Our Wedding Day

A day late and a dollar short - or a week late and a completely different post.

Last Monday, March 2, was our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  I had a post in mind that I wanted to do and have up on that day.  Then my life got kind of complicated and it just didn't happen.  That post is still to come.  But I wanted to get something up for our anniversary, even if it's a week late, so here you go.  Wedding pictures and a bit of detail about our wedding day.

Bill and I met working at McDonald's.  Our first date was November 2, 1989.  We got engaged on December 27, 1989 - my twentieth birthday.  We planned to get married the following fall.  We soon realized we could either get married in the fall or in the temple (Mormon joke about not being able to keep our hands off each other), so we bumped the date up a bit.  We got our wedding license on Valentine's Day of 1990 and were married on March 2, 1990 - his twenty-third birthday (four months to the day after our first date).

Because we bumped it up, we had about two and a half weeks to get everything pulled together.  When I called my Grandma in Reno and asked what she was doing in two and half weeks, she guessed, "Coming to your wedding?"  Yup.  Then she offered to get me a dress and make my veil.  Cool!  She asked what style I liked and what my measurements were.  She said she would have my dress to me in time for the big day.  It arrived in the mail two or three days before our wedding.  That was the first time I'd seen it - and it was perfect!  Exactly what I would have picked out, and she had even lined it for the temple.

And that's pretty much all you get except for pictures and captions.  It was pretty uneventful, except, you know, we got married and had a reception.  I guess that kind of happened.

Now here are your pretty pictures.


We were married in the Salt Lake City temple.  It was overcast that day.  I love this photo because it doesn't just capture our temple, it also captures our flag (well, both of them because Utah's flag is in there, too).

We had a chocolate wedding cake.  It's chocolate inside, too.  We ran out of the sheet cake we were serving and had to serve this as well.  Bill and I only got one bite each, the ones we fed to each other as dictated by tradition.  We did freeze the top layer and each had a bite of that on our one year anniversary (also following tradition); that bite wasn't so good.  There's another layer in the back that you can't see.  The layers went around the center like a spiral staircase.  Our wedding topper was a crystal Salt Lake Temple on a round mirror.  I still have that, although it got broken in half by one of our children when she was small.  I'm not going to name names.

As you can probably tell from the cake photo, we had our wedding reception in the "cultural hall" of our church.  That means we had it in the gym.  We were fine with it at the time.  It was free and looked beautiful when decorated.  But the background of this photo has always bothered me just a little.  I wish we had a photo of the cake with a nicer background.  Oh, and there's no photo of us feeding each other the cake.  Our photographer was gone by then.  Our friend took a picture, but his camera freaked out and the pictures came out all blurry.  No big deal.

These are all of our family and friends who were able to make it to Salt Lake.  Several of the people in this photo have passed on now, which increases the tender feelings in my heart for it.  The guy on the right with his arm on the shoulder of the lady with dark hair is my husband's twin brother.  Fun fact: he had hernia surgery the day before.  But he still made it there to support his brother, and I'm grateful for that (even though he was angry at me for years for stealing his birthday; he might still be).

Only some of them were able to come inside for the ceremony.  In order to enter the temple, each person must have a temple recommend.  In order to have a temple recommend, you need to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and be living by the standards required.  It's a long list.  If you want to know what's on it, I suggest you go to lds.org and look it up.  As far as I knew, no one that was unable to come in was upset about it.  They understood and respected our beliefs.  My dad wasn't able to come in, but he fully supported me getting married in the temple anyway.  In the temple we are married legally and sealed for time and all eternity spiritually.

I'm pretty sure these alcoves were designed just for photo opportunities like this.

And this.  Isn't it pretty?

It is a little tricky to get into and out of though.  This is a picture of him helping me down.  It's quite significant because I was stubbornly independent back then and rarely let anyone help me with anything.  Thanks, honey!

These doors are another must-have photo spot.  They are gorgeous and somewhat imposing in real life.

I call this the dreamy-filter shot.

Notice how the grass is all brown.  It was very early March in Utah, we were lucky to not have snow on the ground.  But I honestly didn't even notice it that day.  I'm not one of those girls who spent my whole life planning my wedding and cared about every little detail (as evidenced by the dress story).  On my actual wedding day I wasn't stressed about details either.  As long as he and I both got to the temple and got married, nothing else mattered much.

