Both my mother and my father were of English and Wales ancestry. Baggage handlers were on strike when we landed. Shuttling our luggage from place to place was an ever-present issue. Here in Manchester, with little more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes with us, we put our bags in storage. That was something we continued to do, along the way. Phone service was as unpredictable in Manchester as we'd found it in Ireland and Scotland. A cell phone would have come in handy! 

Ed Fox, a South cousin, who was serving a mission in the area, arranged a night's stay for us at his boarding house. It was a small place with a tiny kitchen yet Sister Kerr fed her family, the missionaries, and about seven other boarders, cooking on a little, two-burner stove. She stacked her pans and served every one a hot meal at the same time! That was amazing to me. She was just as amazed to learn that I had modern conveniences, at home in the US.  Her Yorkshire pudding and her sponge cake...DIVINE! She prepared the sponge, carried in a large metal bowl on her hip for what seemed like a long time, beating air into the batter with a wooden spoon. Should anyone venture past the kitchen, she would hand over the bowl and spoon, expecting a little help while she gave her arm a rest. 

One of the boarders was studying hairdressing. He asked a lot of questions. Once he'd heard that I'd been licensed and was working in a salon with just one year of study, he was convinced that America was the place for him, compared to the five-year apprenticeship he'd have to complete to earn only a 10% commission wage. Mr. Kerr jokingly said he was ready to go home to the US with us, too. He supported his wife in her care of the missionaries, was a bit more reserved than his Mrs., had great personality and a dry sense of humor, something you might expect of an Englishman. We enjoyed this family a lot, Sister and Mr. Kerr and their young son, Peter. "Come stay another night with us before you go on to London." 

The sun was SHINING in Harrogate, the air warm enough to enjoy "Ice Lollies"--ice cream in square cones--at the mission home. Ruth McComber, another South cousin, was going with us to York! While I was awed by that building's history as part of a great estate, still surrounded by Victorian Era-styled gardens with finely crafted furnishings--carved ceilings and woodwork--my personal favorite was the Steinway grand piano. 

Roman stone walls still surrounded the city of York. Frank, the history/anthropology major/minor was in his element. While observing repairs being done at The Minster Cathedral, largest of its kind in Northern Europe, a clergyman explained much about the building and its history to us. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/York_Minster ) We walked along The Shambles where the buildings lean in so roof tops almost touch each other. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shambles )  After spending a great day seeing as much of York and its history as we could in the time we had, getting back to Manchester, our bus driver stopped to pick up a woman, very obese and totally wasted. She could not navigate the bus steps on her own so the driver squeezed himself around her. Once outside the door, he got behind her to push and get her the rest of the way into the bus. At her stop, instead of getting off, she sat down on the steps, tilting the whole bus at quite an angle. I was thinking, "How often do these double-deckers flip over?" No amount of coaxing could get her to move. Our driver, poor man, had to pick up as much of her as he could muster and physically move her off those steps. The Kerrs were waiting up for us with sandwiches and sweets. We talked until after midnight. Next morning, after breakfast and pictures together, we were off to catch our flight to London. 

Approaching the city, the pilot circled the whole of it, giving his passengers a magnificent view. London seemed to stretch on just about forever! Once on the ground, we took the wrong subway and had a nice ride back and forth, this time, underground! Then, Tower of London where so many heads had rolled before it became the home of the Crown Jewels, Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abby, the final resting place for the likes of Charles Dickens, Handel, Tennyson, Elliott, and others, a small mention of things to see. We sat in on a session in the House of Commons. As we were leaving St. Paul's Cathedral, a wedding party was exiting through a side door, men in tailed coats and top hats, ladies in fancy, after-five attire. Our guide commented, "They would have to be very wealthy to afford a wedding at St. Paul's!" Most men appeared quite dapper on the streets of London, many walking with a cane in the crook of an arm. Was this a movie set? Unless they were wearing a mini-mini--and some were--women drew less attention. "Duck", "Love", "Dear", "Cheerio", "Ta", "Jolly good", or "Smashing", all common expressions heard. Baths had been few and far between but London included that bit of heaven, though good drinking water and milk were sometimes hard to find. Tea was the drink of choice of locals. Food was greasy and mostly unremarkable. Hard rolls were the only thing I found eatable in the city. We had been totally spoiled by Sister Kerr's marvelous cooking.

