Spring semester was over and I was headed home for the summer. I took Parke with me, not physically, but in my mind and heart. He was everywhere I went. Absence truly did make the heart grow fonder, which surprised me since previously, absence made my eye wander.
Parke informed me that his sister and he were driving to Los Angeles for an inner-city conference and service project at the end of July. He was hoping to swing by my hometown after the conference. I laughed because “swinging by” meant driving 7 hours out of the way but I was thrilled at the prospect of introducing Parke to my world.
Since the announcement, I had 4 weeks to prepare myself. In addition to my continued affection through the e-waves, I listened to his favorite music, I began learning German and read his favorite book, Fahrenheit 451. Parke’s the type of man that inspired me to learn. And dance. And Needlepoint. And Sky-Dive. And Glass-Blow. And Squid-Fish. Whatever. I’m not sure if my goal was to improve myself or to impress him, but either way; he inspired me. We were getting to know “the real” each other through letters, phone calls and emails, but I didn’t want him to forget the Ashley that he thought was a hottie. I needed to look smokin’ for my man. I ran every night and lost 5 pounds. I got my nails and hair done before he arrived and bought some new clothes. I was ready to knock him off his feet.
Upon seeing him again, floodgates of emotion were released. It had been an agonizing 6 weeks since we had seen each other and I missed him immensely. But there he was, standing in my kitchen holding three colorful Gerbera daisies. Ahhhhh.
I’d lived in my house since second grade. This house had seen my phases of 4 foot-tall bangs and perms to long straight hair, ripped jeans to cords and owning every color and style of Doc Martens shoes produced. My front porch could write its own book, spying kisses with hunky football players, grungy rockers and prom dates. I had snuck into its windows at 2 am and sat on its roof to watch the sun set over the kiwi orchard. I had walked through my kitchen thousands of times. I had eaten cereal every morning of my juvenile life at that nook and made cookies with friends on that counter. My dad even caught me with my boyfriend in its dark pantry. But that was the old kitchen. My kitchen would be forever changed. For there was Parke, standing in this new kitchen with rays of glorious light shooting out from his head. I restrained myself from attacking him with kisses since my family and his sister were present but I gave him a warm, lingering hug.
Over dinner he charmed my mom and impressed my father. It was surreal. Was Parke really in California, eating at my dinner table? I was helpless to stop my mom and dad from bragging about their only daughter and Parke was eating it up. Parke wandered my halls perusing baby pictures and softball trophies. He was pleased by the Les Miserables poster on my wall and chuckled at my High School dance pictures. This was me, exposed.
The next morning, I opened the door to his room wearing nothing but a teeny weeny bathing suit. His eyes widened and he grinned as I lay down next to him. However, my mission was to drag him to the pool, not roll in my parents’ house, ewww. He resisted, especially after a consolation kiss, but finally relented. Parke looked absolutely adorable and irresistible with his hair wild, five-o-clock shadow and clothes disheveled. I imagined waking up next to him for a lifetime and my heart leapt. We spent the morning swimming, tanning and riding 4-wheelers through the orchards. Afterwards, he took a shower. When he emerged from the bathroom, his hair was wet and perfectly in place. His face was clean-shaven and he smelled delicious. I couldn’t decide if I liked Messy Parke or Cleaned-up Parke more. That night we went for a run and ended up at my childhood park. We swung on the swings and jumped off into sand piles. Time rewound as we were children again.
While running home he easily leapfrogged over a fire hydrant. My feminist Annie Oakley side came out; I can do anything you can do! So I decided to jump the next hydrant. I should have realized that 4 foot hydrants are not meant to be jumped by 5 foot people, but I didn’t. It wasn’t until a millisecond before catapulting over the hydrant that I realized my mission was doomed. I hesitated, but no one told the inertia of my body. My upper body flew over the hydrant whereas my lady goods hit the top of the hydrant. Then I cracked my shoulder on the cement sidewalk. My ovaries were so angry they threatened to withhold future children from me. Parke ran up to me and took me in his arms. He was so worried.
“Are you OK!?!”
My body throbbed. It hurt so badly, but I tried to be brave. More than anything, my pride was crushed and embarrassment settled in. I tend to embarrass myself frequently. I’m not overly clumsy; I just tend to attract awkward situations. “Teenage years” plus “that time of the month” plus “hunk of the week” assured many chapters of horrors in my book of embarrassing moments. Some of my most stand-out embarrassing moments were:
1. