Take the Long Way Home

It's Halloween. Time to admit what scares me: nighttime driving on the gravel road directly south of my dad's farm. Here's the reason.

I was in the backseat dozing after a Sunday evening in town with Mom and Dad. We'd often go in to visit relatives or to hear my sister Priscilla sing in "The Power and Light," a Christian singing group from the Huron Mission Church that performed in the Lewis Drug parking lot. 

I heard footsteps on gravel and Dad asking someone if he needed help. The voice grunted a reply.

Dad returned to the car with a report. "He's lost, but he said to leave him alone. Doesn't want any help."

Our car lights shined on a lug wrench in the middle of the road and an open trunk as Dad drove on the shoulder to get by the vehicle. It was dark already, so I didn't see the man.

But I sure did that night in my dreams and every time I woke up because I had heard Dad say the fella's name and that the guy was drunk.

This man lived a few miles from our place, and he was obviously confused, so my pre-teen brain imagined him getting passed our dog and mistaking our house for his and yelling his daughter's name up the stairway to me. And when I wouldn't come, he'd drag me down thinking I was his disobedient daughter and beat me up.

I never dreamed or imagined my parents intervening, or our dog taking care of him. A child's imagination and fears are not rational to adults.

But this adult still refuses to drive down that road at night. I go the long way around.


What incident stands out as a scary memory that impacts your behavior now? Do your child's fears change your routine?

The Scariest Place in an Old Farmhouse

Our farm house cellar was a place of dread for me. Damp, dark, pungent. Cracks in the foundation floor. I didn’t dread it for those reasons though. I feared the salamanders under the wooden stairs.

Mom would tell me to get a jar of pickles, canned pears or peaches, or sometimes a few more eggs. I’d whine that I was scared of the salamanders. They might run up my leg, bite my toes, or hiss at me, I thought.

Mom would hear none of that. “Those buggers are more scared of you than you are of them. Just go real fast and they’ll run away.”

And they would. Every time.

But I still didn’t like doing it. 

Funny how the daddy longlegs that lived among the pots and pans and the store-bought canned goods in the stairway on the way down never bothered me.

That cellar, stench and all, still exists. The hot water heater is down there, and my dad put a water distiller in there years ago. One time he had jugs of extra water all over the place.

The room carries a wet-earth odor. A small screened window to the east lets in light along with a single light bulb. Maybe Mom had a board she’d put up there in a big rain storm to keep it from flooding, but I don't remember. In the South Dakota winters, Dad would pile straw bails in front of it.

The cellar houses a couple old wooden chairs and some makeshift wooden shelves for all the home canned goods. In the middle of the room are a couple poles with a table top. It is taller than counter height. Mom kept her canning supplies on it with the cleaned out jars.

I remember only one time taking cover in that basement, ah, I mean cellar, during a storm.

I was already teaching in Kansas, but was home for the summer. My sister Priscilla and her daughter Angela were up for a visit when Dad came in yelling, “You guys take cover. Get in the basement.” Then he headed back outside.

After Mom questioned where he was going, he hollered, “I’m going driving. Gotta see what’s coming around the trees.”

Typical.

We grabbed our purses, a couple of blankets, and Grandma Katie’s old transistor radio and headed to the cellar. I wasn’t concerned about any salamanders then.

We hadn’t been down there very long when a loud bang startled us.

“That’s the front door,” Mom said. “Wind must have blown it open. It’s banging back and forth now.”

Angela mentioned our family dog, Jupiter, our black and white cocker spaniel who showed up one July day in 1994 after a comet hit the planet, thus the name.

“She’s in with the boars,” Mom assured Angela.

The door kept banging, so I said I’d go up and shut it and come right back. Neither Mom nor Priscilla protested, and I don’t remember being scared to do it. After all, my dad was out in this. It was just a terrible wind, right?

I think this was the storm that my brother Elliott, his wife Doris, and daughter Suzanne stood by one of their kitchen windows and watched an old hog barn (which as little kids, we’d dubbed the Laura Ingalls Wilder playhouse), roll back and forth towards the house. If it wasn’t this storm, then it must have been another one. That building never did hit their house or vehicle, but it rolled itself out of existence and ended up as a pile of boards.

Back at our place, I was able to close the outside door and return to the cellar unharmed. When it was all over, I don’t recall any major damage to our farm.