Same shot, only this time we're dreamily gazing into each others eyes.  Or something like that.  Knowing my husband, he was probably doing everything he could to not laugh.  Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler and Monica are planning to get married and they're trying to get engagement photos taken but they all look horrible because Chandler can't smile for photos to save his life?  Yeah, it's like that.

This tree is another popular photo spot.  It was a beautifully shaped tree.  Unfortunately I had no idea there was that electrical box in the shot until after we got the photos back.  Really, I was so unconcerned with details I let my mom pick the photographer (and all the decorations and food, except for the cake) and we just let the photographer walk us around and take pretty much whatever photos he wanted.  Most wedding photographers weren't nearly as creative back then  - in the olden days.

Another dreamy-filter photo.  Man, we look young!

This is probably my favorite photo.  That dress really was gorgeous.  There was actually a small train, but I was able to button it up to make walking easier.  My mom insisted on this photo because she loved the detail on the back so much.  I'm really glad she did.  Didn't my Grandma choose well?  And that's the veil she made for me.

This is inside the church where we held our reception (in that cultural hall I mentioned above).  Doesn't it look pretty?  Okay, so in retrospect our backdrop looks like the backdrop for prom photos, but I liked it at the time.

His mom did the flowers.  We used silk flowers.  I wanted to keep my bouquet (which I wanted very small).  I wanted it to still look good years later.  I still have it and it does.  He was very excited to wear a tux and insisted on one with tails.

For years, Bill said this was his favorite photo.  I think it's because he got to be the focus for a change.  It also has that woman-behind-the-man feeling.  This is the first time I've noticed the metal folding chair and the curtains that sparkle like they're from an old gameshow.

Now this is his favorite.  It was my mom's favorite, too, and the only one she got a print of to hang at her house.  I like it now although I didn't when we first got them.  That whole incredibly-judgmental-of-all-photos-of-myself thing.

And that's all I've got for today.  There are a few more, but I haven't scanned them yet.  We didn't have groomsmen and bridesmaids in matching outfits.  We asked our friends to serve as honorary groomsmen and bridesmaids and told them just to wear something that matched our color scheme (black, white, and dusty rose - don't judge, we were just coming out of the eighties).  We didn't have a long formal line (as most people did at Mormon wedding receptions).  It was just us and our parents.  We initially wanted to skip the line all together, but my mom freaked out at that scandalous idea.  The much smaller line was the compromise.  Everyone who came through the line told us how awesome it was to not have to shake hands with and talk to a bunch of people they didn't know and then awkwardly stand next to them while waiting for the line to progress.  No, I guess they just thanked us for the small line, but that's what they really meant.

Anyway, Happy Anniversary to us!

A Bad Therapy Session

It happens.  Sometimes a therapy session is just a waste of time.  Sometimes this is my fault.  Sometimes it's my therapist's fault.  Sometimes it's a mix.

But this time it was bad.  This time it was wounding.

I usually see him every two weeks.  This time, due to a scheduling problem, it was a month between visits.  I'm sure this contributed.

My last visit was rough.  My PTSD had been triggered.  I finally revealed to him an incredibly difficult memory from my past -- the memory that's held more power over me than anything else.  Ever.  One I only have vague images of.  One that's left painful muscle memories.  One I've been cautioned not to share openly because it could be dangerous for me.  One that causes me to feel like a small child and to cramp terribly.

It was a very intense session for me.  He listened and validated me.  He helped get me through the worst of the PTSD.  We formed a plan for working through it.  He assured me that I could heal from this even without the entire memory.  I left that session hopeful.

Over the course of the next month my PTSD was triggered two more times; my husband went through two anger cycles; I went through a deep, week-long depression; and I had a two-hour conversation with my mom which triggered that memory again.  That dark and painful and frightening memory.

I spent a few days cramping badly, my uterus and my back, almost like labor.  Constant.  No relief from anything I took.  And I knew it was directly related to this memory.

I knew I had a session coming up.  I knew we were going to work on it and I would feel better afterward.  I held on.

