I'd do it all over again

Eighteen years ago today, I married my soulmate. It is without a doubt the best decision I ever made.

Here's a picture of us on our wedding day.


We were pretty hot, dontcha think? Of course, most people are at the ripe old age of 21. Ahem.

And it's a very good thing we were so hot. Because we got married in the Idaho Falls Temple. The Idaho Falls Temple is in Idaho. Idaho in December is a very cold place. And on the day we got married, Idaho was the coldest place Idaho had been in 35 years. The high temperature that day was -12 degrees Farenheit. I know! I am shivering just remembering. I have never been so cold in my life as I was driving to Idaho Falls early that morning, wearing a knee length dress, nylons, and black pumps.

Here we are out in the minus 12 degree sunshine to take a picture to prove we got married in the I.F. Temple. We had to hold our breath so there wouldn't be white clouds of steam in front of our faces.
No one else in the wedding party would even come outside for the picture! So it was just the photographer (thanks dad!), my handsome groom, and me. Family loyalty runs shallow in Idaho in December.

But because we were hot, so we didn't mind. Funny what dizzying happiness does to a person's senses, isn't it?

Mom

It's been a year since mom left us.

It was a crisp September morning, sunny and mild, and I was preparing to process the several bushels of sauce tomatoes that we had picked the Saturday before. Quart jars were sterilizing in the dishwasher, and pots of water for scalding and processing were heating on the stove.

I was standing at the back door looking out at the old picnic table which was groaning under its load of cardboard boxes filled near to bursting with the glistening red fruit, deciding how many tomatoes to allocate to sauce, stewed tomatoes, and salsa, when the phone rang.

It was my dad. His voice was tired, but tight and high with emotion.

"Hi Lisa. Your mom had a really bad night. I think you'd better come as soon as you can."

And in that moment, the tomatoes were forgotten.

---

Mom told us that she was sick at our family gathering at Thanksgiving 2006. It was her heart, she said. Over the next nine months she had innumerable tests and several surgeries. Instead of improving, she got weaker with each successive treatment. And as she deteriorated, she withdrew from the world as well as her family.

She said she didn't want us to visit her at home, because the house was a mess and she didn't feel up to cleaning or hosting company. She said she didn't want us to visit her in the hospital, because she looked a wreck and didn't want to be on display when she felt so awful. No flowers, because that was just a waste of money. Even talking on the phone was exhausting, she told me. Being the obedient youngest child, I tried to respect her wishes for privacy. So I stayed away. I didn't send flowers. I called rarely.

In June 2007 we took a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park, and since we would be driving within 15 miles of my parents' home to get there, I called dad and told him I wanted to come for a short visit. We wouldn't stay very long, but I wanted my kids to see their grandma. And she agreed to let us come for half an hour.

I was prepared for her to be tired and sick, but I hadn't realized how much weight she had lost since I'd seen her in January. Her face was pinched with fatigue and heavily wrinkled, and she had aged 10 years in six months. She had had a pacemaker put in a week or so before, and she was exhausted and in pain. We couldn't hug her because she was so bruised from the surgery. She sat on the sofa and mostly listened while we all sat around and talked, but every so often she would groan involuntarily. My kids were shocked at the change in their once vibrant grandmother, and the older two were in tears.

As we prepared to leave, I went to mom and knelt on the floor in front of her and gently held her hands. She squeezed my hands weakly and smiled down at me with tears running down her face. "I love you Lisa," she said. "I am so very proud of you for the person you are and the family you are raising." It felt like good-bye. I told her that she was going to beat this and next year she would be out gardening again. "I'm not so sure about that," she said.

That was the last time I spoke with her.

---

After hanging up with dad, I called my SIL Jessica to make arrangements for the kids after school, and Tom to let him know I was going to Idaho and I'd call him later when I knew more. I picked up my sister Brenda and we started the 3 1/2 hour drive, hoping we'd get to say goodbye before she left.

Mom had other plans. She didn't like being in the spotlight, and I don't think she wanted an audience for her departure. Brenda and I had been on the road for only half an hour when dad called again with the news that she had gone Home.

I miss her. Ours wasn't a super-close call-and-chat everyday kind of relationship, and I don't grieve for her on a daily basis like some people describe. But every now and then the loss sneaks up and smacks me upside the head, like today.

Love you mom. :waves:

21st Anniversary

I met my amazing hottie husband twenty-one years ago today.

Would you like to hear the story?


It was August 24, 1987, and I had arrived for new student orientation the weekend before classes started for fall semester at BYU-Provo. My parents and sister had helped me unload my belongings into my on-campus dorm room that afternoon. I had met my new roommate and several other girls on my floor. At dinner we learned that our Y-group was going to meet for get-to-know-you games and a tour of campus that evening, and there were going to be boys there.

Boys?! Sign me up!

I went down a few minutes early to the lobby where our group was to meet, towing my roommate and a couple of other girls for security. After all, there were going to be boys there!

And boys there were. A lean, muscular young man with dark hair and large blue eyes looked up as my giggling group entered the room. His teeth were perfect, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His biceps bulged out from the sleeves of his blue t-shirt. I'm sure there were other boys there too, but I don't remember much about them. I saw only him. Dang, but he was cute.

At BYU, the mandatory cliche pattern was always followed when meeting someone new: "What's your name, where're you from, what's your major?" His name was Tom. He was from Seattle. He was studying Electrical Engineering. When I told him I was from Idaho, he asked which town.

"Blackfoot," I said. (I grew up in the potato farming community west of Blackfoot, but no one knows or cares where backwater Pingree is, so I always say Blackfoot. It saves time).

"Really? I have an aunt and uncle that live near Blackfoot."

And because Idaho is a little hick state with exactly 25 people living in it, he told me the name of his uncle, naively confident that I would know who that was.

I did.

I gaped. "Mr. **** is your Uncle?! Mr. **** taught me how to drive!! Your aunt is the librarian at my high school! No way!"

And with that, a bond was formed between us. A pretty weak bond at first, actually, considering that he didn't ask me out for nearly two months after that despite me being oh so available, but there was something there, to be sure. Well, I felt it, anyway.

And the rest, as they say, is history.