A few years ago, the family was talking about Dad's cellar, and Angela, now a full-grown adult with a family of her own, remembered the evening we took cover. She said she was so scared. Not of the storm. Not of any salamanders. Not of the creepiness of the place, but of losing me.

She said that she thought she’d never see me again when I went up those stairs to close that door. She described her feelings so vividly. She'd never told me that.
 
Salamanders or storms, I’ve never spent much time in that cellar.

But my Grandma Elizabeth did when my two older sisters were little—just enough time for Priscilla to cut Brenda’s hair while Grandma was down there sorting eggs.
 
Oh, if those cellar walls could talk.


Do you remember a room from your childhood home that gave you the heebie-jeebies? What about now? Is there a place that gives you the willies?

9 Tidbits About Stella, born June 28, 1925

Mom would be 90-years-old this June 28. She died over ten years ago. As a tribute, I decided to share nine things about her. My siblings grew up in a different decade, so I enlisted their help along with Dad’s.

One: her family

Mom's dad died when she was 14-years-old. My mom was the youngest of three daughters. Grandma Katie moved Mom and her sister Bina from the farm into Doland after an auction. Her sister Grace was already married to Johnny. Dad told me a lot more about the death of Jacob B, my grandpa on my mom’s side, and the financial hardship it caused my mom’s family in 1940, but that’s for another post.

While still in high school, Mom served as a waitress at the café. After high school she earned a desk job at Northwestern Public Service also in Doland. Ironically, my oldest sister Priscilla held a similar job in Huron years later.

Two: her school years

Mom won the spelling bee when she was in elementary school. One time when we were out in public, Mom had me look over at a woman across the room and then said, "That's the one who slapped my hand with a ruler." Seems Mom got in trouble or the teacher was super strict.

Three: her marriage

Mom was 19 when she married Dad. For more details about their wedding click here to read "What I Never knew about my Parents' Wedding." Mom was instrumental in Dad’s decision to follow the Lord once and for all, but again, that’s a story for another post.

Four: her first-born

My brother Elliott was around four-years-old when he went out to do chores with Mom one time. A barrel with pig slop in it caught his eye while Mom gathered chicken eggs.

Little Elliott, knowing how they’d dip a bucket in there to feed the hogs, decided to take a look, but he bent over the barrel too far and fell in—only not all the way. His head was buried in pig slot. Mom came around the corner and saw only his feet sticking out. Who knows how long he was like that.

Elliott said the next thing he remembers is walking to the house beside her. Mom saved my brother's life that day.

Five: a seamstress

Brenda, my sister, wrote this passage: 

Mom didn't do a lot of sewing, but she made matching dresses for Priscilla and me when we were in first grade. We wore them for school pictures. I wore those pop beads that looked like a string of pearls. That was always my favorite school picture.

I wish Mom would have sewn more dresses, but she had Dad's jeans to patch. That was a never-ending job with a pile always awaiting repair. My hubby teases me about how much money we would save if I could patch his jeans, for I do not sew. I only fix buttons.

I did learn to iron though, by pressing pillowcases and Dad's hankies. To prepare for the task, Mom had a sprinkler bottle filled with water that we would shake over each washed and dried article. We'd then roll the items up and snuggle them in one large laundry basket. The basket was wooden—not the plastic kind of today.

Six: her Saturday routine

Priscilla said Saturdays were for cleaning. “The kitchen floor got washed and waxed. We did it on our knees with a rag—not standing up with a mop handle in our hands. Then in the evening she made sure we did our Sunday school lesson.”

The girls enjoyed tea and homemade buns with Mom when they were done with chores. They'd use Mom's blue tea pot, an item that set around just for looks when I was a kid.

Seven: tutor to her children

Mom helped my sisters study for tests when they were in grade school. Brenda said Mom sat in the black leather chair in the dining room and asked questions. (This was that black chair I wrote about in “Mom’s Pestering Pays Off” and "Easter Tidbits” click here and then here). Priscilla said Mom would write out questions, like making up a paper/pencil test, then they would need to fill in the answers.

Eight: the field work

Mom preferred fieldwork to housework, so Brenda performed the chicken chores, and she said she must have prepared the meals. Priscilla said Mom had special field work attire: shorts that came to the knee, a sleeveless blouse, and a cap. “She’d grab an apple for lunch and would stay in the field until it was done,” Pris said.

Nine: trips to Huron

Priscilla remembered shopping at Farmer's Market for groceries. And Brenda recalled fond memories after piano lessons in Huron. “Afterwards, Mom would take Priscilla and me to the Double H to get a cone. Mom always ordered banana ice cream,” Brenda said.

Final Thoughts

It seems like Mom has missed more than ten birthdays on this earth. Each year it gets a little easier thinking about her on that day, for I know if she could, she wouldn't want to leave her heavenly home. But that doesn't make me miss her any less.



What childhood routines do you remember with a loved one? Do you have any relatives that did men's work and women's? How have your Saturday routines changed since childhood?

A Decade Without Mom on Mother's Day

My mom Stella died in January
2005 at 79-years-old. I don't cry so
much anymore, but I do miss her phone
calls, visits, laughter, and wisdom. 
Here's some of what Mom taught me. 

Work comes before play

Always. Get done what needs to be done. No excuses, get moving, and don't be pokey. Only when tasks were done would we get to watch TV, my favorite childhood pastime. Or we'd watch while we work, but we would not stop. A break is fine, but if the task was not done, we would get back to work shortly. When working and talking, do both. Do not stop to talk. That was one of Mom's pet peeves.

Mom & sister Priscilla work a burn pile on the farm

In her later years when she slowed down, morning and early afternoon were for work.

Our reward came later when we'd play table games like Skip-Bo, Scrabble, or Chinese Checkers. Mom also enjoyed reading magazines (which she did while making me practice piano—read about that here), watching TV, and of course, making lists for the next day. This leads me to the next point.

Plan, plan, and plan some more
 

Know today what you're wearing tomorrow if you're going out. Always take water along. When driving, change lanes soon enough so you don't have to force your way in. Get your nose out there when making a left turn so oncoming traffic has to let you turn when the light turns red—you're already in the intersection.

One of her pet peeves about planning stems back to the check-writing days. Mom would say, "Write part of the check out before the clerk tells you your amount—otherwise you're holding up the entire line."

Mom & I with her new China

When planning trips to Kansas to see my sister Brenda, Mom drove Dad nuts when she'd already be planning we we'd need to do upon our return.

He'd say, "You're just like your mother who gets her purse and jacket ready the night before her appointment." My Grandma Katie did do that. 

And I admit, I usually know when the week starts what I will wear each day. I even write it down, so I don't end up wearing the same thing twice! Mom made me change out of school clothes into everyday clothes the minute I got home. I still do that today. Yes, I wear my clothes more than once before washing them if they're not dirty.

I learned two years that my over planning caused my stress. I took Mom's influence here too far. I didn't like a monkey wrench getting thrown into my plans. I'm learning to be more flexible and enjoy the moment I am in rather than plan for the ones that haven't arrived yet. Reading the minimalist and mindfulness blogs helped. I have a couple of those listed on my blog roll. The Zen Habits guy is incredible.

Write a grocery list

Yes, more planning, but it saves money. Do it throughout the week when you discover you'll need it. Before embarking on your shopping trip, plan your stops in a logical order to not waste time or gas. 

Never be without bread or milk in the house. Mom even froze milk in case we didn't get to town. It was yucky and watery, but it worked when we needed it. A frozen loaf of bread wasn't so bad. We lived 22 miles from town, so her planning ahead saved many a meal.

Mother's Day 2002 when Mom was in the nursing home

Reuse and recycle what is reasonable

Mom did this before it was vogue. Paper milk cartons served as freezer containers for butchered chickens. Just needed markers and masking tape to write down what was in it.

Save boxes. They're needed for gifts. Mom had an entire cabinet of empty boxes inside more empty boxes inside yet more empty boxes. My sister Priscilla and I sure laughed when we were cleaning out that cabinet after Mom passed. Just when we thought there were no more boxes, we'd find another tiny one.

I inherited this box habit and one time yelled, "Look at that nice box!" I'd seen a large appliance box on someone's lawn. My sister Brenda said I sounded just like Mom.

Mom holding me, the late-comer, when she was 41-years-old

Mom would also ask the store keepers if they had any boxes. She'd bring them home and cut out a door for me and turn it upside down, so I'd have a cardboard house. What Mom hasn't done that for her little kid? 

She also stockpiled large pieces of cardboard to put under the sink that Dad just didn't seem to have time to fix.

If brown recluse spiders weren't so prevalent in Kansas, I think you'd find box inside box inside box in my garage. I just might have a couple of those in my classroom at school.