But the session didn't help.  I gave him a quick recap of the month and told him I was ready to work.  I needed to work so the pain would go away.  And he went a different direction.  He wanted to focus on something else.  It's not that he was trying to avoid what I wanted to talk about.  It's that he didn't remember.  I tried to redirect it a couple of times, but since he didn't remember that memory I had revealed last time, he thought he knew best what we should work on.

Sometimes I am strong and when he goes off on a tangent or chit chats too much I can pull it back where I need it to be.  This time I couldn't.  Like I said, this memory makes me feel like a little girl.  I am hesitant and scared and timid.  All I can do is politely go along.

When we had about ten minutes left, he asked what direction we should go next.  I reminded him of what had happened last time.  And I could tell he immediately realized his mistake.   And it was too late to do any work on it.  In reminding him about it, I had reopened it.  I was raw and crying.  He tried to salvage things.  He tried to give me something to work on before our next session.  And I did my best to reign in my emotions.  Our time was up.  I had to leave the office.  And I was trying not to make him feel bad.

But I was not okay.  I made it out of the office and twenty yards down the hall to the bathroom before I crumpled to the floor sobbing.  I got it under control enough to leave the bathroom and practically ran to my car, hoping no one would notice my red eyes and shaky breathing and ask if I was okay.  Once in my car the sobbing returned, stronger.  I sobbed in a way I have only done once or twice since I was a child.  Gut wrenching sobs.  Devastated cries from deep within me.

Over the next few days there was a lot of crying.  And there was still the intense physical pain.  But worse than that all my old, unhealthy coping mechanisms reasserted themselves.  Things I thought were in my past.  Things I thought I'd overcome.  Things I thought no longer had any power over me.  They suddenly slammed me to the ground and repeatedly kicked me.

My husband and I went out a few days later.  As we drove I told him about the session.  After approximately 10 minutes of yelling and swearing, I had to admit I was angry.  And it wasn't getting any better.  So when I got home I wrote my therapist a letter. 

I told him what the experience was like from my side.  I told him how difficult it is to know I only have one hour every two weeks.  I told him how hard I prepare for that hour so I can use it wisely.  I told him it costs me $100 every session because our insurance doesn't pay for it.  I told him it's a real sacrifice to pay that, but when it's necessary and helpful I am okay with it.  I told him I felt like he'd stolen from my family that day.  I told him that session wounded me because at such a vulnerable time he didn't listen to me.  And I wasn't strong enough to fight him if he wouldn't listen to me.  I told him I wasn't sure if I'd be able to come back.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to work on this with him after all.  I'm not sure he's a safe person for me anymore.

And then I took the letter to his office and gave it to the lady at the front desk.

I have not heard from him.

I have a little over a week until my next appointment.  I'm examining my options.  I've spent a lot of time trying to decide if I will go back.  I know he sees lots of patients.  I know it was a month in between visits.  I know he's human and makes mistakes, like we all do.  And I can forgive those things. 

But forgiving them doesn't take away the wound.  If you hit me with a rock and then apologize, I will forgive you.  But the bruise will remain.  It will take time to heal.  And any time I see you with a rock in the future I will worry about whether or not you're going to hurt me.

Unfortunately, our session was the rock.

**********

If you read this post, please read A Possibility of Healing for the resolution.

My Dream Car is a Truck

Over the last few years I've watched several friends excitedly buy a new car.  Exactly what they wanted.  Eyes dancing with joy.  Truthfully, I just don't have this experience with cars.  I don't think a car has ever made my eyes dance.  I did like watching the joy their dream cars brought them.

As I was driving down the freeway a while back, a nice car drove by.  I have no idea what kind it was.  I wasn't really paying that much attention, I just appreciated the aesthetics of it.  And it sparked a thought.  If I could have any car in the world, what car would I want?

Let me first say all I've ever wanted in a car is for it to run and do what I need it to do.  Get me and mine and our stuff from here to there.  That's it.  We currently own four cars (remember, I have five kids, ages 14-21).  One isn't running or registered.  All of them have multiple things wrong with them.  They are all either hand-me-downs or gifts from my parents.  As long as they run, I don't care what they look like.

We haven't had a car payment in years.  I hate having a car payment.  We have no plans to buy a car in the near future.