The clock alarm--set to Off instead of On--was the reason we missed a tour and breakfast we'd paid for. There was still time to watch the ceremonial Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. The band was playing. Mother would have loved the many rose gardens. Swans, pelicans, and ducks shared space on the lake. Horses on site were skillfully groomed and trained. I thought my bothers would appreciate that. A crowd had gathered for the ceremony, also hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen. Frank had to hold his camera above his head to shoot film, the crowd was so large. Then, from behind me, a woman grabbed a handful of my hair and gave it quite a hard yank!

So this was Norway. We loved it from the start. We knew not one word of Norwegian, could read no signs or make sense of the money, but Oslo had cold milk and clean air, a welcome change from London's coal burning, smoking chimneys and blokes blowing smoke that changed my white blouses to something gray and smoky by day's end! Flying in over the Fjords was quite a sight. From grassy countryside, forested hills rose straight up out of the water. There were massively HUGE ships in the harbor. Frank said the SS France that would take us home was even larger. I couldn't imagine it. The people were friendly and helpful. We got caught in a downpour, the first one of that day, but dried out quickly. In the early morning, sitting on the dock as the shrimp boats came into the harbor, we had all we could eat for about 50 cents. Being so far north, it didn't get dark until 11 o'clock in the evening, Time enough to ferry across to the Viking Museum to see ships, once used by royalty, reconstructed from thousands of pieces found at burial sites beneath the water. We also visited the Kon-Tiki memorial, got caught in the rain again, and thought we'd lost our passports. After anxious moments, the lost were found at the hotel desk.That wasn't the only thing that made me anxious. Our plane to Gotenburg, Sweden was a tiny, two-engine flying machine with seats for about six people! The runway began and ended at the water's edge but once in the air, the view was breathtakingly beautiful, once again above the Fjords, much forested area and very little flat land. Sweden was also a part of whom I am.

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.

Weston Woman Marries...Almost Took the Cake

March 18 of '66 had been a bit of a whirlwind day for me. Married during Spring break, Frank had just finished finals week and would receive his BA degree, soon. In addition to the preparations for our wedding, I had been working long hours at the Salon, sewing, and making trips back and forth to Weston to finalize preparations for a "Just Married" celebration there. I'd had the worst migraine of my life overnight, but we were up early the morning of the 19th, having breakfast with Frank's dad, Bill. We had a two to three hour drive ahead of us, but all we had to do was show up. My sister was in charge of getting my dress and veil to the church in Weston. My roommates would be transporting the tiered wedding cake. A simple double ring backdrop--rented from Edward's Floral in Preston and barely used as it turned out--would be delivered and put in place in Weston Ward's Cultural Hall at some time during the day. Brother and Sister Olsen would set up tables and chairs for guests to sit, visit and enjoy refreshments that were being delivered by Edward's, also. Remember, an older crowd was anticipated. The Relief Society room where my trousseau would be available to Mother and her friends was separated from the Hall by a folding wall. That would be unlocked, the wall pushed back by the time we arrived. I'd left instructions and a diagram of how I envisioned the Hall arrangement, a place highlighted as the perfect spot to reserve for the wedding cake. I hoped we'd have restored energy as there would be dancing!

Frank and I arrived in Weston late and found 135 guests waiting to shake our hands and have a cup of Frappe! 

MerLyn was in the dressing room, standing and holding my dress, a safeguard against having to press it again. It had slipped off it's hanger on the trip to Idaho and she had just spent a great deal of time pressing, so afraid of scorching the delicate fabric or lace.

In the interest of keeping to my original idea for an informal evening, I hadn't planned to stand in a receiving line in front of that double-ringed backdrop rental set up in the Cultural Hall for more than a few minutes at the beginning of the evening. I just thought we'd mingle but at the Weston Ward building, after entering through the front entrance and walking into the foyer, the first thing you saw was an entire wall of glass. This was just too inviting to pass up. Everyone agreed to stand in place there, to begin to shake hands and thank those who had already arrived, for their patience in waiting. My brothers, Sylvan and Marion, stood with Mother, somewhat symbolic of my father's absence, I thought, and a nice gesture.

