Preparing for our Family

 

"The family who has been renting the little house on University is moving out next month," mom told me one day in December.  "Dad was wondering if you and Sheldon would like to move in there?"

"You're kidding!" I exclaimed in excitement.  "Yes, that would be great!"

And so my dream came true, and I got to live in the little rental house I had helped dad renovate years before.  It was so much fun! 

The house was tiny and old, but it's character made up for all of it's inconveniences.   The first time I went in this house I fell in love with the glass door handles.  There was also a big rock fireplace in the little living room, a step up to a tiny alcove with a bedroom on the left, a tiny bathroom in the middle, and a smaller bedroom on the right.  The kitchen was old and cramped, but dad added a small counter and cupboards which helped, and once I'd made some cute yellow gingham curtains and painted everything white it became a cheerful room.  There was an old, gas wall furnace in the front room for heating and an ancient evaporative cooler mounted behind a square hole in the middle of the back room to cool the house in summer.  It made a terrific racket and mostly just increased the humidity, but it helped a little.

The best part of the house was the yard.  The front of the house had a tiny lawn with big trees on both sides, but the back of the house had a deep yard, hedged in on the back and east with oleanders, and on the west with honeysuckles.  There were three or four huge trees which kept the yard cool and shady, making a wonderful place for barbecues and family gatherings.

Sheldon began working at the stereo center the first of January, and I turned in my paperwork to be a substitute teacher for the Mesa School District, to help out our finances, but that was only part time, when I got called, and I could turn a job down if I wasn't feeling up to it.  But amazingly, by my fourth month of pregnancy I felt wonderful and had all kinds of energy.  So I played house.  What fun it was to sew curtains, paint walls, and decorate my own little castle. 

I wasn't really very excited about substituting, but it turned out to be as much fun as working on our house.  Unlike having my own classroom where I had to plan what I would teach, keep track of grades, and do all the other extra things an elementary school teacher has to do as well as teaching the children, all a substitute has to do is follow the real teachers instructions and keep the kids entertained.  It was like playing school, and I had so much fun.  Sometimes I subbed in elementary classrooms, but just as often I worked at junior highs or high schools.  My most memorable job was the day I substituted a high school boys PE class.  They had made a mistake, assuming I was a man since my name is Gale.  When I showed up, eight and a half months pregnant, you should have seen the secretaries face.  She called the head PE coach to see what he wanted to do.  One look at me and he decided I wasn't going to be much good for him, but he had made such a stink demanding he get a substitute that he didn't want to send me home.  I ended up spending the day labeling volleyballs in the girls locker-room. 

I think that six months I spent decorating our little house, substituting, and preparing to become a mother were some of the happiest days of my life.  We didn't have much money but we sure had a lot of fun.  And the best part, back behind all the enjoyable activities we were doing every day, was the anticipation and planning for when our first baby would be born.  That was so exciting!

Playing House

Compared to today, I suppose 21 may seem pretty young to be confined to the world of cooking, cleaning, and housework, but I was in seventh heaven when I finally got to stay home and just be a housewife.  As far as I was concerned, all of my dreams had come true!

Not that I didn't enjoy being a college student.  It was lots of fun learning interesting things, meeting all kinds of people, being independent and deciding for myself where I would go and how I would spend my time, but having fun, dating and being footloose and fancy free didn't bring me the joy and deep satisfaction I found once I was married, focusing my energies on creating a comfortable, lovely, happy home.

All of my life I had dreamed of and planned for the day when I would be a housewife.  It was so much fun!  To begin with we house-sat for a couple of different families that we knew.  It was nice living in their big, comfortable homes.  All I had to do was keep the rooms we used clean and cook, which was nice since I was busy finishing school and working during those first few months. We got a lot of recipe books for wedding presents, so the first thing I did was start experimenting with food.

I especially enjoyed a Scandinavian cookbook someone gave us, although it's recipe for Swedish Meatballs was nothing like the ones Grandma Johnson made.  I remember the first night I tried making a fancy dinner for Sheldon.  I made chocolate moose for dessert, serving it in two of our brand new crystal goblets that were part of our wedding presents.  It was so much fun using my beautiful new wedding china and silverware,  lighting candles on the table to make the evening romantic, and serving a dinner I had cooked all by myself.

After a few months we moved into a tiny little duplex we rented in an older section of Mesa.  It was very old and crumbling down, but what fun I had trying to make it homey.  There was an old, threadbare camel-back couch in the little front room, stained and torn, but with beautiful lines.  I covered it with a sheet, then spread the afghan Grandma Johnson made me over the back, and I thought it looked lovely. 

For Christmas I stacked cans against one wall in that tiny room, then laid a plank over them, creating a sort of mantle even though there was no fireplace beneath.  We couldn't afford a Christmas tree, but Sheldon and I drove up to the mountains and cut some pine boughs.  I tied three or four of these together, stuck them in a can, and walla!  We had a little Christmas tree to set in the corner of the room.  I laid other boughs on top of my mantle, arranged candles among them, and thought it created a lovely place to hang our stockings. 

We didn't have much money, but it was surprising what we could do for next to nothing, and it was so much fun creating a home. Perhaps I'm an old stick-in-the mud, or just not smart enough to enjoy being out in the business world with all of it's lights and glitter and excitement, but give me a home to decorate and fill with the smell of food cooking, and I'm more than happy and contented.

Trying to Be a Wife and a Teacher

Being married was a lot of fun, most of the time.  I graduated from ASU a month after we got married and got my Arizona State Teaching Certificate at the same time.  It was wonderful to be all done with school, and I did not want to ever go back.  Sheldon had other ideas.

It seemed strange to me that we could have such similar backgrounds and yet have such different ideas.  We were both from active LDS (the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) families.  We each had five brothers and sisters, our families lived in the same neighborhood, we graduated from the same high school, even the same year, and yet we had such different ideas.  It was odd.

Three weeks after we got married the boys in our ward were invited to participate in a regional softball tournament in Prescott.  The tournament began on Thursday afternoon, so they boys planned to go up Wednesday night and stay through Saturday.   I was in my last week of college, with my last test Thursday afternoon.  We didn't have much money, but it sounded like fun to ride up to Prescott with my family on Friday and watch the final games on Saturday.

Sheldon's dad was one of the coaches, and Sheldon had helped on and off throughout the season.  His dad was taking the boys up on Wednesday.  "You can ride up with us," my father-in-law told Sheldon on Sunday afternoon as we sat around their dinner table, visiting after Sunday dinner. 

"Great," Sheldon agreed excitedly.  "What time are you going?"

I looked at him in amazement.  I'd thought his dad was kidding when he offered to take him with the team.  Surely he didn't want to leave me home alone after we'd only been married such a short time?

"I have to take my final on Thursday," I reminded Sheldon quietly, squeezing his hand under the table.

"I know," Sheldon replied offhandedly.  "You can ride up with your mom and dad on Friday afternoon."

I raised my eyebrows at him in surprise.  "Why don't you just wait and come up with me at the same time?" I asked.

"Then I couldn't help dad out," he replied impatiently. 

"Right," my father-in-law concurred.  "The games start Thursday morning."

"He can stay with us in our motel room until you get there," my mother-in-law added, as if that took care of everything.

Nothing more was said at the dinner table, but I was sure shocked his family would think it was OK for him to leave his new bride.

Another thing we didn't see eye to eye on was whether I should work.  Sheldon's mom was a stay at home mother, like my mom, but she had worked a few years earlier when their family had some financial difficulties.  It soon became apparent that Sheldon thought I should get a job teaching school now that I had my certificate.  He was working for his dad at his print shop, and he didn't make very much money.  I would have agreed to earning the living if Sheldon was going to college and working on a degree or something, but he didn't have any such plans, so I didn't see why I shouldn't stay home and be a housewife. 

Sheldon decided he would try going to MCC if I would get a job so he didn't have to work, so I submitted my resume to a couple of different school districts, but it was late in the summer and I wasn't very optimistic about getting hired.  In the mean-time I started working as a secretary again.  I got a call from the Gilbert Public School District to come in for an interview one Friday afternoon a week after their schools had started.  I went to the interview wondering why they even wanted to talk to me.  I was interviewed by two elementary principals.  I didn't think they were very impressed with me.  One principal asked what I would do if a bunch a big sixth graders started a fight out on the playground.  Before I even had a chance to answer the other principal turned to him and said, "She wouldn't have a problem with that.  She's not a tiny little old lady who they could push around, you know.  I bet she could handle any group of boys."  That made me feel better, but I still felt pretty insecure.

You can imagine how amazed I was when the phone range that evening and it was the school district telling me they would like to hire me to teach sixth grade.  For heavens sake!  That was the one grade I really did not want to teach!  Apparently there were too many sixth graders that year, and the district had finally decided they could split the classes and make another room.  I was scared to death.  First of all, I had no experience with sixth graders.  I had been a teachers aid in forth and second grade, I'd done my student teaching in third, but I hadn't been in sixth grade since I was a student myself.  Second, these kids had already gone to school for a whole week, and now they were pulling them out and putting them into a new room.  There were not enough text books for my kids, I didn't have any teachers manuals, and we had no supplies.  The other teachers tried to help, but I sure felt like a fish out of water, with no idea how to do whatever it was I supposed to do. 