But if the universe suddenly wanted to give me the car of my dreams, this is what it would be.  It would be a Chevy pickup from the late 70s or early 80s.  It doesn't matter what color or whether it's two-toned or not.  A few dents would be nice.  It would be partly rusted out, maybe even a small hole in the floorboard.  The shocks would be somewhat worn so that we could really appreciate the bumps on unpaved roads.  It would be a stick shift that sometimes took both hands to get into reverse.  The bed would be dented and dirty from hauling anything and everything.  You'd have to really slam the tailgate to get it to close.  The windows and locks would be manual.  And since this is my dream car and it can be whatever I want, it would have a rebuilt engine that runs smoothly and gets great gas mileage, working air conditioning and heating and seat belts, and new tires.

Thinking about this took me back to all the trips to the livestock auctions on Saturday mornings, all the rides through the canyon, all the times I had to get out and open or close the gate, and the smell of hay mixed with manure while hauling horses.  The good times with my dad.

Completely impractical but oh, so nostalgic.  Isn't that what dreams are supposed to be?

Dear Diary

I often see bloggers begin a post with an apology for having been absent for a while.  When I see this it reminds me of how like a diary a blog can be.  I remember as a teen that most of my diary entries started the same way.

I've never been a good journal keeper.  I have friends and family who are so good at taking note of what's happening in their lives, who write in a journal religiously.  My entries were sporadic, but I tried.  I have a few recorded memories of those difficult years when everything is wrong and the world just doesn't understand you.

Today I have chosen to share one.  I do this mostly for my daughter who is just leaving that time of her life.  So that she can know that I struggled with similar things.  And so she can laugh at my drama.

This entry would have been during my junior year in high school, shortly before I turned 17.  I typed it exactly as it appeared, including punctuation mistakes and lost focus.

November 29, 1986
I think I'm going to go insane.  I'm still waiting for a letter from Kevin and my "dad" and I just had another fight.

He probably doesn't even know we've had a fight.  He just told me another flaw he doesn't like about me is that I'm getting sarcastic.  I wish he'd notice something good in me for a change.  It seems like he's only pleased with me once a year.  Last year it was my "Outstanding Sophomore Award" and this year it's my stupid grades.

While once a year he notices a good thing he points out hundreds of mistakes, I already know about, the rest of the year.  It'll be so good when Ryan comes home because I'm going to stay with my Grandma Conover so that Kay can have my room.

It'll be great to get away from my dad & Chris for two weeks, off & on.  They drive me totally insane on a day to day basis.

I think I'm going to die if I don't get a letter from Kevin soon.  I've been living the past week just waiting for the mail so that I could see if it had come yet.

I seem to be getting depressed more and more lately.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's all the pressure I'm getting from my parents.  My mom doesn't even realize that she pressures me, too.

I mean they're so happy when I get good grades that I'm scared to let them know if I really start having problems.

I've been thinking about Kevin all the time lately and I don't know what I'm going to do.  I'm in an awful situation.  I don't know how he feels and I don't know how I feel.  Our relationship is going to be almost frozen for the next two years.  Oh, that sounds like such a long time.  I'm gonna die!

Love Always,
Robin

The Person

Everyone has one.  That pivotal person.  The one who changed your life.  The one who helped define you.  The one without whom you wouldn't be who you are.  Hopefully, the one who taught you to believe in yourself.

For me, that was my grandma.  And today would be her 100th birthday.  I miss her.

I Wanted to be a Cowgirl

It's safe to say that there were parts of my childhood that sucked.  No doubt about it.

But there were also parts that were idyllic.  One of those was my life on the farm.

I don't know if every family has this, but growing up our family had another family that were our best friends.  Our parents were friends and there was a child to be a friend for each of us.  We spent lots and lots of time together.  And they had a farm.

I spent a lot of time on this farm.  As much time as possible.  And it truly was a heaven on earth.

Whether I was playing hide and seek in the old chicken coop, climbing on top of or in the silo, climbing the giant apricot tree, or sitting and reading in the white birch tree I was happy.  It felt like a step back in time.  I felt like I was living Little House on the Prairie.