When I walked into the Hall and saw that the cake, my beautiful wedding cake, was not in its place in the spotlight, but pushed more into a corner, the "why" spilled out.

The cake was not overly large, three-tiers, pillared, a traditional wedding fruit cake--yummy, moist, hearty, like a really good applesauce cake with raisins and nuts that a mother or grandma-ma might have baked for the occasion--rested on a large, cut glass base from Mrs. Anderson's personal collection. It was simply embellished with many, delicate rows of perfectly precise, loops of icing, layered in such a way as to stand away from the cake and create a 3-D effect of hanging lace. Hand-crocheted lace bells and a sprig of Lilly of the Valley topped this stunner of a cake.  Mrs. Anderson urged me not to cut into it at the Carillon reception and transport it to Weston for the "Open House". The trip, with the cake sitting on the front seat of Lorraine's car, had been uneventful, until about a mile or two from journey's end, with the church in sight. Another driver ran a stop sign! Lorraine was forced to slam on her brakes! And rather than lose the entire cake in a heap on the floor, or risk damaging that borrowed base, Ruth Ann quickly put her fist through the back of all that beautiful frosting lace and cake, grabbing onto the middle pillars, saving it from complete disaster. So instead of placing the cake in its originally intended spot for an all-around view, my cousin, Leone, had positioned it with the damaged part facing a corner, the still intact, three-quarters of the cake still on display, looking as if nothing had happened!

This was a fun time. Everyone danced. Mother appeared to enjoy herself, though her friends voiced disappointment in not seeing the gifts opened. I hadn't heard any chatter regarding numbers of pillow cases or dish towels and such from those who had taken the opportunity to visit the Trousseau room. We cut the wedding cake and served it along with the Petit Fours and Frappe, saving the top layer, of course, for our first anniversary.  Though utterly exhausted, Frank and I drove back to Salt Lake in the wee hours of the morning, some of that drive, asleep at the wheel, no doubt.

We stopped by Commonwealth Ave. the next afternoon, to say goodbye to the South's on our way out of town. We planned to honeymoon for a few days in San Francisco. Frank's dad handed us a $50 dollar check. Crossing the Nevada desert, the fuel pump died. Our cash was quickly eaten up, filling the car at little one-pump stops until we got to a station equipped to do repairs.

We had a great time sightseeing that first day in San Fran but were so low on money, we didn't dare risk buying food. We hadn't cashed that check before leaving Salt Lake and now, our out-of-state check was refused. The next morning, Frank remembered a cousin he hadn't seen since he was about 10 years old.  Spence Egli lived in Las Altos, and...he worked at a bank. After cashing our check, he took us home for fried chicken. We were so-o-o hungry but didn't want to appear ravenous. It took some control to eat a reasonable amount, slowly while making polite conversation!

In Carmel, we walked the white, sandy beaches, then drove the 90 torturous, cliff-hanging miles to see Hurst Castle at San Simeon only to find that the tours had closed. In Monterey, I got up early to set my hair. With Frank still sleeping, I ventured out to the car to retrieve something. On my return, I discovered I had locked myself out of the room. I banged on the door. He woke up, looked out the window, didn't recognize the woman standing there in curlers and crawled back into bed!

Driving back home by way of Lake Tahoe, we ran out of gas somewhere near the Toelle junction. We could scrape up only 75 cents between us but we made it the rest of the way home on that.

From our first apartment on Yale Avenue--the basement of a lovely home in a beautiful neighborhood--I went back to work while building a little nest, and making what I thought were grand dinners. I was no cook but Frank ate everything I made, with lots of Ketchup. Sometime, in those first weeks, friends and relatives were invited to come for dessert and enjoy opening wedding presents with us.

Beginning a new chapter, with a new name and title, Mrs. South, is a part of who I once was--a wife. 