That was a difficult few months.  I was still trying to get used to being a new wife, I wanted to spend my time decorating our house, learning how to cook, and being a housewife.  Instead I was trying to learn how to teach sixth grade and feeling very inadequate and insecure.  On top of that, I started feeling nauseous and really tired a couple of months later, and discovered that I was expecting a baby. 

The school district had only given me a six month contract, intending to extend it for the other six months in January.  Our baby wasn't due until the end of May, but I would have had to teach all the way up until she was born, which I really didn't want to do, so in December I decided not to renew my contract and let someone else have my class. It was selfish, I know, and I've regretted giving up so easily, but I really didn't enjoy teaching and felt like I wasn't doing a good job.  I also resented working all day while Sheldon went to one or two classes at MCC, then sat around watching TV the rest of the day until I came home to do his homework for him.  He had already decided he didn't want to go back to school the next semester and had arranged to start working at a local stereo center the beginning of January.   So although I felt guilty about quitting, I sure did enjoy staying home and being a housewife.

Our Honeymoon

Physical intimacy between a man and woman is part of the glue that holds a marriage together.  It binds us together, gives us a way to express our love, and is one of the few experiences that we share between ourselves and no one else.

Natural man would follow the animal world, sharing intimacy when available and then going off to do his own thing, leaving women to care for themselves and their children, if there wasn't a law stating physical intimacy should be shared only between a man and woman who have committed to stay together no matter what.  The Lord, knowing that families need both protectors and providers as well as nurturers,  commanded us to be physically intimate only in marriage.  For most of history, governments have recognized the necessity of that commandment and made it their law.

Satan, knowing that we will cast aside sacred things if he can get us to laugh at, make light of, and regard them as being old fashioned and no longer applicable, has spent years degrading the sanctity of marriage and encouraging us to take physical intimacy off it's pedestal.  He persuades us that talking about intimacy openly, turning it into the butt of our jokes, and splashing it across bill boards, TV and movie screens, and computer monitors is the sophisticated, healthy thing to do.  He knows that if he can turn intimacy from being a sacred experience shared solely between two people and kept to themselves into an everyday, laughed about at the water cooler experience he can talk us into thinking it doesn't matter how, when, or who we do it with.

OK.  So after my soliloquy, what's that got to do with this story?  Well, thirty-five years ago I had never met people who thought intimacy was something to joke about.  I knew they were out there, that's why our family didn't go see R rated movies and I was careful what books I read, but I thought only movie stars and people who lived in Hollywood had those morals.  Not people who lived in our small, Christian, totally wholesome little town.  And certainly not people who belonged to my Church. 

Because I had never been around people who made light of sacred things it took me awhile to realize just what was going on.  I was embarrassed when I heard my in-laws joking about their honeymoon, but I didn't recognize it as a warning sign that they had a different set of values than me. 

All of my life I had dreamed of going to our cabin on my honeymoon.  The cabin was my happy place, where I'd rather be than anyplace else in the world, even Disneyland.  At the cabin I could sit on the front porch and smell the pines, listen to the birds, and feel the soft breeze while I embroidered a picture or read a book or just gazed up the hill in front of me, watching white puffy clouds drift behind tall ponderosa pines, against a backdrop of blue sky.  When I got tired of sitting I could run down the hill to swing on the tire swing, climb the tree house, pick strawberries from Grandpa's garden, or ramble under the pear and apple trees in the orchard.  If I wanted I could walk down to the creek and relax under the huge cottonwoods, skip rocks across the smooth water, or search for wild flowers down in my secret garden.  When that got boring I could hike up or down the creek, swimming in the water holes, fishing at the crossing, and just enjoying the absolute quiet and peace of being in the mountains.  To me, the cabin was perfect.

My new husband thought going to the cabin on our honeymoon was a great idea, too, but for different reasons.  He had been raised on his parents story of their honeymoon.  They had spent all their money going to Las Vegas after they were married, and regretted it ever after because they never left their hotel room.  The laughed every time they told that story, saying they should have saved their money and gone to a motel close to their house.  I thought they were kind of crude, and wished they would stop telling that story.  Sheldon figured, why spend money on a motel since we can go to the cabin for free? 

Sheldon's family paid for our wedding night in a nice hotel as our wedding present.  The following morning we checked out and drove to the cabin.  We stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of town to get gas and sodas, then settled down for the drive.  I was excited to be going to the cabin, but it wasn't long before I realized something; I couldn't think of anything to say.  It was strange.  Up until that moment Sheldon and I had never had a hard time talking.  For the past two months every minute had been spent planning our wedding, but now that it was over what were we supposed to talk about?  I felt really weird, knowing that I was sitting next to my husband, MY HUSBAND, and I really didn't know him.  Bizarre.

It felt stranger, still, leaving the main highway and driving through the forest on the dirt road to the cabin.  It was a very secluded spot, but I had never been worried before.  I'd always known dad would take care of us, whether we got a flat tire, ran off the side of the road, or met up with a bear.  Somehow, Sheldon didn't exude the same kind of confidence as dad, and I was almost scared.

Getting to the cabin calmed me down.  I was home, in my happy place, and nothing could interfere with that joy.  It took awhile to unpack and make the bed, put the food in the refrigerate and cupboards, and stuff like that, so the first afternoon and evening passed happily enough.  But by the middle of the second morning I realized we were in trouble. 

Sheldon had been sure we wouldn't need any entertainment on our honeymoon, but he was wrong.  Since we didn't have TV at the cabin, the only thing to do inside once we got up was to make something to eat.  That done, what else could we do?  Sheldon didn't enjoy reading, so that was out.  It wasn't much fun to play Rook or Yahtzee or any of our other board games with just the two of us, so that didn't last long.  He wasn't interested in going on a hike and he didn't care about exploring around the cabin or going fishing, so the only thing left was to drive up the creek to our favorite swimming hole.  That was fun, but Sheldon had this idea that we were on our honeymoon, so we should go skinny dipping.  No way!  First of all, it was the Fourth of July weekend, and even though we were in a very secluded spot other people did come and camp on the creek and they were sure to find us.  Second, I wouldn't go skinny dipping even if we were the only two people in the world!  I knew I sounded like a prude, but really?  He wanted me to be naked in a public place in the middle of the afternoon? 

We went swimming at the swimming hole for about an hour, me in my swimming suit, but we both got tired of that pretty soon.  You know what?  Two people can have a lot of fun together, but it can also get mighty lonesome after awhile.  We went back to the cabin and I tried to make a special dinner for us, but the potatoes didn't cook right and fried steak just doesn't taste as good as barbecued, so it didn't turn out like I'd hoped. 

By the next morning Sheldon was tired of our whole adventure.  I discovered then that he was a city boy, through and through, and he needed the excitement of restaurants, theaters, bowling alleys, or at least TV to keep him entertained.  We finally packed up and came home from our honeymoon a day early.  I was bummed out, to say the least.  When we got home Sheldon called his brother, which embarrassed me even more because now his family knew we'd come home early, and talked him into meeting us at a park to play tennis.  I didn't like tennis, especially when it's 110 degrees outside.  So ended our honeymoon, kind of a let down after all the dreaming and planning we'd done, but oh well.  Life goes on, doesn't it?

Getting Married

Looking back, I've got to admit I wondered sometimes if I really knew what I was doing when I accepted Sheldon's proposal of marriage.  Did we rush things too fast, did I let myself get swept along with the tide, did I not pray hard enough, or wait for an answer?  Thank goodness I kept a journal.  I went back and read it again the other day, just to remind myself how things really happened, and was surprised to remember just how hard I worked getting an answer before I said yes.

After coming home from our Easter Holiday at the cabin, Sheldon was ready to get engaged.  Monday night we talked on the phone for a long time, reviewing the reasons why we should get married, and also talking about the concerns I had.  Sheldon suggested we fast and pray, and I readily agreed.  I had already been doing that myself, but I liked that he wanted to join me.

I knew there was more to getting an answer to prayer than just asking if I should marry Sheldon.  I knew I needed to think it through, analyze all the positives and negatives, then make what I thought would be a good decision and take that to the Lord for confirmation.  So I worked on that for the next couple of days.  By Wednesday I knew that I wanted to marry Sheldon, and I thought it was a good idea.  So I prayed to ask Heavenly Father if my decision was right.  I didn't get hit over the head with a "YES, MARRY SHELDON," answer, but I felt happy and good.  There were no anxious moments wondering if I had made the right choice or not, or scared feelings or anything negative at all, so I decided that was my answer.  Heavenly Father must think it was OK for me to marry him. 

I told Sheldon on Thursday, we had agreed not to see each other while we were trying to make our own decisions.  He was ecstatic!  He had known all along that he thought he should marry me, he was just waiting for me to make up my mind.  We hung out on Thursday evening, and Friday night he took me for a picnic on the desert.

As soon as we got there Sheldon grabbed my hand and said, "Come with me." 

I'd figured something was up, but I wasn't sure how he was going to do it.  Quickly ducking into the car, he grabbed something out of the glove box, then pulled me along to a secluded spot, sat me down on a fallen mesquite limb, and knelt down in front of me. 

