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.

On Becoming a Mother

Babies arrive according to their own time schedule. It was 1968. Wednesday. Early, maybe 5:30-ish. I'd had no previous personal experience in birthing a baby but there was no mistaking that what awakened me was labor pain! How did I find myself in this situation? Here's the back-story...

During our stay in Zurich, Switzerland, while still almost newlyweds, we both got sick after eating fondue. Frank recovered quickly from that bit of food poisoning but I did not. By the time we got to Innsbruck, Austria, I was really sick. While in St. Polten, staying with the Paschings, there wasn't much that I kept down for long. It didn't help that the heavy smell of truck and bus exhaust hung in the air mixed with pungent odors of Selchfleisch, Wurstel and Bratwurst. While I could understand nothing of the conversations going on around me, knowing smiles and gestures roughly translated as, "Pregnant?"

While more of the wonders of Europe presented themselves before me during those final couple or three weeks of our trip, my eyes were more drawn to receptacles or tall bushes where I could throw up. I had dreams about baked potatoes. I saw parts of exquisite gardens at Schonbrunn that most likely were not included in the official tour. Journal notes of the summer Frank and I spent in Europe will be revisited in a separate post.

Momentarily feeling better, dinner was a delight that first night on board a BIG boat, leaving France via the port at LeHarve. Though the ship's captain pronounced our crossing of the Atlantic the smoothest in a long time, I spent most of those five days at sea with my head in the toilet. 

Back on US shores, our plan was to tour New York City and Boston. We had just reached the observation deck near the top of the Empire State Building when I began to spot, heavily. I wasn't yet convinced that eating bad food may not be the reason I was feeling so bad. We attempted a hasty exit through crowds and lines and multiple levels of elevators, only to be told, "No! We hear, 'It's an emergency' ALL the time from people like you who don't want to wait in line!" In any case, our touring ended, abruptly.

The scare in New York seemed to have resolved itself. We were again in Salt Lake for a few days before heading for Whidbey Island in Washington State to go fishing. I made it as far as my brother's [Sylvan] in Idaho before having a repeat of the NYC episode. Frank went on to join his father and the fishing expedition. I went to a doctor. No diagnosis was given, just reasons for concern.

Frank would start a new job, beginning in Fall '67, in Ogden, Utah. I had resigned my job at Heiner's Salon and we gave up our apartment when we left the states at the end of May. Now, at the end of August, we moved in with our South parents, Jane and Bill, for a short stay on Commonwealth Avenue until we relocated.

It was good to finally confirm that I was, indeed, pregnant. There had to be some good reason I was sleeping more than usual and enjoying Frank's dad's fresh tomatoes from the garden so much!

I elected to continue my association with Dr. Hall after our move. He couldn't dispel my fears, entirely. The fact that I'd typed Frank's term papers for his Special Education classes, some describing in detail all the things that can go wrong during pregnancy, didn't help, either. But despite still frequent and daily nausea, I gained weight--how was that possible?--and nested, sewing baby clothes and blankets and crocheting booties.  Dr. Hall loved teaching interns and delivering babies though stories were told about him leaving his wife, in labor, standing in the doorway as he backed his little, old Volkswagen Bug out of their driveway and started down their street, then delivering the baby in the car just outside the hospital entrance, arriving there in his PJ's and mismatched socks! Professionally, he was on the cutting edge that included organizing prenatal classes--a new idea at that time--and involving fathers in bonding with their newly born by encouraging them to be present during the birthing process, something not readily accepted by "old school" obstetrical nurses. I was lucky enough to have one of those old, battle-axes making rounds during my first ever, hospital night, following an afternoon delivery.

Evelyn, my brother's wife, called to check on me the evening before my due date. "The backs of my legs ache," was all I could report. "I think you are starting labor". I could hear excited anticipation in her voice. We went on to bed, unbelieving.

As I began this monologue, it was early morning when contractions  became strong enough to wake me. It seemed that we were barely out of the driveway of our rental house on Porter Avenue when my water broke. I had no idea I'd need towels to quell the flood! Frank was more concerned about the drive ahead of us--about 40 miles south--to reach LDS Hospital, in Salt Lake City. As I fussed about soaking everything near me, the passenger-side, rear tire went flat. In heavy traffic and without much space to pull off the highway, Frank worked to jack up the car while asking how far apart my contractions were.