Go...in' to the Cha-pel and I'm, Go...nna' Get Mar-r-r-ied

Six months to plan and pay for a wedding? Did I do that? I sure did. The Merc stayed in Weston when I left for the big city so once my bills were paid and my savings account had been fed, I had a bit of dispensable cash. I wouldn't want to mislead a reader into thinking I was making big money working in a beauty shop. Not on 40% commission and $5 hair cuts! I'd never handled money before I went into the beauty business so how did I figure out how to spend smart for things important to me even before the notion of an "I Do" became a reality? I loved shopping in downtown Salt Lake City. It was mostly window shopping, mind you, but I loved talking china, crystal, and flatware or linens, color and fabrics or housewares, furniture, and other such with salespeople on my day off, hoping to educate myself. I liked the challenge of "want but too expensive" versus "same look for less". Buying for a someday took on new meaning, with a wedding date set.  

The ceremony: It helped that Frank's dad was the President of the South Salt Lake Stake and could walk us through arrangements for our marriage in the Salt Lake Temple. I remember feeling just a bit awkward, however, interviewing with my stake president, who was also my future father-in-law.  

After the wedding: I chose the Carillon in Bountiful for a reception and booked the church in Weston for what I intended to be a simple, meet-and-greet open house. That grew to become a second, full-blown reception! When and how did I lose control?

Invitations: Raised print--same look-feel as engraving without the cost, Old English font style, on ivory paper. Beautiful paper, beautiful print for an important announcement.

Refreshments: Although I'd been exposed to lavish food spreads at weddings in the big city, I chose to serve simple, ice cream pie at the Carillon, and in Weston, petit fours, and the traditional wedding sweet of my childhood, Frappe!

Attire: Still sewing on my little straight-stitch, forward only, Morse machine, I made three bridesmaid dresses--full length, Empire styled delustered satin, a soft but rich color of avocado-ish green--and created rolled-rose headpieces and hand mitts from the same fabric; Shoes dyed to match. The same satin plus lace for the bodice, same shade and style of dress, went by mail to my sister near Seattle, WA. She would be my matron of honor. Carma, my brother's wife, living near Pocatello, ID, made flower girl frocks in pastel peach for two nieces [Kay and Kathy]. Mae Tingey, a family friend in Weston, ID made Mother's dress. Frank's mom, Jane, had a regular dressmaker in SLC. In other words, it took a village! 

Aunt Vera in Preston, ID made everything I would need in the temple for my endowment, marriage and sealing ordinances, including a lovely but simple temple dress of Pique, perhaps, with many tiny, round, covered buttons down the front and a lace-trimmed collar--a special temple dress because I felt uncomfortable about wearing a dress outside, once I had worn it inside the temple to receive sacred ordinances. The dress I'd purchased would be worn at the two reception celebrations.

Both mothers, mine and his, went shopping with me for fabric. I pointed something out to Mother. She liked it. Wow, that was quick! I then turned my attention to Jane. She wanted what Mother had chosen. None of us liked the idea of the mothers dressing alike so Mother moved on to make a different selection. Jane wanted that one, too. Several more attempts were made with the same result. It took a long time but, at last, a decision was reached. In similar shades of green, lace for Mother, crepe for Frank's mom. It was quite a surprise when Jane came to the reception wearing a dress from her closet, something she had worn and loved, from an earlier time and place, a taffeta waltz-length ball gown, a bit faded with age. Reason for her change of heart? Never came up in conversation.

A trousseau was traditional in my family. My mother and sister, aunts, my brother's wives had made me beautiful hand-stitched finery, some of it with lovely crocheted edgings and beautiful embroidery. My siblings bought me a small cedar chest for my graduation from high school, to store these pretty things in. Often, women of a bride's family hosted a "Trousseau Tea" prior to the wedding. Punch and cookies were served. The trousseau would be on display. This is where the idea of hosting an Open House in Weston began, as a way of having my mother feel included in the wedding festivities. Instead of a "Tea", I'd agreed to have some of my things on display at the "Open House" turned "Reception" for Mother and her aging relatives and friends. I spent a few days in Weston just before the wedding, setting up the display in my own way because I didn't want to create an opportunity for those little old ladies to count my crochet-edged pillow cases, then sit in judgement of my worth as a bride, as I'd imagined this custom of displaying one's trousseau was apt to do. My plan for both wedding receptions did not include any opening of gifts, either. This was not to my mother's liking and not at all in keeping with customary and traditional ways of celebrating a wedding.