"Will you marry me?" he asked, opening a little ring box and showing me the sweet little engagement ring nestled inside. 

"Sure," I smiled, and that was that.  The ring wasn't my real engagement ring, it was one his older brother had used a few years earlier, but Sheldon wanted to do the proposal right, with a ring and everything, then we could go and pick out my real ring later.  It was so sweet.

From that moment on I had no qualms.  I even went back in my journal to the entries when I had been pining away over Gene and crossed them out, writing in silly little notes about how wrong I was thinking I was in love with him.  I guess girls can be pretty sappy sometimes, at least I was.

I was just finishing my final full semester at ASU, doing my student teaching.  Once that was done I only had a few more summer classes to take, and I'd have my BA in Elementary Education.  Because of my schedule, we decided we should get married the end of June, so we could have the Fourth of July holiday to go on our honeymoon.

Mom and Dad and the rest of my family were not surprised when we gave them the news.  Soon mom and I were in the middle of wedding preparations, choosing a pattern for my dress, deciding on colors, picking out a cake, and all the stuff that goes along with planning a wedding.  Mom made my dress, and I thought it was lovely.  I'd taught myself how to decorate cakes and really wanted to make my own, but everyone worked together to convince me that I wouldn't have time for that.  Sheldon's mom knew a lady in Lehi who made cakes, so one afternoon mom and I went over to see her.  I took my cake decorating books with me, so I could show her the cake I wanted.  Talk about irony!  I wonder what I would have done if I had known then that 16 years later I would marry the fellow who lived next door to her?  I'm glad I didn't meet Moe then.  He would have been 32,  an old man to my way of thinking, with two little boys he was trying to raise and bushy strawberry blond hair and a huge mustache.  I think I would have run the other direction!

Our reception turned out just as lovely as I had hoped.  Mom and Dad worked so hard, turning our church cultural hall into a beautiful garden complete with a pond and fountain surrounded by hundreds of potted plants and ferns they borrowed from our neighborhood nursery.  I had chosen green and yellow for my colors, and I thought everything turned out beautiful.  My only disappointment was my bouquet, which was bigger and lovelier than anyone could have asked for.  Except for me.  The previous year I had worked as a secretary for a landscape architect who's family owned a florist shop.  I got my bouquet from them.  I chose a very simple bouquet, made from lots and lots of greenery with just a few white stefanotis sprays and a couple of yellow roses. It was simple, elegant, and cheap.  The florists were so sweet, trying to make something extra special for me because they knew me, that they added two dozen more roses to my bouquet.  It was lovely, but not what I'd wanted.  Oh well.

Sheldon and I got married in the Mesa Arizona Temple on a Thursday morning.  I'd always intended to get married in the Temple, it is the only place on earth where a couple can be sealed together for eternity, not just "until death do you part".  I was so happy.  Mom and Dad and Grandma Johnson and Grandpa Russell were there, and all of my aunts and uncles and Sheldon's big family, too.  We took pictures outside afterward, in the hot Arizona sun, and then later that night had our reception.  I could not have asked for a better start to my happily ever after.  It's funny how little we really know about what will actually make us happy.  Ten year later I thought if I could have looked into the future and seen all the heart ache and misery that was coming, I'd have killed myself then to escape it.  I'm glad I couldn't see what was coming, but if I could have seen twenty or thirty years into the future it wouldn't have been so bad.  I heard a statement once, in the movie "The Last Unicorn", of all places, that has stuck with me.  "There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends."  You know what?  That's right.  I'm still in the middle of my happily ever after, and I'm loving it!

The Easter Present

A new family moved into our area during the fall of 1976.  They had a daughter a few years younger than me, and she fit right in with the rest of us young adults.  Once in awhile she would talk about her older brother, Sheldon, who was on a mission in Idaho, but I didn't pay much attention since I was busy trying to catch Gene's eye.

She and her mom joined our ward choir.  One Sunday at the end of January her mother sat next to me and started telling me about her son, who was coming home in March. 

"Here we go again," I thought, as she told me all about how wonderful Sheldon was.  It seemed like mothers always thought I would be perfect for their sons, but nothing ever came of their matchmaking. 

By this time I had stopped worrying that I would become an old maid.  There seemed to be lots of young men out there who were interested in me, they just weren't the ones I was interested in.  I had gone to a fireside a few months earlier where the speaker talked to us about not being so picky when choosing a mate.  He said we should give people a chance, and any two people could be happy together as long as they were living the gospel and doing what's right.  Maybe I took what he said too literally, but I decided I ought to be more open minded.

By the end of February Sheldon's mom was assuring me that we were perfect for each other, and had me counting down the days till he came home.  In the meantime, I was still waiting for Gene to ask me out again, but it had been over a month since our last date and I was beginning to loose hope.

Sheldon got home about noon on March 15th.  His mom had told him all about me in her letters, so as soon as they finished dinner he asked her to call and see if he could come meet me.  He and his mom and dad came over about 7:00.  They introduced Sheldon to me and my parents, and then we sat around in our family room visiting.  He was pretty cute, and seemed very nice.  Whereas Gene had been about the same height as me, Sheldon was a few inches taller.  Gene had brown eyes, but Sheldon had blue, a huge plus in my mind.  I'd always wanted to marry a boy with blue eyes so my children would have them, too.  Gene had dark hair, and Sheldon's was only light brown, but still, two out of three wasn't bad. 

I tried to remember Sheldon from high school, we graduated the same year, but with a class of  over 800 it wasn't surprising that our paths had never crossed.  I had a vague recollection of hearing something about him, I thought it had to do with him being a player, but I wasn't even sure if it was the same person. 

Sheldon and his folks didn't stay too long that night, but before he left he'd asked me to go out with him the following night, and I'd said yes.

Thus began our quick, whirl-wind courtship.  We went out every night that week, and by Sunday Sheldon had given me a braided leather bracelet and asked me to go steady with him.  To tell you the truth, I was mostly in shock.  I mean, I had lots of fun with Sheldon, there was never any lack of things to say, he was gregarious and open, always cracking jokes and laughing.  Over time I realized that what Sheldon really was was an excellent salesman.  He could sell anything to anyone, including himself to me, but at the time I  thought he was just really easy to talk to. 

I still watched for Gene everywhere we went, but on the few occasions I saw him he was with a date.  "Oh well," I told myself.  "We just weren't meant to be," and I turned my attention back to Sheldon. 

Within two weeks he was talking about marriage, but I wasn't.  I mean, I was having a great time being swept off my feet, but I didn't really even know this guy.  Dad tried to talk us into slowing down one night, and Sheldon was very respectful and agreeable, but I don't think he understood what dad was saying, and I was just going along for the ride. 

Mom and Dad invited Sheldon's family to come up to the cabin with us for the Easter Holidays, thinking it would be a good idea for everyone to get to know each other.  Sheldon's family stayed in Grandma and Grandpa Russell's cabin at the bottom of the hill.  Our family stayed in our cabin on top.  Sheldon teased me all the way to the cabin, telling me he had something very special to put in my Easter basket.  I laughed and teased back, but there was a cold little knot in the pit of my stomach, worrying that it was going to be an engagement ring, and not knowing what I would do if it was.

I really liked Sheldon, I really enjoyed all the attention he was giving me and all the fun I had going out with him every night, but I didn't know if I was ready to get married yet.  I had a few misgivings, mostly about his family, and I wasn't sure what to do.  I'd never met people like them before.  I suppose I grew up very sheltered, but somehow I had supposed that everyone who was a member of our church would be the same as we were.  I'd never imagined that there could be people who went to church, professed to believe in the Savior and His gospel, but didn't live it like us. 

One of the first things I learned about Sheldon's parents was that they argued all the time.  In fact, they liked to introduce themselves by saying that they started fighting on their honeymoon and hadn't stopped since.  I couldn't figure out why anyone would think that was something to boast about.  The other thing they told people was that they spent a great deal of money going to Las Vegas for their honeymoon, and wished they hadn't because they never left their hotel room.  To me, coming from a family that was very reserved and private about intimate matters, hearing people talk about sex so openly was really embarrassing.  And they talked about it a lot. 

We had a nice weekend at the cabin, but Easter morning was very tense until I found my basket.  Sheldon's mom had decorated it for me, and he hid it outside under the big cedar tree in front of Grandpa's cabin.  I looked and looked for it, and Sheldon gave me hints and clues, but the whole time I was sick to my stomach worrying about what was inside.  When I finally found it under a bail of wire I was so tense I could hardly smile.  There, sitting on top of the Easter eggs and candy, was a beautiful, little white box. 

"I knew it," I thought, picking it up and looking at Sheldon's laughing eyes.  "What am I going to do? "What am I going to say?"

"Open it," Sheldon urged as I held the little box in my hand.  I looked at him one more time, then with trembling fingers pried the lid off.  Inside was a lovely silver bracelet and matching set of earrings!  Thank goodness!

"I love them!" I exclaimed, laughing with relief and happiness.  At least I had been spared the embarrassment of having my whole family and his whole family see me get an engagement ring.

"I thought about giving you a ring for Easter," Sheldon laughed as he took the bracelet out and slipped it onto my wrist, "but I decided to wait until I was sure you were ready to give me the right answer."