Do not tell people what others say about them

Judy Finstad, mom's hairdresser said, "Your mom's different. She doesn't gossip." I never heard my mom doing that. I don't recall her repeating juicy news to Judy, her sisters, or to a friend on the phone. She might tell Dad or me at supper time, but never really anyone else.

Maybe she had it easy because she was a farm wife and didn't work around a lot of other people, but regardless, I am going to strive to be more like mom in this area.

How about you? What daily living tasks did your mom teach you? How about her personality traits? Any carry over to you? Are there any habits you take too far?

Pinky Rings & Puzzles

When my oldest sister offered me her pinky ring, which I adored, I knew something was up. It was her way of telling me she got engaged.

I was in sixth grade when Priscilla wiggled her finger at me and then switched her arms around to show me her engagement ring from Rick, a man she had known since her childhood days at Byron Bible Camp in South Dakota.

In the late 70s, when they’d started dating, I asked her why she liked him. Her response was always the same. "Because he's a hunk."

My elementary mind needed a definition, and she readily supplied one. Later, I learned there was more substance to her feelings than that, but for a little kid, the answer sufficed.

Their engagement was happy-sad for me. I loved having my Sissy around, and when she started dating Rick, who lived about two hours away, my fun doubled when he would visit. But I knew after they’d get married, she’d be far away.

Pris & Rick: the early years

Rick was an only child, and I was a late comer growing up as though I was one, so we got along pretty well. When he’d visit, it would be for the entire weekend since he was a farmer. He and Sissy enjoyed putting puzzles together. I got in on that too. Come to think of it, I'm sure I crashed in on their date time a lot when they were in the house.

Puzzle work meant sorting the pieces into pans. Edges in one, colors in another, make the border first. The puzzle would remain set up in the living room if it wasn’t completed during that visit.

Puzzle Time. Pris snapped this picture of me on Rick's lap.

I don't remember the first time I met Rick, but I do remember the first time my 10-year-old eyes saw him kiss my sister. I was sneaking around the dining room doorway, and there they were between the kitchen and the living room smooching.

Doorways seemed to be a place Rick liked, for I remember Mom complaining that he'd leave his shoes in the middle of them. Pris said he still does that.

Pris & Rick in 2012 on their 34th wedding anniversary

After 37 years of marriage this past March 25 of 2015, I’d have to say he's taken pretty good care of my Sissy and continues to put up with me, his pesky little sister-in-law. They raised three children, two boys and a girl. The smooches I see now are with their eight grandchildren. Grandparenthood suits them.

Anybody else remember times when an older sibling started dating? Care to share your antics?

Writer’s Note: For more firsts involving my big sister’s life with Rick, click here and read Curlers, a Bra, and an Airplane Ride. 

Things My Dog Ate & Survived

My first house dog would have reached the age of 20 this past St. Patrick's Day. For a dachshund, that would be astounding.

The elongated creatures are a loyal and lovable breed, for who doesn't love the occasional, "Hey, it's a wiener dog!" But these fur kids are prone to back problems and overeating. And eating is something my dog loved to do.

Lexy with my siblings.
Top left with Priscilla, Brenda on the right, and with Elliott, lower left.

All of Lexy's bad habits were my fault. Diving for food, digging in purses, ripping papers, chewing woodwork. Not a pretty thing for a canine who came from a line of pure bred show dogs.

But I will take credit for her friendly, unabashed nature too. She never feared anyone or anything. She had no reason to. I raised her from the time she was a puppy after getting her from Jacquie Girrens in June of 1995.

To honor her memory this year, here's a lighthearted look at some of the things Lexy ate during the 11-plus years of her life.

Corn on the Cob
Lexy grabbed one out of my brother-in-law Rick's hand when he was teasing her with it at my sister Brenda's house. Lexy gagged on it, and I had to reach down her throat and pull it out. I gave Rick a piece of my mind as he did me about keeping her around the table. But Rick's a dog lover, so I don't hold it against him.

Lexy rests as Rick and I play chess.

Butter
She'd jump up on chairs if we didn't push them in. If Priscilla, my other sister who was Rick's wife, had butter on the table, Lexy would eat the entire stick if we didn't stop her in time. Result: loose bowels.

Pizza
Again, we didn't push in the chairs, so at my step-daughter Brittany's 13th birthday party, Lexy joined in and gobbled some pizza. See, I told you. These were all my fault.