I had my hair and nails done at Heiner's Beauty Salon, early on the morning of March 18th. We were to be married at 10:15 AM. Bill and Jane South had a beautiful, red rose corsage delivered to me to wear to the temple that morning, with their good wishes for a beautiful wedding day. Frank kept his bride waiting while he finished dressing. My cousin, Leone, had escorted me through the temple in the previous week, for my endowment. Frank had been through this process before he left for his mission. Immediate family had accompanied us at that time. Leone, Aunt Louise and Mother were again with us as we walked down a long, red-carpeted hallway to one of the beautiful sealing rooms. My cousin, Lois and her husband, Ken, were there. Frank's family--brothers, Joe, John and John's wife, Judy, his parents and Jane's sister, Francis, and her husband, Calvin McComber and Uncle Calvin's parents. Ruby Schwartz from school and Gladys Harrington, one of my customers from the salon came to the ceremony. None of my brothers were in attendance. I don't know why. It must have been a travel and expense issue, for them. MerLyn's plane connection didn't get her to Salt Lake in time for the ceremony. 

There is nothing quite as beautiful and sweet as a temple wedding ceremony. Elder ElRay L. Christiansen performed the marriage and sealing. Frank was 25; I was 21. I don't remember the words he spoke to us. I thought I'd always remember but unless written down, even the most memorable things slip away. Notes from that time do mention that I couldn't breathe, cried no tears, and thought my hand would fall off, Frank held it so tightly! He had designed the simple, wrap-a-round brushed gold rings we exchanged, mine with a single diamond in the center. His friend, a jeweler, had made them.

A photographer was to meet us on the temple grounds following the ceremony. As we left via an annex door, people outside thought we were the couple they were waiting to congratulate and pelted us with rice. The photographer stepped right in and snapped what has become a treasured photo.

Frank's parents hosted lunch following the ceremony. Joining us, the Fox's--Uncle Ross, Aunt Blanche, their son, Chuck; the Chipman's--Aunt Valoy, Uncle Paul, their son, Taylor, his fiance; the McCombers--Aunt Francis and Uncle Calvin; the South's--Joe, John and Judy; Aunt Louise and Leone and my mother; roommates--Ruth Ann and Lorraine and a good friend of us all, Susan Hobson; Frank's friends--Garn and Alisha Chilcote, Beth Jensen, and Scott Smith. My sister, MerLyn, despite being quite ill, arrived that afternoon.

In a quiet moment before the reception began, Frank put a small, single pearl strung on a tiny, golden chain, around my neck, a traditional groom's gift to his bride. We greeted guests standing before three lighted archways filled with flowers in shades of apricot and peach with touches of rust, bronze, yellow and tangerine, green fillers, with pedestal flower candelabras at each end. The matron of honor, bridesmaids, and adorable flower girls carried baskets of flowers. The best man and groomsmen wore black tuxedos, a Tangerine carnation in each lapel.

Aunt Louise hosted in the dining room. We served over 300 people at the Carillon that evening. Although formulas were used to figure amounts for a crowd, there was little or nothing left for latecomers.

Near the end of the reception, we staged a wedding march so my brother, Sylvan, could shoot movie pictures. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had made us feel that we were important to them throughout the planning stages of this event, putting me in contact with just the right people to coordinate a nice affair within my budget--the florist who agreed to arrange my bridal bouquet around Ross' orchids so they could be detached from the bouquet, become the corsage to wear when we left on our honeymoon, then re-inserted and naturally dried, and the baker who produced a unique and so-o-o beautiful a cake. And now, as the ball was nearing its end, Mr. Anderson demonstrated, impromptu, how to kick the toe of one shoe out in front before each step in order to show our long dresses to the best advantage as we made our way across the balcony and down the elegant, red-carpeted, winding staircase to the dance floor with Sylvan filming the whole of it. Like a movie director, Mr. Anderson made sure we got the best pictures of my wedding dress--Charmeuse-type fabric, Sabrina neckline, Empire in style, Alencon-like re-embroidered lace front panel, floor length with a Chapel Train--a fingertip, Tulle veil flowing from a double-crown-like headpiece with small insets of lace that matched the dress, tiny faux pearls and crystals.