So, there it was.  He was planning on asking me to marry him, just not quite yet.  Oh well, I had a little more time to pray and make up my mind, and in the meantime I was able to enjoy that Easter, and the candy and dinner and joy of being up at the cabin.  And it was a lovely day.

I

Why Wasn't He Mr. Right?

I've wondered, sometimes, why some people find it so easy to meet the right person, fall in love, and get married, and others have such a hard time?  I hear people talk about soul mates, and wonder if there really are such things?  Do you suppose some people fell in love up in heaven before they came to earth, and when those couples met here they remembered each other?  What about the rest of us?  Were we the really cool ones up in heaven, playing the field, getting to know everybody, but never settling down with just one special someone?  Or were we the shy, backwards type, waiting to get to earth before we finally got up enough confidence to fall in love?  Maybe some people who never meet the right person here on earth can't find their soul mates because they have different missions to fulfill, so they lived in a different period of time? Maybe they agreed not to get married at all during this life, waiting until they were reunited back in heaven to settle down.

Anyway, I have a vision in my minds eye of what happened to me before I came here to earth.  Something someone once said sparked a kind of half remembrance inside my head, and I can almost see myself, sitting down with Heavenly Father, having a talk before it was my turn to come here to earth.

"Gale," Heavenly Father would have said, "would you mind doing me a favor while you're down there on earth?"

"Sure, Father," I would reply.  "What do you need me to do?"

"Well, there's this guy," Heavenly Father would explain.  "He's going to have a really tough time down there, partly because of traits and imperfections he will inherit, partly because of life experiences he's going to go through, but he's going to need someone extra special to put up with him and give him a hand.  The problem is, you won't be able to fix him, you'll just be able to give him a head start and help him along a little bit.  Would you mind donating a few years of your life to help him out, before you get married to your own eternal mate?"

"Sure, I can do that," I replied easily.  "I'd be glad to help this fellow out if you think I can do him some good.  Do you want me to be his girl friend for a couple of years or something?"

"Well, actually, would you mind being his wife for awhile?"

"You mean, marry him and then get divorced?"  I asked in astonishment.  "I thought that was not OK?"

"It's not," Heavenly Father told me, "but sometimes it's what happens anyway.  I'm sorry to ask you to do this, Gale, and I wouldn't if you weren't such a strong, good person.  I'm afraid it's going to hurt real bad, and be a huge sacrifice on your part, but you can make a difference for this boy through your love and example.  What do you think?"

"Of course I'd be glad to do it," I assured Heavenly Father enthusiastically.  "As long as it won't mess up my own destiny, I can spend a little time helping someone else out first.  You can count on me!"

And I'm sure, way back up there in heaven, that I thought it wouldn't be a very big deal to give up part of my life to help a brother out.  I bet I thought it would be easy. 

Perhaps that's why I had such a big crush on Gene when I was young.  We weren't meant for each other, we had very little in common and I could never think of anything to say to him, but he kept me from falling in love with any of the other guys I met until it was time for me to meet Sheldon.  I went back and forth, back and forth, thinking for sure that Gene was The One and he would fall in love with me, and then sure that he wasn't Mr. Right and that he would never ask me out again.  The year I turned twenty ended with me half in love and half out of love with Gene.  By the middle of the following March my whole world had turned around.

Still Waiting For Love

As the year wound to an end I still didn't know if Gene liked me or not.  We went out every four or five weeks, but that didn't seem to mean Gene was interested.  I figured I was just one of the girls on his list.  I sure didn't want to embarrass myself by letting on that I cared, so I played it cool and avoided letting anyone know how I really felt.  Perhaps I played it too cool, and Gene thought I wasn't interested.  Who knows?

We went to an adult ward party one Friday evening, sitting at the table with a number of my old young women leaders.  They seemed really excited about Gene and I, and it was fun to see the matchmaker gleam in their eyes.  But then Gene didn't call me for three weeks.

Next Gene asked if I'd like to go on a picnic after the Saturday Evening Adult session of Stake Conference.  We went with two other couples I'd never met.  The boys bar-b-cued hamburgers out on the desert, at Usury Pass Park.  After eating we played games on the picnic table and enjoyed the cool night air.  Driving home I reveled in the millions of stars overhead, the sparkling diamond lights of the city far ahead, and the smell of Gene's aftershave.  It was a glorious night, but ended without Gene mentioning going out again.

The second week of December was our ward Christmas Party.  Gene called me Saturday morning and asked if I'd like to go with him. 

"Sure," I said, hoping he wouldn't hear the excitement in my voice.   Again we had a fun time, but this was the night Gene tried to kiss me and I messed it up.  I already wrote a story about that, back in February.  If you've forgotten, look up "Oh What a Night."  It was so embarrassing, and disappointing.

I hoped and hoped Gene would ask me to the Single Adult Christmas Formal, but a couple of weeks before the dance I heard he'd asked someone else.  I always wondered if that was the end result of our disastrous kiss.  I was devastated.  That Saturday I went to the Single Adult dance feeling depressed and forlorn.  Would I ever have another chance with Gene?

I danced a couple of dances with a young man who seemed nice enough.  The dances were held in ASU Institute parking lot, and it was dark and loud, so I really didn't know what this kid looked like, but I was distracted enough that when he asked me if I'd like to go to the Christmas Formal with him I said yes.  He suggested going out before the formal, so we'd have a chance to get to know each other, and I agree. So the following weekend found me on a group date with this boy and a couple of his friends. 

We went to south Mountain for a picnic and to see the Christmas lights.  It was a pleasant evening, but I soon decided I wasn't really interested in any of the young men I was with.  On the way home the boys decided it would be cool to drive to Gilbert and see the reindeer farm.  It sounded like a pretty lame excuse for driving around in the dark, but since there were three couples and the other girls didn't object, what could I do? We ended up driving through downtown Gilbert.  I'd heard of it, but never been to this tiny place south of Mesa before.  It was very small, and I was not impressed, but that may have been because of my attitude.  For years after I considered Gilbert the 'arm pit of the state', and had no desire to return.  Funny how ironic life is.  Little did I know Gilbert would play such a huge part in my future life.

 By the end of this date I was really wishing I didn't have to go to the Christmas formal with this young man, but it was too late.  I borrowed a prom dress from my sister, not wanting to spend the money for a new dress, and my date gave me a lovely rose corsage, but that was the best part of the night.  I'm afraid I spent the entire evening watching Gene and his date, and feeling miserable.  It was so sad.

Falling in Like

Gene did ask me out again, but not for about a month.  It was so frustrating! I went with other fellows, bowling and to firesides and young adult activities, but it was hard to have fun when I was watching Gene across the room, having fun with other girls.  Actually, I went out with Gene about once a month, but time seemed to go so slowly in between dates that I felt like he must not be interested in me.  I sure was interested in him. 

I was in like.  A girl I knew had used that phrase to describe how she felt about a boy she later married, and it explained exactly how I felt.  I didn't know what love was, not real love.  I mean, I knew how I felt about mom and dad and my family, but I didn't know what love between a boy and a girl was supposed to feel like.  But I knew I liked Gene, a lot, and all I could do was think about him.  Every time I drove anywhere I took the route past Gene's house, whether it meant going out of my way or not, just so I could see if his car was in the driveway.  It felt like a little electric shock passed through me every time I saw his car. 

When the summer ended and everyone went back to school I got a brilliant idea which I pushed on the other young adults.  How about getting together once a week for early morning scripture studies?  Everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, probably because they all wanted an excuse to see each other, too.  So we set up Thursday mornings at 6:00, and we met for an hour to study.  It was fun, and Gene usually came.  I got a new set of scriptures for my birthday, and a green leather case, specifically because Gene had a green case.

I went back and forth, back and forth, trying to decide of he liked me or not.  When he asked me out I was sure he did, when weeks went by without a date I was sure he didn't.  In the fall I was talking with a couple of my girl friends about how silly boys were.  We were bemoaning the fact that we had to wait for them to ask us out, when we came up with a fantastic, extraordinary, exciting idea.  Why couldn't we put together a big group date?  We could arrange dates for each other so none of us would have to ask out our own guy, and we would have a dance and a dinner.  It sounded like lots of fun, a good way to make sure that all of us got dates, and if there was anyone in particular we really wanted to go with, we would let our friends know so they could make the arrangements.  Of course I asked my friends to put Gene and me together.

It was such a fun night!  We decorated with bales of hay and fall flowers, everyone dressed western, and we danced the night away to country music and square dancing.  We even had one of the guys take pictures so we would have keep sakes of that wonderful night.  Looking back now, I realize that it was a special night for more people than just me.  Two of my best friends ended up marrying the boys they were paired with, and have lived happily ever after.  I guess we were better match makers than we realized.  If only it had been me.

The Summer I Was Nineteen, continued

One Saturday a group of kids from our ward went floating down the Salt River on inner tubes. Arizonans loved floating down the river, it was a nice way to cool off on a hot summer afternoon, but it had been years since I'd been.  The last time we had gone as a family, and although it had been mostly fun, I'd got caught in a whirl pool off to the side of the river, and scared the living daylights out of me.  I'd been ten or eleven, and dad had to rescue me.  The experience had left me with no desire to float down the river again, so under normal circumstances I would have made an excuse and skipped that activity.  The thing was, the previous Sunday Gene had agreed to bring some of the equipment, so I knew he would be there.  What choice did I have?  I had to go.