Chocolate
Don't worry. We got her to vomit and she was okay. When I found an almost empty bag of chocolate in the hallway at my sister Priscilla's, I knew what had happened. Lexy had been snooping around in a bedroom where Pris was storing wedding supplies for her son's reception. We called a vet, and they told us what to do so she would foam and then expel it. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And just about the time we were going to load her up and take her in, up it all came. PTL!

Mom keeping Lexy out of the junk pail.

Pantyhose
Yes, I used to wear them under my pants. Had to keep warm somehow on cold bus rides during basketball season. Lexy managed to find the nylons and eat the legs. All I found was the waist and butt part. My vet, Doc Mike Herndon, told me how much and how often to give her the goopy black toothpaste-looking stuff that acted as a stool softener. I kept it on hand because of all the stuff she'd get into. Then Doc said, "You need to dig through her poop and puke to piece the pantyhose back together again, so we know all the pieces are out of her." I did that with a big stick. This happened twice. You'd think I'd put them away so she couldn't get to them. Again, all my fault. This is why I do not baby sit.

Lexy & Pepper eye-ball Chris' cereal.

Chewing Gum
My friend and colleague Joyce Foley came for a Longaberger party at my house. I usually took Lexy to my neighbors, Jack and Betty Tracy, when I'd have such events, but Joyce had come later, and I already had the wiener girl back at the house. We went into the kitchen, and when we came back out, Lexy was busy chewing up a wad of Big Red gum from Joyce's purse. She did a similar thing when I stopped for a minute to deliver something to my niece Evelynn. When I came back, Lexy had managed to get into my candy and gum and some Advil. The bugger knew how to unzip bags!

Poop
Yes, her own. It's not as uncommon as you might think. I had to give her special pills so she would quit doing it. It was embarrassing when she'd do it in the front side yard. The behavior is called coprophagy. She liked horse droppings, silage, and trash cans too.

My life with Lexy was full of crazy events like this, and I loved every minute of it. For a more serious read on my time with her, read the post called The Loss of a Pet.


What are your house pet's habits? Have they eaten anything weird?

Hootin' ~n~ Tootin'

I hid in our stairway because my clarinet teacher, Mr. Robert Wiens, showed up at our house one day after school.

No, I did not do anything to get myself in trouble—except turn in my instrument. I quit.

My parents knew it. My piano teacher knew it. But when Mr. Wiens found out, he did not like it. Not one bit. And he drove twelve miles out to our farm to say so.

It wasn't like I didn't have any musical talent, for I could already read music. So how could I make such a decision to quit? I was only in fifth grade. But someone, who shall remain nameless, lead me to believe it was taking time away from my pursuit of piano.

Mr. Wiens, known for producing outstanding marching bands as well as concert performers, respectfully explained to my parents how one instrument would enhance the other.

After Mr. Wiens left and I emerged from my hideout, my parents and I discussed the situation. I decided the lucky rabbit’s foot would go back on the case, and Mom and Dad agreed to purchase the new clarinet for around $150.

A few days later I was at my weekly clarinet lesson with classmate Adele Peterson where Mr. Wiens would sit between us and smoke his cigarette. Yes, the blessed ’70’s. I did not mind, for I knew he cared about me. 

I never did get to march under him though because Mr. Wiens left our school the next year. In fact, for the next seven years, Hitchcock went through three music teachers. Guess he was a tough act to follow.

I played piano much better than I did clarinet, but I enjoyed marching band, pep band, concert band, and particularly our ensembles.

One year at contest, our clarinet quartet experienced a debacle. One of us—probably me, certainly not Debbie Goehring—pulled off the top of the music stand as we prepared to perform. Our music flew all over the floor. We contained our laughter somehow, and I believe we managed a superior.

Whatever happened to the clarinet since it did not go back to the Music Center in Huron ran by the Pepper family? It stayed in the Hofer family. My oldest niece Evelynn used it.

Whatever happened to Mr. Wiens? Ironically, years later he ended up near a family member, my sister Priscilla. He lived in Bridgewater, but I am not sure what he did there. In fact, she gave me some home decor that he made out of wood. Hitchcock people will remember that he was a carpenter of sorts.

Sure would be nice to see Mr. Wiens again. Maybe this post will find him.

Have you ever experienced a teacher like this? One who went out his way for the benefit of your education? If so, share in the comment section below. 

Writer’s Note: for another story about the role of music in my life, read the blog post entitled, Mom’s Pestering Pays Off.

The Birds & the Beans

Grandma Katie's old transistor radio, a tube top, and short-shorts: my entertainment and attire for walking the soy bean field when Dad put me to work to pull weeds by hand.