I got to have all the perks with very little work.  My brothers hauled hay and moved sprinklers.  They helped drive the cattle and brand all sorts of animals.  Not optional.  Anything I did was because I wanted to, because I was a girl.  One time when a sexist mentality served me well.

Between this farm and our house with the pasture I spent a lot of time with animals, animals my kids haven't really gotten to know.  Horses, cows, mules, ponies, chickens, ducks, turkeys, sheep, pigs, and lots of work dogs (blue healers for the cattle and German shorthairs for hunting).

Just thinking about this place makes me happy.  It was a different pace there.  Relaxed.  Accepting.  Valuing.

Cowboys, and I mean real cowboys not just guys who try to look the part, are different.  They are hard workers.  They don't feel the need to impress people.  They are not easily impressed.  Nor are they likely to be judgmental.  Everyone is accepted.  I loved my time with cowboys.

And I wanted to be a cowgirl.  I wanted it desperately.  But I always felt a step away.  Like a visitor.

I knew how to saddle, bridle, and ride a horse, but I never shoed one.  I watched calves and colts being born, but never assisted.  I played in the alfalfa fields, but I never participated in the harvesting.  Little things like that.  I felt like I fell short as a cowgirl because I didn't live on the farm and do all those things.  I didn't have horse toys (the expensive kind) or the little John Deere tractors.  I didn't know the names of all the different horse breeds.  And I wore tennis shoes when I rode a horse.

I recently took my family to the rodeo.  It was so much fun.  I felt like I was reliving a part of my childhood, a good part. 

As I mentioned the rodeo to others, I found that many of my friends have only ridden a horse once or twice -- some not at all.  They really didn't know much about horses, cows, or tractors.  It got me thinking.

So I reevaluated.

I have ridden horses more times than I can count.  On the mountains, in the fields, through the town.  I spent most of my childhood in a pickup truck instead of a car, sometimes in the cab but more often in the bed.  I crossed many dirt roads, very bumpy dirt roads, on a regular basis.  I had to get out to open the gate.  And close the gate.  I bottle fed lambs and a calf.  I herded sheep.  I fed horses.  I've seen, touched, and tasted a salt-lick.  I've been to many, many rodeos.  I know the proper way to shape and store a cowboy hat.  I've helped butcher elk.  I know how tall horses are and how long they live.  And I spent many Saturday mornings and afternoons at the auction, in awe of the auctioneer and the entire bidding process.  Watching as men nodded or tipped their hats to buy this lot of cattle, this horse, or that saddle.

I had so many experiences that others didn't.  Incredible experiences.  Joyful and miraculous experiences.  That I didn't appreciate at the time.

But all things are relative.  And looking back I can see that, compared to most, I was a cowgirl.

You're Grounded!

Alright, so maybe you aren't grounded.  But I am.  And I love it.

A major road into and out of town has been closed for about a year for construction.  It was frustrating and inconvenient.  There were so many places that it was now incredibly difficult and convoluted to get to.  There has been much griping, moaning, and gnashing of teeth over the whole affair.

So when the road reopened a little earlier than expected, there was much rejoicing (Huzzah!).  Everyone was so excited to use the new road.  And it is a beautiful road, let me tell you.

But my joy was not full until I drove on the road back into town.  You see, I grew up here.  And that road has special meaning to me.  Year after year, trip after trip.  That road welcomed me home.  Crossing the overpass into town is like walking into a warm hug for me.

You see, I am grounded in Springville.  We are a part of each other.  Through all the chaos, the heart wrenching times, Springville was the strength beneath my feet.

As I drive through Springville, memories wash over me like a healing rain.  I see my old schools.  The houses I used to live in.  The parks I played at.  The ball diamonds where I felt powerful.

And better yet, I see the homes of those who touched my life.  I see my band director's home.  And I remember his love for me.  I see my bishop's home.  And remember his love for me.  I see the homes of relatives, teachers, friends, and so many others who made me who I am.  And most of all, I see my grandmother's home.  The most heavenly, welcoming place I've ever been.  I remember her love for me and my love for her and I am complete.  I am good enough.  In fact, I am wonderful.

So, I would like to say to my pioneer ancestors who chose to settle here, thank you so much!  Thank you for giving me Springville.  Because no matter how much it's changed or grown, it's still my home -- and it will always be in my heart.