About ten of us met at the river and piled our inner tubes and coolers into the back of one of the guys trucks, then jumped in and drove up to the starting point on the river.  I was glad one of the guys suggested tying the inner-tubes together to form one great big raft.  That way they could rest the coolers in the middle, and none of us would get separated (or caught in whirlpools) by ourselves. 

We were giggling and laughing as we waded out into the icy water and sat down on our tubes.  There really is nothing quite to compare with the sun beating down on your head and shoulders, scalding your face and neck and arms, while your back side freezes and your feet dangle in the clear, rushing water of the Salt River.  It's quite an experience.  We all got situated, amid lots of splashing and teasing, then pushed off and started our trip down the river. 

The current was pretty slow and peaceful, so the only excitement came from splashing each other, or the occasional rough spots we encountered as the water washed over or around submerged rocks.  The boys paddled us around the worst places, and we were thoroughly enjoying ourselves until we came up to a group beer drinking partyers.  They were drunk and obnoxious, but we glided by them without too much trouble until we reached the last person in their group.  He was really drunk, really loud, and really naked. We were mortified!  The boys in our group tried to paddle us quicker down the river, the girls averted our eyes, and we all were silent.  What could we say?  After awhile, as we slipped father and farther down the river, the conversation picked back up again, and a few of the boys tried to apologize and some of the girls tried to laugh it off, but we mostly just tried to ignore the whole thing and let it go. 

But it had messed up our easy going adventure.  Maybe to break the tension or something, some of the boys suggested untying some of the ropes and splitting our raft up into three smaller groups.  That was fine, and a little easier to manage, but I ended up in a different group than Gene, darn it. 

We eventually made it down to where our cars were parked, and we steered our inner-tubes over to the side of the river.   The water got really shallow there, only a few inches deeper than the rocks lining the river bottom.  It was awkward, trying to get your feet under you in such shallow water. I twisted my knee as I tried to stand up, and sure enough, it popped out.  Bummer!  When my knee popped out of it's socket I could barely put any weight on it, so all I could do was hobble over the rocks and up onto the beach where I quickly found a mesquite branch to sit on.  Everyone was concerned, and I was mortified!

"Should we carry you up to the cars?" one of the boys asked, I'm sure trying to be a gentleman, but embarrassing me further.

"No!" I quickly exclaimed.  "Really, I'm fine."  There was no way I wanted them to find out how heavy I was while they tried to carry me over the rocks and through the brush.

It was a long way up the trail to our cars, but I gritted my teeth and held onto one of my girl friends arms, and got there as quickly as possible.  The party split up as soon as we got to the our cars. I suppose we were all still embarrassed about our brush with nature, and I was glad to go home.  My knee was killing me.  I took some aspirin and sat with it up on a pillow, surrounded by ice packs, the rest of the afternoon until it finally slipped back into place, frustrated about how everything had turned out.  I sure hadn't made the best impression on Gene, and I wondered if he would even consider asking me out on a date after that.

The Summer I Was Nineteen

The summer I was nineteen was a turning point in my life.  By the end of August I had learned how to be a secretary, a receptionist,  how to run a blue print machine, how to navigate around Phoenix, and I had turned 20 and fallen head over heels in like.

That summer I took as many summer classes as allowed, still aiming at graduating from ASU in three years instead of four, but they were only morning classes, two days a week, so I had lots of time left to do other stuff.  A girl I knew decided to the spend summer in Utah with her family, and asked if I would like to fill in for her as secretary to an architect in town.  I wasn't sure I knew how to do that, but she was sure I could handle it, so at the beginning of the summer I became a secretary.  It was a blast!

My main duty was to answer the phones and greet customers, which I knew how to do.  The phone would ring and I would say, "Good morning, W. Allan Turley and Associates.  May I help you?"  Dad told me once that he had dreamed of being a radio disk jockey when he was young; he had a smooth, mellow voice that would have sounded good on the airwaves.  I'd thought about that over the years, and tried to modulate my voice into one that was pleasant and easy on the ears.  The practice paid off when I became a receptionist.  More than once customers commented on how nice I sounded, and I'm afraid I let it go to my head a little.  The rest of my job humbled me, though.

Mr. Turley wanted me to keep track of his financial books, and although I really tried, I never could make the ledger balance at the end of the month.  I was also supposed to proof read specs, filling in the areas that were blank.  Again I tried, but I never really got the hang of how architects did stuff.  I failed miserably at copying blue prints on the big machine they had in the back room.  It used ammonia, and the fumes were so strong that my eyes watered and I could hardly breath, let alone see what I was doing.  I was happy when occasionally the copier wouldn't work and I had to drive the blue prints over to a professional copy place to have them run off. 

The worst, and best part of my job was delivering blue prints and specs to clients over in Phoenix.  My boss owned two really nice cars, a white Monte Carlo with red pin-striping, and a slightly less expensive car that was maroon and really cool.  (You'll notice that I can't remember the make of that car, but I can still see how pretty it looked.  That's kind of the way I view all automobiles, much to my poor husbands dismay.)  Anyway, when Mr. Turley needed papers delivered he would hand me the keys to one of his cars, tell me who I was to give them to and how to get to their business, and send me on my way.  I felt so sophisticated, climbing into one of those beautiful cars, driving down the freeway to Phoenix, which is a huge city.  I usually had no trouble following the directions to get where I was going, but coming home was often another story.  Phoenix is mostly a very thoughtfully laid out city, and by the end of the summer I was familiar enough with the main roads to have an idea of where I was, but to begin with I seemed to get lost almost every trip.  Then I would have to stop and find a phone so I could call work and ask how to get home.  There were four men who worked for Mr. Turley, and they all got the biggest kick out of me getting lost in Phoenix.  Still, it was fun.

I also spent the summer dreaming about Gene, the boy I sure hoped would fall in love with me.  We went out the first Sunday he came home from his mission and had a nice time, even if we didn't talk a lot.  I don't know what it was about Gene, but whenever I was around him my mind went blank and my tongue was tied up in knots.  I could swap stories with the guys at work, no problem, but I could never think of a thing to say to Gene.

A year or so earlier I had decided I wanted to be a good listener.  I hated talking to people who interrupted all the time, so I made a point of trying not to interrupt or spend too much time talking about myself.  That worked out good when I was visiting with girls or the guys at work, they all had plenty to talk about and all I had to do was listen.  Talking to Gene was harder, somehow.  He wasn't self centered, needing to talk out problems and feelings like my girl friends, nor was he a boaster, proclaiming his exploits and always having to do one better like the fellows at work.  He was just a nice, quiet guy, maybe a little shy, and it seemed to me that every time we talked to each other all either of us could think to do was comment on the weather.  Maybe that's why he didn't ask me out very much. 

After our first date I waited and waited for him to call me.  Since we were both in the same ward in church we saw each other on Sundays, and Gene always smiled and talked to me there,  ("How was your week?" or "It sure is hot today.  Do you think it will rain?")  but he didn't ask me out on another date. There were lots of Young Single Adult activities going on that summer, and I went to all of them in the hope that Gene would be there.  Usually he was, and we would hang out together, but still he didn't ask me out.

to be continued.........

He Asked Me Out!

The spring I was nineteen, worrying about finding a husband or becoming an old maid, I also got my first real job.  I became a short-order cook at Fonzie's.

Fonzie's was a cute little cafe in my neighborhood.  Some good friends of ours bought is as sort of a tax write-off, hoping it would make some money but mostly knowing it would give us teenagers a good place to hang out, work, and learn some life lessons.  They decorated it 50's style, named it after one of the main characters on a popular TV show, and opened the doors to rave reviews and happy kids.  I quickly learned how to flip burgers, make delectable sub sandwiches, mix tantalizing milk shakes and sodas, and make change.  It was fun.  Within a few weeks I had been promoted to night manager, and also learned how to clean out the ice cream machine, scrub down the grill, count out the money and lock up the cafe.  That was even more fun.  I can't say that I wasn't nervous sometimes after I had closed out the register, turned off the lights, and was locking the back door, but no one was ever waiting outside to knock me over the head and steal the container of soft-serve ice-cream I got to take home with me.  Since we always had to clean out the ice-cream machine, we had to do something with the left overs, and getting to take it home was one of the perks of being night manager.  Yummmmmm, that stuff was good!

I worked at Fonzie's all spring while I went to college and waited for prince charming to come.  Mind you, I was also looking for him every time someone walked in the cafe door, but that never happened.  Perhaps I was a little too picky, but in the back of my mind was always the thought, "Gene will be coming home from his mission one of these days, and maybe he will you ask you out again."

Gene was a boy who lived in our neighborhood, belonged to my ward in church, and once asked me to go to a fireside with him, but like an idiot, I turned him down.  He'd caught me off guard in the parking lot after church on Sunday.  I had already decided I wasn't going to the fireside because we had a family thing that night, so when he amazed me by asking if I'd like to go I didn't think, "Hey, Gene's asking you out on a date!"  Instead, I was so surprised and flustered that he was actually talking to me that I told him the excuse I had planned to give my friends when they wanted me to go.  Dumb! 