 "Five minutes!"

Then, that apparatus jackknifed in the soft shoulder before the tire was off the ground enough to be able to get it off! "Someone will stop to help." No one did, for what seemed like the l-o-n-gest time. I was counting, contracting, and still leaking. Frank was sweating. At last, a good Samaritan came to our aid, but when they got the spare on, it was nearly flat, too! Panic! Being newbies at birthin' a baby, we didn't know the best was yet to come but was still hours away.

At the hospital, the serious work of labor got underway. Frank pulled out his brief case. A blessed nurse rubbed my back through the pain and by afternoon, all systems were zeroed in on the "Push" command! Now my OB not only delivered babies, he taught interns how to do it. The delivery room was filled with his students, there to witness what became a public viewing of the birth. Forget my concern about such total exposure in a crowd, still scarred by the memory of taunts that came as a packaged deal with my very early onset of developed bazooms, and mandatory showers after PE or the trauma of sharing a three-seater outhouse with Marge South and her daughter my first night of camping with the South family in Island Park,...(breathe), it was hearing my doctor say, "Oops", after handing his cutting instrument to an intern to perform an episiotomy that got my attention! What? But no time for questions. I was fully engaged, trying to remember when to "OO", "EE", and "AH-H" my way through breathing techniques, hoping for relief. To make this a little more memorable, a nurse--lovely she was...not, but cranky she was--ordered Frank to, "Sit on that chair, do NOT move, and do NOT touch anything!" Oh, she was not a fan of this father-present-for-the-birth idea. Just as I wanted to say, "Please, could you turn up the drip," I heard a strong, healthy cry and there he was, our baby boy.

This story could end there but I'm not ready to stop. It could have been that same lady-in-white, putting Frank in his place, who changed my dressings in those first hours after delivery, pads held in place by an elastic belt with a sort of hook, front and back. In doing so, she stretched the elastic towards herself, rather than bending towards me and when the change was complete, she just let go, snapping me sharply with the elastic! I had just given birth for the first time so that canal had just been broken in and was more than a little sore. Stitches closing the 'Oopsie', tears and all, were not only fresh wounds, the stitches had been stitched twice! Why? Because the third stage of labor did not happen, so Dr. removed his handiwork to allow slow and careful manual peeling of placenta and attached membranes. Then everything was re-sewn. "OUCH"! Hospital Grapevine News was reporting that the snapper had been given a notice of dismissal. Must have had to finish her shift, first. As I said...lucky me.

When my baby was handed to me, wrapped in a blanket so that only his two little eyes, tiny nose, and mouth were showing, I immediately unwrapped him to count toes and fingers. He was quickly snatched from my arms, wrapped up tightly, again, and promptly taken back to the nursery. Well, until time to nurse. Then, new nursing moms were pressed to achieve some sort of miracle. Neither baby nor I knew quite how to accomplish this to the satisfaction of anyone. The one who was so eager not to let me unwrap my baby was eager to send him home with me without instructions. I spent that first night at home,  in a rocking chair, crying babe in arms, hoping I'd figure out what to do next. 

Becoming a mother? It's a part of who I am.

What Makes a Mother?

My mother became one, with the birth of a son [Burnath Maurice] before her 20th birthday. Two years later, a second son [Elvour Whitney] was born, followed in four years by another [Marion Whitney]. About her next birth Mother wrote, "We feared it was twins [though] we wanted nine boys," but to every one's surprise, the baby was a girl [MerLyn]! Before another brother [Keith Sheryl] arrived eighteen months later, the family survived a terrible car accident that changed Mother's life forever. She wrote of having suffered a miscarriage the winter of '31/'32 and of being ill for the next six months before being diagnosed with asthma. 

Mother may have thought that her sixth child, a boy born in '35 [Sylvan Lowell], would be her last but at age 45, she became MY mother. Despite her age and having felt ill for some time, she thought she might be pregnant. Her doctor said she was just going through "the change of life". Mother quoted Daddy as saying, "She's had six kids. If she says she's pregnant, she must be!" They were told, "It is doubtful that we can save both mother and baby,"  but Mother lived and gave birth to a healthy [and adorable] baby girl [Christie]. (I added the "adorable" part). 