My nieces had been told to hold the corners of my train until they got to the bottom of the steps, where they were suppose to let go of the fabric, letting the train settle down onto the floor, behind me. As I reached the bottom step, I could feel tugging on my dress. Scenes from the movie revealed the cause. Out of sync with each other, first Kay would bend down to release her corner of the dress train but seeing Kathy still standing and hanging on tightly to her corner, Kay would pop back up, still holding on to the material. Kathy would notice Kay bending down, then stoop down herself just at the moment that Kay stood up again. This see-sawing continued half way across the dance floor until they both finally let go of the train attached to my dress, just as I reached the spot where Frank stood, waiting for our first dance. Even though Frank was a good dancer, the few steps we took were stiff attempts and looked like we had four left feet. My salon boss, Elwood Heiner, cut in and did he ever take me for a spin. It was wonderful, him whirling me 'round and 'round!

We were the last ones to leave the reception, not by choice, but because someone had removed a vital part of the car. After all these years, does anyone want to fess up?

A single, beautiful, long-stemmed red rose, put in place earlier in the day by my husband, greeted me as we retired for the night, very tired but happy.

A bride at 21... It's a part of the story of who I am.

A Ring on Her Finger

I've written about leaving home at 17 to go to beauty school in Salt Lake City. I recently read through a journal I kept during that year my roommates and I lived on the Avenues in the North East part of the city, first on "B" street and then at the Caithness, north of the big Catholic cathedral. There's time and always another post for those adventures.

Once we finished our studies--business school for them--we relocated to South Salt Lake to share an apartment in my Aunt Louise's home on Commonwealth Avenue. This was a neighborhood of older homes. Fitts Novelty Shop was at the end of the block. There was a tiny grocery store just beyond the other end, and a wonderful bakery a few steps from the grocery. The county hospital filled that entire block on the back side, north of Commonwealth at 21st and State Streets. Church--Haven Ward--was within walking distance, a few blocks to the south. Each summer Aunt Louise and Elsie Fitts organized a neighborhood reunion, inviting anyone who had lived on the street to a block party. Leone, my cousin who shared the house with my aunt, got us involved in our new surroundings right away.

The Stake President, William T. South, lived just down the street. I met his daughter, Mary Jane and her friends, Susan and Carol, one day as they were sharing their plans with Leone for Carol's makeover. Carol was dating Mary Jane's brother, Frank, when he was called to serve a mission in Austria. Agreeing to "wait" for him, she'd been keeping the missionary journal, the scrapbook, writing him letters, the whole nine yards. I thought this was all so silly. Well, Carol got her makeover all right, then sent Frank a "Dear John" letter, just as he was preparing to travel home, in June of '63. 

Frank seemed cynical and sarcastic when I met him. I wasn't interested in him. One of my roommates really liked Frank. I was more attracted to his brother, John, who had his eye on his sister's friend, Judy, so my interest turned towards a South cousin, Tom, who also lived in the neighborhood.

Leone was full of fun. She'd load up her car and haul the young adults in the ward or stake everywhere, or so it seemed. There were others who did the same but somehow, Frank and I always seemed to end up in her car! "Need a ride?", she'd say. I don't think either of us knew we were being set up. She seemed a committed matchmaker.

He and I did go to a surprise birthday party for his friend. Frank didn't know any of the other party-attendees. I didn't know any one there. I barely knew Frank! The birthday boy never arrived. He'd been in a car accident. We played ping pong--my first time at that and I was totally uncoordinated--made polite conversation and eventually the crowd dwindled away. This was a strange first date!

January 5, 1964. I began teaching a new SS class for eleven-year-olds that day but that is not why I remember the date. We were hanging out with friends, making plans for the Gold and Green Ball, listening to records--vinyls, kids, 78's & 45's--eating goodies. Frank drove me home. Just inside the front hall entrance of my apartment, he kissed me. Another first! Oh, others had tried, believe you me, but my mother had told me not to be kissing any boys, from the time I was little. And not to be holding hands with them, either. And to keep my feet firmly planted on the floor. Now here I was, kissed for the first time and thinking, "Is that all there is to it?"