Anyway, Gene had been away on a two year mission to Canada, and he was coming home soon.  I'd written to him during that two years, and he'd written nice letters in return.  Surely that meant he was still at least a little interested in me, right?  On the other hand, probably every girl in Mesa was writing letters to Gene, so he might not even realize who my letters were from.

The Sunday after he came home Gene spoke in church.  All the girls in our ward drooled over him as he talked.  Gene was tall, had dark hair, and the most intense, dreamy eyes you ever saw.  One look, and those eyes were emblazoned on your mind forever, at least if you were a girl. 

After church Gene's mom invited everyone to come over for a little open house they were hosting that afternoon.  I could hardly wait for dad to get home from his meetings so we could go over.  I made no-bake cookies while I waited, since it was nice for people to bring goodies to open houses to help out, and who knows.  Maybe the way to a man's heart really was through his stomach?

Mom and dad and I walked in the back door of Gene's house to find the living room and kitchen full of people, mostly teenage girls, standing around talking and laughing and eating cookies. Slyly scanning the room while I walked, I took my platter of cookies over and put it on the counter.  I finally spied Gene, standing in a corner next to his mom, talking to some neighbors.  I kind of grinned and waved, and immediately his mom grabbed Gene's arm and pulled him over to talk to me. 

"I brought some cookies," I motioned to the heavily laden counter. 

"Oh, you're wonderful!" his mom gushed.  "Gene, you remember Gale don't you?"

Gene smiled shyly and nodded.  "Thanks for writing to me," he said, and my heart melted.  "He cares," I thought.  "He knows I wrote to him, and he remembers."  

More people were pushing up behind us, reaching out to shake hands with Gene and welcome him home, but I didn't move out of the way.  I just sort of stood there, taking up space, listening to the conversations going on all around me.  I was standing next to Gene.  Who cared what else was happening?

Eventually mom and dad made their way over to welcome Gene home, and to collect me so we could go back to our house.  Gene visited with them for a few minutes, I always thought he especially liked my dad, and then before we left he turned to me and said, "I heard there’s a stake fireside tonight.  Would you like to go with me?"

Wham! Bam! Woosh! Fireworks went off in my head and heart so loudly my ears started ringing.  He was asking me out, again.  And this time I knew what to say.  "Yes!"  That was all.  I couldn't think of any clever reply, I couldn't think of anything at all except Gene had just asked me out on a date and I was going to go.  So I turned and followed mom and dad out the door, down the street, and to our own house.  Believe me, this was way better than getting to bring home the left over ice cream from Fonzie's, even if my insides were already starting to twist around in nervousness and I kind of felt the same way I felt when I had to walk out into the dark parking lot, anxious and scared.  But excited!

Becoming an Old Maid?

By the time I was nineteen over half of the girls I knew were either engaged or married.  All three of my cousins who were the same age as me were married.  I wasn't surprised that all of the popular, pretty girls were settling down, but even the majority of the average girls had found a husband and were starting families.  At first I thought they were crazy, getting married so young, but it wasn't long before I was afraid I was the odd one, being left behind.

It's one thing to wonder in passing if you might end up being an old maid, it's another to find yourself actually facing that possibility.  Of course, nineteen was still young, certainly not old maid material, but when everyone else is getting married you start to worry.  I did.

I had one cousin, my oldest, who had not married yet.  But that didn't help me feel better, because she was gorgeous and popular and single because she chose to be.  Terry was six or seven years older than me.  She was adorable, cute and petite, and all the boys chased after her.  I'd heard that a young man who lived in our neighborhood had asked Terry to marry him, but she had turned him down because he wasn't the right one.  Knowing that my cousin was single, over twenty, and still very cool didn't alleviate my concern about not having any prospects myself, though.  After all, I really wasn't like Terry.  She was single by choice.  I was single because I wasn't anybody's choice.

Not that there weren't any possibilities, they were just very limited.  I dreamed of marrying someone tall, dark and hansom, with blue eyes and short hair and a determination to do what was right no matter the cost.  It seemed to me, though, that I was surrounded by short, wishy washy, dirty blonde boys who were more interested in cars and hunting than making something out of themselves.  The tall, good looking guys I ran across were either already engaged or looking the other direction.

Their moms seemed to notice me, though.  One day I was looking through the greeting cards at the bookstore when a total stranger struck up a conversation with me.  She was really nice and I had fun talking to her, but then out of the blue she asked me if I had a steady boyfriend. 

"No," I answered, very surprised she would ask me something like that. 

"Well, I have a son....." she began, and off she went telling me about her son who was a really great guy, but having a hard time finding girls that his mom approved of. 

"So, would you be interested in going out with him if he called you?"  she asked.

"I, I, I,well, I guess so," I stumbled, not sure what I was letting myself in for. 

That evening he called and told me his mom had suggested he ask me out on a date, so would I like to go with him to the single-adult fireside the next evening?

He sounded cute, and his mom had said he was good looking and nice, and she had seemed really nice, so I said yes.  And I was kind of excited.

The next night he came and picked me up and we went to the fireside.  He really was cute (blonde instead of dark, but you can't have everything) and I thought he was really nice although he was kind of quiet, but that was the end of it.  He brought me home, thanked me for a nice evening, and I never heard from him again.  What a bummer!

Another time a lady in our ward set me up with her nephew who was visiting from out of town.  He was also supposed to be really cute, tall, and very nice.  And he was.  He took me out hiking up the front of Superstition Mountain. I loved hiking the trails on the back side of the mountain, but I had never even heard of anyone trying to climb the front.  About a third of the way up the gently sloping base turns into sheer cliff, and you have to find chimneys and cracks to scramble through, often climbing from one huge boulder to another. 

I was still taking yoga classes in college, working hard on improving my lotus position.  I had noticed over the last few months that my knees sometimes felt wobbly, and wondered if stretching and bending them into a pretzel wasn't very good for them. 

When we got as high as we could on the face of the mountain we sat and looked over the valley for a few minutes, and then began climbing down.  I knew from past experience that climbing down was often harder than climbing up, but I wasn't prepared for the way my knees began to ache as I climbed down from one boulder to the next.  I didn't say anything, but perhaps my date decided I wasn't his type if I couldn't cheerfully leap over rocks, because he also never called me again.

The following week I was sitting in class, listening to my professor, when my knee slipped out of it's socket.  Man! that was painful!  I hobbled out to the car, wondering what on earth had happened, and as soon as I got home put a bag of ice on my knee and rested it on a pillow.  After a few hours it slipped back in and I was OK, but it sure scared me.

On and off for years afterward my knee would suddenly pop out like that, usually when it was it bent at a awkward angle.  The doctor gave me some exercises to strengthen my ligaments, but it took a long time for it to stop happening.

I was only nineteen years old and had my whole life in front of me, but sometimes it sure seemed like there wasn't much to look forward to.  I was over half way done with college, well on my way to getting my BA in elementary education and a teaching certificate so I could be a school teacher, but I wasn't excited about it.  All I ever wanted to do was just be a mother, a wife, and a homemaker.  I wasn't like the girls today, dreaming about the careers they want.  I just wanted to be a mom.  But it didn't look like I was going the right direction to accomplish that goal.

Different Kinds of Teachers

During my career as a college student I discovered that there are all kinds of teachers, not just good ones and bad ones.  I had dedicated teachers, lazy teachers, foolish teachers, arrogant teachers, wise teachers, and dumb teachers.  Since I was attending college to learn how to be a teacher, I suppose it was good for me to experience being in all of these different types of classrooms, but it sure made learning hard sometimes.

The teachers I disliked the most were the arrogant ones.  These were the teachers who were trying to prove how smart they were, at the expense of their students.  I suspect you know this kind of teacher.  They delight in designing tests that are as hard as possible, intentionally writing trick questions so they can fail as many students as possible.  These teachers aim to be known as the HARD teachers, the TOUGH teachers, so everyone will know how brilliant they are.  At first I just disliked this kind of teacher and tried to avoid them, but one day it dawned on me just what bad teachers they really were.  After all, what should a teacher's main goal be?  To fail as many students as possible, or to impart as much knowledge as they can to every one of their students, with the eventual goal of being able to pass every student they teach?

Teaching is hard, and it is easy to get burned out after awhile, but another type of teacher that really bothered me were the lazy ones.  These teachers didn't care enough to put forth the effort to teach their students.  Instead they expected their pupils to read the textbooks and gather knowledge on their own, with the teacher's only job being to hand out and grade tests.  You know this kind of teacher, you probably had one in a high school history class.  They were the ones who handed you a book when you walked in the door, told you to read chapter 23 and answer the study questions at the end, then gave you a test on the material, never bothering to do any actual teaching themselves. 

I had some teachers like that in college, only because they had such large classes they didn't even grade the tests themselves.  They had prep students, older college students getting credit for helping out professors, do all the work for them. I discovered in one psychology class that the more I wrote on essay questions, the better my grades got.  After awhile I got in the habit of writing at least a full page for each question, and even though I had no idea what the real answer was, as long as I rambled on and on the prep students wouldn't take the time to read my answer carefully enough to see that I didn't know what I was talking about.