A Disney song lyric, asks, "What makes mothers all that they are?" In her writings, Mother mentioned some of the trials she faced raising seven children, expressed her grief and sorrow for opportunities she felt they missed because of her ill health and the costly search for treatment with the hope of relief but she attributed her personal survival and that of her family to faith--in prayer, in the power of the Priesthood, and in diligent temple service.

When I think of my mother, I think of the healthy, robust, tom-boyish girl she must have been in her youth, and her strength as a young woman, joining with my father at such a young age [18], in making a home for what would become a large family, housed--before my birth-- in just two rooms, on a small acreage, less than 60 acres.

Mother was very handy with a needle. She taught me to crochet before I was a teen--no small task since she, right-handed like me by nature, crocheted left-handed. [Mother had her right hand badly burned in her youth but learned to use her left hand during a year of healing]. She taught me to do simple embroidery though I was a poor and somewhat unwilling student when it came to darning and mending. I was the kid under the quilt stretched taunt on a frame, pulling a threaded needle through at the underside of the material, then sending it back through to the top.

Thinking of what makes mothers, mine always sang at night until I fell asleep. She hummed or whistled while she did her chores. She always had a little ditty to sing to drive home the message of a teaching moment or just to be silly. She sat through endless hours, without complaint, of my practice times--piano, flute, organ or singing. I think I first learned to sing and hold different parts--soprano, alto, tenor--by listening to Mother and Daddy. She most often sang alto; My father sang tenor. Mother taught me, as she did all her children, to memorize verses--what she called "Readings"--and to stand before an audience to recite them. I was put on stage, also, to plunk out simple one-note tunes on a little, red toy piano. I credit my mother with having blessed me with a near absence of stage fright, given these simple opportunities to perform or speak in front of others. Oh, I'd get the kind of nervous that helps bring out your best performance, but I never experienced the debilitating kind of stage fright until I was nearly 60!

I don't remember either of my parents being disciplinarians. I was, after all, a perfect child! That's what I've told my kids and grand-kids. Well..., there was that time I dropped the grain sack, spilling most of the contents, as a mouse ran up one of my pant legs and down the other, that I have previously mentioned. My daddy put on his angry eyes on that occasion. As a teen, I sassed Mother. She slapped me right across the mouth. That could be what converted me to introvertism, keeping my thoughts to myself and my words well away from the tip of my tongue, lest they slip out and be heard. 

If I close my eyes, I can see my mother standing at the ironing board, so carefully pressing her temple clothes or her pioneer costume. Both were important to her, the organization of families through temple service and keeping family history alive whether by standing in costume on a parade float or writing histories and recording genealogy research, by hand with pen and ink. "Always use black ink for records," she'd tell me. She supported and helped organize family reunions and by my aunt's account, always had an open door for family and friends.

Mother was frugal to a fault but generous to those she thought were in need. She didn't eat unless everyone could eat. Home wasn't home to her without tons of house plants, crocheted doilies, and her kitchen table was forever set with a bottle of pickles and a jar of jam...for every meal. She was a simple cook of hearty meat-and-potatoes kind of meals--a little bit of this and a little bit of that. She expected a blessing on the food at every meal, one of those done kneeling at chairs around the table, following daily family prayer.

What makes mothers? I'm nearing 70--the new "50", I'm told--with time to consider and ponder my own motherhood experience. I've been blessed to have also been tutored by a sister and five sisters-in-law. Still, I've had painful moments of self-doubt about my role. A wise friend once counseled me, saying something to the effect that a mother can't take credit for what a child has achieved by their own doing. Neither should a mother take credit for their less-than-successful shortcomings. It's been difficult for me to find the healthy and proper balance, often feeling unwarranted guilt and worry. "Have I done too little? Have I done too much?" I know you know what I mean. Being a mother gives a woman an opportunity for personal growth. Your kids can show you who you really are and what you're made of. Raising a family [or two] is not for the faint of heart. Like old age and ill health, Motherhood isn't for sissies. There are more downs than ups but one special moment of "up" can carry a tired mother through days--even longer--of tough times and hard work. As a mother, I'm still a work in progress. It's a part of who I am.