Frank taught guitar lessons and lived at home while he was finishing his BA degree. He had little money for dating. If he took me for fast food, he would order nothing for himself and then eat what he had ordered for me. We took walks in the moonlight. He had a wonderful laugh, actually, more of a giggle, that would burst forth spontaneously and unexpectedly. He had a quick sense of humor, come-backs, and plays-on-words. He loved to talk about mythology and history. He was an excellent dancer and had participated with a folk dance group prior to his mission. We golfed a bit, just par 3's or hitting a bucket of balls. He introduced me to Mexican food. We didn't double with other couples but we did spend lots of time with his friend, Garn, his wife and kids. One of my biggest frustrations was Frank's lack of planning and his untimeliness. Gun shy of committing himself, even the simplest things were last-minute. And he was always late. However, as a surprise for my birthday, he replaced two missing topaz stones in my mother's engagement ring. I hadn't worn Mother's ring since she'd given it to me but it was a sentimental treasure and a sweet gesture by Frank.

 The South family was planning a trip to Island Park in Idaho in September. Frank had invited me to go. His mother said, "No!" She questioned the "appropriateness" of including me, an unattached woman.

August 23, 1965, a Monday. He and I spent the major portion of that day in the canyons that surround the Salt Lake Valley. Frank was skilled with charcoal or a pencil in his hand, sketching the scenery. The picnic lunch I had prepared was a hit. We planned a "Theater in the Round" evening. "Guys and Dolls" was playing. Frank arrived to pick me up. My roommate had her arms loaded to take out the trash. As we all met in the front doorway of the apartment, Frank handed me a ring! He had planned to propose in Idaho but his mother had said no so he put a ring on my finger so his parents could relax. Somehow, being engaged made my going okay.

When September came and my finger was now properly dressed, we took off for Island Park in a borrowed Volkswagen, detoured by road construction into sheepherder country--sheep as far as the eye could see in any direction that day--and arrived late to meet the South family and cousins. I don't think my future father-in-law ever believed our explanation.

One of the South cousins had owned and operated a saw mill. The mill had been closed for some time but the cabins were still there.  Introductions to the extended South family gathered at Island Park included some mention that I was a farm girl. Someone produced a saddled and bridled horse! Instead of admitting that I'd only been on a horse a few times in my entire life, I climbed into the saddle. Thank heavens for early television westerns. I dug in my knees and tried my darnedest to appear to be sitting T-A-L-L in the saddle without too much bouncing of my tush as that horse took off across the meadow. With my back to the onlookers, I could hold on to the saddle horn and hold on I did, for dear life! At ride's end, I calmly stepped down, thankful to be alive.

Being a part of this family camp-out at the mill included the nightly potty brigade.  It had been declared unsafe for us women to step out into the forest, heaven forbid, for a middle-of-the-night gotta-go, so EVERYONE went t o g e t h e r  before settling into bed for the night! The outhouse was a triple seater and no one seemed to have any qualms about using all three seats at the same time!

How many bodies can you fit inside a borrowed Volkswagen Bug? A whole lot of South cousins! And then what do you do? Drive at neck-breaking speeds across the flats somewhere near Idaho Falls, chasing sand cranes and jumping irrigation ditches, of course!

We set a March 18, 1966 wedding date. Frank would finish his BA in June. I made and sent out cute announcements of our engagement. My roommates and I and cousin Leone kept our plans for vacationing in the San Francisco Bay area in the month following my engagement. There were bridal showers that Aunt Valois, Aunt Blanch, Jane, and friends in Haven Ward hosted. Salon staff at Heiner's treated me to a very fancy dinner at Hotel Utah, and gifted me the wedding dress I had fallen in love with but couldn't afford. $150 was way over my budget. My dear friend, Ross, asked to provide orchids from his greenhouse for my bouquet. This, too, became a part of my story.

An Addition

Our conversation with our small son began with, "You're going to have a baby sister!" His quick response: "Can I get a monkey?"