I took one class at ASU from a professor who was just about to retire.  He didn't spend much time during that semester teaching, but I hadn't realized just how burned out he was until the last day of regular classes.  All we had left to do was take our final exam the following week, but he really didn't want to bother with that, so he told us we could come and take the final on Wednesday and see how well we did, but he would automatically give anyone who chose not to take the final a B+ for that grade.  I have no idea how many kids actually went and took the final on Wednesday, I don't suppose there were many.  I took the B+.

The professors I enjoyed and learned the most from were the ones who loved what they were doing,and loved passing their knowledge on to their students.  They got the most satisfaction from seeing us succeed, and consequently, they were the teachers whose students did the best.  I determined pretty quickly that these were the teachers I wanted to emulate.  Years later, when I became a teacher myself, I tried to remember how these teachers taught; how they wrote their tests, how they worked with each student and instilled in the classroom an enthusiasm for learning and an excitement for gaining as much knowledge as possible.  Although it was impractical to expect perfection from every student, I sure wanted all of them to succeed. So it became my goal to pass every one of my students, and I  usually did.

Are You As Good As You Know How To Be?

One of the classes I took while going to ASU was philosophy.  I was kind of nervous going into the class, having heard stories about weird professors and bizarre ideas, but in the end I thoroughly enjoyed the class.   For one thing, it was very small.  I think there were maybe twelve students when the class started, but by the middle of the semester there were only five or six of us left.  I suppose people dropped out because the class sessions were kind of boring, we mostly sat around and talked about different ideas and philosophies, and the professor required one very in-dept project which scared most people off.

For me the project was not that difficult.  I had discovered early in my college career that since my major was elementary education, most professors would allow me to tailor my projects and assignments in that direction.  What that meant was that while other students were doing massive amounts of research on very technical, advanced subjects, I was reading children's stories and writing papers about "Winnie the Pooh" and "The Little House on the Prairie".  It was really kind of fun.

I ended up using information I had already researched and compiled for my Children's Literature class a few years earlier to do the project for this philosophy class, so I finished early and didn't have to stress out over it like the other students were doing.  Instead, I was able to just come to class and enjoy the discussions, although I did wonder sometimes about the direction our discussions took. 

One day the professor began our class by posing a question.  "Are you as good as you know how to be?"
I didn't even have to think  about that.  "No, of course I wasn't."  Not that I was a bad person or anything, it wasn't in my nature to disobey rules or be cruel or rebellious.  But sometimes I was selfish, sometimes I was lazy, and while I didn't do anything really wrong, I wasn't always as good as I knew I should be.

The other students in the class also answered the same way.  We all agreed that we could be better if we tried.  But the professor didn't let us off that easy.  He wanted specific examples of things we knew how to do better than we actually did.  When we provided him with examples, he examined them and turned them around, asking, "If you had really known, I mean, really had known how to do that better, wouldn't you have done it?" 

"For example, if you know you are supposed to wear a seat belt, but you don't because you don't want to wrinkle your clothes or it feels too constrictive or you just forget, you think you know better than you do.  But maybe you just don't really know.  If you were a doctor in an emergency room, and you saw people come in night after night, horribly mangled and injured because they were in accidents without their seat belts on, and on the other hand, you saw people come in with slight injuries because they were saved by wearing their seat belts, then your knowledge and understanding would begin to grow and your actions would change with that.  So, really, you are being as good as you know how to be at this time.  If you learn more, your actions will change."

I thought about that, and still didn't agree to begin with.  But, in a way, I suppose the professor had something there.  If I really knew,  I mean, really knew something, I suppose my actions would change.  Perhaps that's why so many of us don't do what we should be doing, we don't really understand the reason behind the rule.  So, teaching people should involve a lot more than just telling them the rules, if we are really going to change behavior we have to help them know why the rule is there.   So, maybe I am as good as I know how to be, but then it is my responsibility to learn more.

Learning My Lesson

One semester at ASU I took an audio visual class, designed to help future teachers learn how to use the equipment we would have in our classrooms. This was back in the days when we still showed super-8 movies, wrote on chalkboards, and made our own posters and signs using poster paper and markers. 

The last week of the semester our teacher surprised us by informing us that we were going to use some brand new technology, video taping.  On the last day of class he showed us a video camera, explained how to use it, and then told us he would tape some of us interviewing each other, then let us watch the video.

I was really not interested in being filmed, so I stood at the back of the group, but for some reason he looked over the rest of the girls and chose me to be the interviewer.  Reluctantly I walked up to the front of the group.  Then the teacher chose a woman I didn't know to be the intervieweee, (is that a word?)  This woman was a little older than the rest of us, and the only thing I knew about her was that she was pregnant.

The teacher handed me the microphone and instructed me to interview the other woman for a couple of minutes, then we would go back into the classroom and watch the video.  Racking my brain for something to say, I turned to my classmate, smiled, and asked the only thing I could think of.

"So, when is your baby due?"

The woman gave me a withering glance, then replied,  "My baby was born last week."

I don't know what other questions I asked, I was so mortified I've blocked the rest of the experience totally out of my mind, but I sure learned my lesson.  Never, never, never ask a woman anything about being pregnant unless you already know the answer.  Never.

Looking for the Good

I learned lots of interesting things in college, not the least of which was the fact that I love learning.  One thing I discovered, though, is that teaching how to be a teacher is harder than you might think.  I took lots of classes designed to do that, and I learned lots of facts and terms, but the actual art of teaching I learned before college, when I first began teaching Primary for church.

In those days we had monthly Primary Inservice Meetings, and it was in that setting that I learned the most valuable skills.  Every Wednesday afternoon during the following month I had the opportunity to practice what I learned with my little Primary class.  I taught the six year-olds for a year, then the eight year old class for a couple of years.   I was also the Junior Sunday School Chorister on Sunday mornings, leading the singing time for all the children between the ages of three and eight.  That was lot of kids to keep control of, and I really appreciated the skills I learned at our Inservice meetings.

One of the most important things I learned was how to help children be good because they wanted to be, not because they were afraid of getting in trouble.

I learned that when a child was disruptive, acted out, teased, or didn't pay attention, instead of following my first inclination to reprimand and tell the student what I wanted him to do, I should find another child who was doing something good and praise him.  By ignoring the first child's negative behavior I didn't reinforce it by giving him the attention he sought.  By praising the second child's good behavior I did reinforce that and encouraged him to keep up the good work, but also silently showed the first child that he would get the attention he wanted if he also had good behavior.  It was amazing how quickly kids caught on and tried to do whatever would get them noticed.  And instead of being the teacher who was always telling kids how bad they were, I was the one who praised them and made them feel good.

Another rule I learned, and tried to remember to use at home, was to point out at least 10 positive things a person is doing before pointing out one negative thing they need to change.  That's hard to do.  It means you have to be actively looking for the good all the time, and that usually takes care of the problem before you even get a chance to bring up the behavior you want them to stop.

Like I said, that's hard to remember to do, since we tend to notice bad behavior and take for granted good behavior.  This reminded me of my favorite Disney movie when I was a child, Polyanna.  We went to the theater to see Polyanna when it first came out, then mom bought the sound track, and I listened to it every Sunday afternoon.   Soon I knew the dialogue word for word, and can still quote most of it fifty years later.  I loved that movie, but I don't think it was the acting, the scenery, the costumes, or even the plot that caught and held my attention.  It was the very simple principle at the core of the story.  "When you look for the bad in mankind, expecting to find it, you surely will."

That simple premise caught and held my attention when I was a little girl, and it still rings true today.  I can find a million things wrong with every thing and every person I meet, but when I take time to look, the good is there, too.  And life is so much nicer when I choose to see the good around me and have a positive attitude.

Learning to Tell Stories

One of my favorite college classes was Children's Literature, probably because I learned so much there.  It was that teacher that advised us to begin reading poetry to our children even before they were born, because, she said,  it would stretch their minds and help them think in different patterns, turning them into mathematicians some day. 

We spent a a great deal of time studying children's poetry, and one poem still pops into my head every now and then.  It was by written by Beatrice Schenk de Regniers.

Keep a Poem in Your Pocket 
Keep a poem in your pocket 
and a picture in your head 
and you'll never feel lonely at night when you're in bed.

The little poem will sing to you 
the little picture bring to you 
a dozen dreams to dance to you 
at night when you're in bed. 

So--

Keep a picture in your pocket 
and a poem in your head 
and you'll never be lonely at night when you're in bed. 

As I said, I believe the reason I enjoyed Children's Lit. was because I learned so much.  Towards the end of the semester we studied story telling.  Now, I had spent at least the last eight or nine years telling stories to my brothers and sisters, the kids I babysat, my Primary children, and anyone else who would listen to me.  I loved telling stories.  But I had never really studied the art of getting up in front of an audience, presenting a prepared presentation.  (Good alliteration, huh?) 

