December 15, 2003

• Chapter 5 (cont.)

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  So in July 1957, on a hot day, cinched into a fitted (but plain) wedding dress, surrounded by twittering bridesmaids, in a church I did not attend, I was married. It all made me so lightheaded that I had to carry a handkerchief soaked with ammonia in case I began to pass out on my way down the aisle. But a short time later, changed into a smart tailored dress with a big corsage and a small hat, I strode from the church with my new husband amid clouds of rice to begin our time together. Incredibly, I was a “sweet, rosebud, pure virgin bride,” as we said in those days. After a very short honeymoon to Portland, a distance of only 100 miles, where all I remember was the wedding night, we returned to set up housekeeping in a small apartment above the garage of neighbors up the road from the farm where I grew up. We read Catcher in the Rye in bed together, and I baked cheese biscuits for our first invited guests, my in-laws.  (to be continued)

  
  

  Deep Thought:  I bet the sparrow looks at the parrot and thinks, yes, you can talk, but LISTEN TO YOURSELF!

  
  

  Today I am grateful for:  Vince Gill

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