This was an easy pregnancy. There were those, close enough to us to know something of the story of my first pregnancy and delivery, who wondered if I would do this again. At 26, and no longer traveling internationally on a shoe-string budget, sleeping on sandy beaches and overnight train coaches, my physical health was good. I had actively worked to rid myself of flab and actually weighed what was printed on my driver's license beginning this second pregnancy. This was a BIG boost to my emotional well-being. And unlike the first time when nausea ruled, there was none of that at all. Starting out, I did have severe and debilitating head pain. A neurologist could pinpoint no specific cause nor give me options for relief so I spent lots of time that first trimester on the living room couch holding cold compresses in place, opening my eyes or moving my head only when absolutely necessary, while keeping track of a VERY active and curious three-year-old.  In three or four months, the headaches stopped as abruptly as they'd begun. 

It was lovely weather. July 4th was on Sunday that year. We had taken a ride up one of the local canyons. Coming back down a twisty, rough and rocky road, Frank drove carefully. Our goal was to avoid an onset of labor prior to the scheduled date to induce, set by my new OB. My young nephew, Kirk, had agreed to tend Todd for that day. 

Jennifer was born on Wednesday, July 7th, 1971, fast, three hours tops, start to finish! Despite his carefully planned schedule, my doctor barely made it in time, the delivery so fast that plans to administer an epidural block fell short. With only one side numbed a bit by injection, this became a half-totally-natural birth! Labor rooms at that small, casual and friendly Ogden hospital were filled beyond capacity that day. Women in labor lined the halls. It was so busy, there was no nurse available to assist so the doctor invited Frank to the end of the table and put him to work! It was just the three of us there in the delivery room. Hear that? A sweet, little cry? And then there were four of us.

A beautiful new-born, fair skinned and pink, not wrinkled or squished, Jenn arrived looking like a real "Gerber" baby. An attending from the nursery was so taken by this little sweetheart that she pasted a pink bow to the baby's perfectly formed, bald head and carried her from room to room and down the hallways, showing her off as if this was a "First" or only baby delivered that day. Actually, there had been more than a dozen deliveries so far but Jenn was the one and only girl!

In a couple of hours, I felt great and wanted to be up. Oops, just one problem. One leg and foot was totally dead from that epidural injection gone astray. As I stepped down off my bed, the nurse standing beside me, in trying to steady me for this first time up after giving birth, kicked the ankle of the dead foot. Since I could not feel the foot or the kick, I stepped down but with my foot bent under at the ankle. Everything began to swell! Everyone got excited! And I was taken for my wildest ride ever, in a wheel chair, down long hallways, bouncing and bumping over fire wall tracts in the floor, cutting close corners, darting in and out of elevators on the way to the lab for X-rays. Nothing broken. No law suite on that day. Not from me.

As I was saying, I was up. I felt great! Baby was doing great! And then I got a call from Kirk, at our apartment. He had LOST Todd! Somehow, I wasn't really surprised by this. I lost Todd, regularly, myself! From his birth, I had the notion that the Lord thought I needed a challenge when he sent Todd to me. As I became acquainted with my new baby's temperament, it seemed possible that the Lord, seeing I was not up to the task of the first challenge, had sent a little calmer spirit the second time.

During those few days following her birth, we did have a scare when intervention would have been necessary had the new baby's billirubin blood count climbed another point. Todd had been a very jaundiced baby, as well, but he had been born at a time and place when routine testing of billirubin rates was not being administered to newborns. We were unaware at that time, of any problem. Now, with Jennifer's birth, the findings of testing meant a few days of return trips to the hospital following our release, sometimes more than once in a day, to have her tiny heels poked and pricked for blood testing.

There was a definite contrast between these two, as newborns. I don't think Todd slept through a night until he was three years old. He gave up regular naps before his first birthday! Jenn, on the other hand, slept through the night by the time she was a week old and when she was tired, she would lay herself down and go to sleep, anywhere. A patient baby, she would coo to let me know that she was awake or hungry or in need of something and wait, without fussing, for a response. She was alert but calm, responses I attributed in part to the fact that she did not struggle with allergies as a new baby, as her brother had. From the beginning, Todd was a busy boy with no time for cuddles and hugs. Jenn was a real snuggler. Her daddy called her, "Snugglesquirt," and "Snugglesnurt" long after those baby days were past.

Blessed by the experience of giving birth twice is a part of who I am.