Yes, I walked it.

And there were birds. Our farmland had lots of low places where water would reside and for some reason, birds like to nest there. And everyone knows how birds protect their young.

So this was another place contributing to my fear of the flying beasts--which to me, are flying mice!

Most of the time, I did not even know they were swooping at me since I was bent over yanking at weeds, but then came their screeching.

I could only handle that for about an hour at a time. Besides, I wanted to watch the Iran-Contra Affair hearings with Oliver North on television. Yes, I was a political junky even back then. Receiving decent reception on only two channels with one of them broadcasting it made for a captive audience.

Dad says now that he cannot believe he made me walk the soy bean fields, but I really did not mind. It was better than laying out to get a tan. At the end of the summer, I had a nice stripe on my lower back from that tube top pulling up.

And what about those birds? I was college-aged so the wash house days and hog house painting had toughened me up a bit. I would simply employ my "get out of here you birds" routine and keep working.

And speaking of soy bean fields, I did help with weedy beans at my brother-in-law Rick’s farm one summer. But he had a bean buggy, a tractor rigged with three to four raised seats fitted with a wand and a spray tank.

Now that farmers use more sophisticated ways of combating weeds, the thing is in storage. The tube top was burned, and my short-short sent to Good Will, but that transistor radio--I think it still works!

My sister Priscilla hunted down the bean buggy to snap this picture for me.

Curlers, a Bra, and an Airplane Ride

I was a best man years before I was a bride.

And before that, I had been just about everything else in a wedding except the candle lighter, the musician, and the preacher.

After attending a wedding this month, I reflected on my own siblings’ weddings, one of which was in June. Why is June the month for weddings anyway? I prefer October.

My role as best man came at the spur of the moment for my sister Brenda’s small backyard nuptials. In fact, I wasn’t even planning on attending, but my plans changed as did the groom's son's. So, ta-da! I got to sign on the dotted line.

For Brenda's first wedding back in 1973, I was a flower girl. Oh, how I hated sleeping on curlers the night before—probably because we had been practicing my hairdo all week.

The planning of that wedding put me around kids my own age, something that rarely happened since I am the late comer in the family. And I loved it.

Nancy, my fellow flower girl and groom’s sister, taught me the word fart. I don’t know what our family called it before that. Dad still scolds me when I say the word around him. He doesn’t mind that act of it—just hates the word. Go figure. 

And Cameron, Nancy’s older brother, taught me how to cure hiccups by drinking backwards and bending over. Any student of mine knows that trick, and that it works.

I'm in the middle between Cameron and Nancy.

My oldest sister, Priscilla, married when I was in sixth grade. She asked me to be a bridesmaid and then added, “But Mel, will you wear a bra for my wedding?”

Back then, girls didn’t seem to develop as early as they do now, and in fact, I don’t think I even wore the thing after the wedding until Mom made me. Wearing the bra was no big deal, really, but having to stand up there for the entire ceremony was. 

And that night, when my Sissy was gone and I realized the house would never be the same without her, I turned to the wall and cried myself to sleep.

That's me on the far left.

Years prior to either of my sisters’ ceremonies, the family boarded an airplane to Detroit where my brother was marrying a city girl. This was only a couple days after my fourth birthday, so it is one of my earliest memories. A trip of a lifetime.

The stewardesses allowed my cousin Gordie and me to run up and down the aisle. They served us kiddy martinis: 7-Up in a clear cup with a maraschino cherry stuck in a fancy toothpick. 

And I still have my wings, the little airplane pin tokens they gave us. After this adventure, playing airplane became my favorite make-believe activity for years.

Cousin Gordie, my martini partner, escorted me over to my sister-in-law, Doris.

The funny thing about Doris and Elliott’s wedding? The pictures. Or lack thereof. The bride’s brother forgot to take off the lens cover, so the only photographs of the occasion are snapshots.

That picture fiasco is probably why I spent more on the photographer than anything else when I got married. Our six-guest wedding in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, was simple and quick. Just like our engagement period: three months. Just like our dating period: two weeks.

Now I would not encourage that for young people, but I think the man I picked has turned out to impress everyone. And soon it will be eight years already that I wore my little black dress to get married in. It still fits too—a little snug, but it fits.

My hairdo was not fancy. My bra was built into my dress. And the road driving there, with signs warning crooked and steep, scarier than any airplane ride.