When I was little and had to give two-and-a-half minute talks in church mom helped me learn to talk slowly.  She told me it was human nature to speak fast when we are nervous, so I should talk slower than usual to make up for that tendency.  She also taught me how to enunciate my words carefully so people could understand what I said.  She would never allow me to take my talk with me.  I had to memorize it,  then practice giving it in my own words in front of a mirror until I was able to say the whole talk smoothly.  She also taught me to take a deep breath when I got to the microphone before I began to speak.  She said that gave the audience a chance to get ready to listen, and it would help me to be less nervous.

Thanks to mom, I knew the basics of standing in front of an audience and giving a talk, but I learned there was a lot more than just poise and confidence that goes into becoming a good story teller.  You can be poised and confident and still put everyone to sleep if you don't also add in a little dramatic flair.  Telling stories is actually a lot like acting, I suppose.  You have to get into character, and actually see in your mind the story you are telling.  Thinking about it, I realized that every time I told a story I was actually seeing the details inside my head, getting excited right along with the plot, feeling scared or sad or depressed as I described how the people in the story felt, and almost crying with relief or happiness or whatever when their problems were solved and they lived happily ever after.  Telling a good story sometimes wore me out, but I loved it.  It was like watching a good movie or reading a favorite book over and over again.

Our final assignment in Children's Literature was to tell a story to an elementary school class.  That sounded like a fun final examination, especially since it was Christmas time and I loved telling Christmas stories.  So I went back to the elementary school where I had been a teacher's aid during high school and asked one of the fourth grade teachers if I could come into her room and tell a story.  She said of course.  (I have since learned that most teachers are happy to have anyone come and do a presentation for their class.  It gives them a few minutes to sit down and recuperate before they have to get back up and go to work again.)

The story we chose was supposed to take between 20 and 30 minutes to tell, which narrowed my choices down considerably. While there were any number of delightful Christmas stories, choosing one that long was a different matter.  I finally settled on the longest Christmas story I knew, The Other Wise Man, by Henry Van Dyke.  I shudder to think what would happen if I tried to tell that story in a public school room today, but that was a simpler, nicer time when schools still put on Christmas pageants and all kinds of customs were tolerated in public schools.

I read and re-read my copy of The Other Wise Man, then spent days telling it to myself in my own words.  I discovered that many parts of the story were worded so beautifully they were imbedded in my subconscious, so although I did not set out to memorize it, much of my re-telling was word for word the way Henry Van Dyke wrote his story. 

The big day came when I was scheduled to give my presentation.  I was nervous as I drove over to the elementary school.  Although I knew the teacher from working for her the previous year, I didn't know any of the students.  I walked into the classroom with a knot of fear tightening up my throat, wondering if I would really be able to do this or if I would stumble and fumble around and tell the story so poorly the kids would loose interest, or worse, laugh.

The teacher introduced me, explained I was there to tell them a Christmas story, and then turned the time over to me.  I walked up to the front of the class, looked out at the sea of expectant faces, took a deep breath, and began.

"The night sky was inky black as Artaban and his fellow magi sat on his roof, gazing up at the stars....."  and I was lost.  Lost in the ancient mid-eastern world of wise men, camels, fabulous jewels, disappointment, decisions, and a quest that took Artaban on a 33 year journey.  I only saw the children's faces with a small part of my mind, accepting their smiles and looks of anticipation, but not really internalizing them.  The biggest part of my brain and my imagination were far away in that other world, seeing the quest Artaban was on,  feeling his pain and anguish as he approached the end of his life thinking he had failed. As I finished my story saying;  "A quiet radiance fell across the tired face of Artaban, as he took his last, final breath.  His quest was ended, his gifts accepted, the other wise man had found the king," my own eyes were full of tears, as were the eyes of every person in the room.  I turned to the teacher to say goodbye, and was surprised by the clapping that erupted from she and her students.  I think I had actually forgotten I was telling the story to anyone else. 

And so ended my first real story telling experience, and I was hooked.  Never again did I want to run and hide when someone asked me to get up in front of an audience to tell a story.  Not that I stopped being afraid.  To this day I still get a knot in my throat, my stomach does flip flops, and my hands get clammy.  But the pure joy of reliving a story in my own mind, and sharing that with other people, is more than enough to get me through those first moments of fright; and then I'm off in another world, and I forget to be afraid.

Learning

"What's the best thing to do when you're sad?" a young King Arthur asked Merlin in Camelot. "Learn something," Merlin replied.  I've come to discover that for me, learning something also helps when I'm scared, angry, or lonely.  Putting something new in my mind helps me forget, or at least put into perspective, my troubles.

I had the opportunity to learn all kinds of new things when I was in college.  Perhaps that's why I enjoyed it so much.  I mostly studied elementary education, which meant I not only learned how to be a teacher, I also needed to learn all the information I was going to have to teach some day.

At first I had to take the generic classes that all college students take, like English, reading, math, science, and history.  I'd taken all of these classes in High School, but now instead of thinking, "Why do I have to learn this stupid stuff?"  I tried to remember that I needed to learn the information because some day I would be trying to teach it to my own students.  That mind-set helped me to focus better. 

One thing I learned quickly; I was never going to be a great math teacher.  Somehow my mind just did not work in those directions.  My Children's Literature teacher told us that we should read poetry to our children when they were young if we wanted them to be great mathmeticians.  Perhaps mom should have read me more poetry.  I knew an engineer once who loved math.  He said it was like learning a new language, and once you understood it the doors opened and knowledge just flooded into your brain.  I tried, but I never learned that language.  I still get mixed up figuring our what an interger (that's probably not even the right word) is.

I learned lots of other good stuff, though.  Like, YOU are your best visual aid.  When I teach, my kids may learn a little if they listen to me, but they learn a lot more if I have brought something with me to help focus their attention.  One day one of my education teachers suggested that the best visual aid we can use is our own selves.  He said we needed to be energetic, moving around to keep our student's attention, using animation in our voices and facial expressions.  He actually suggested that we ought to jump on a desk and do a little dance if we saw our students minds wandering.  I've never done that, but my kids sure liked it when I dressed in costume to teach about famous American heroes.

The first time I tried being my own visual aid was when I had to give an English Literature presentation on Edger Allen Poe's poem, "The Bells."  I really didn't want to do it.  I was still shy and uncomfortable in front of people, especially a bunch of college students and my professor.  Mom suggested dressing up in costume, turning out the lights, and using a candle to add atmosphere.  That actually sounded like a good idea.  It's not so scarey to stand in front of people when you are pretending to be someone other than yourself, and the dim lighting would help hide my nervousness.

On the day of the presentation I felt a little silly walking into class in an old-fashioned, floor length, maroon gown while carrying a candlestick, but it sure made it easier for me to stand at the front of the class and recite the poem with feeling and expression.  I was relieved when everyone clapped enthusiastically as I finished my presentation, and it really made me feel good when the teacher gave me an A+. 

Somehow, this experience broke the ice for me, and it was easier after that to get up and perform in front of people.  And that is what I discovered teaching is all about.  Performing in front of an audience, just like if I was in Las Vegas up on a stage.  The better prepared and the more enthusiastic I am, the more well received my lessons are.  Another good thing to learn.

The Class Ring

I had hoped growing up and going to college would make me magically become like the girls I saw on TV and the movies; comfortable around and popular with boys.  My hopes were in vain.

At MCC some boys did notice me occasionally, but they were the ones I didn't want to know.  There was one kid in Biology who sat behind me and struck up a conversation on the first day.  I had no idea how to react to him.  I could tell we had different standards and looked at the world through different eyes just by the way he dressed and talked.  The hippie generation had given way somewhat to the preppy look, but this young man was still hanging onto the "cool, far-out, psychedelic man," attitude, and I wasn't a bit attracted.  I didn't want to be rude, and I didn't have the people skills to know how to listen, talk with, and get to know someone while still maintaining my distance.  All I knew how to do was avoid him. 

After the second week of smiling and running I was desperate for another solution.  My friend suggested telling him I had a boyfriend, but I didn't like to lie, and I really didn't even want to have a conversation with him.  What I needed was a way to show him without talking that I wasn't interested, like wearing an engagement ring or something.  Hey, that was a good idea. 

I couldn't afford to go out and buy myself a diamond ring, but I could borrow my older brother's class ring and wear it on my left hand so it looked like I was going steady with someone. The next class I came wearing Keith's class ring.  It was too big, so I wrapped a piece of bright yellow yarn tightly around it until it fit snugly on my finger.

As usual, I got to class early, slipped into my seat, and carefully placed my left hand on my desk, prominently displaying the class ring.  My friend came in, sat next to me, looked at my hand and grinned. Just before class started the young man I was trying to fake out came into class.  He smiled as he walked in the door, but I quickly struck up a conversation with my friend.  The young man walked behind me, took his seat, and started to lean forward to talk to me just as the teacher pulled the overhead screen down and began lecturing.  Thank goodness.  All hour I kept my left hand on the desk.  As soon as class was over I grabbed my books and rushed out the door, ducking into the girls restroom as soon as I was in the hall. 

I don't know if the ring did the trick, or just my avoidance, but the young man discouraged easily.  He never talked to me again.  Still, just to be safe, I wore Keith's ring to class entire semester.  It certainly kept me from having to endure uncomfortable discussions with unwanted admirers, but was I also inadvertently discouraging other possible suitors at the same time?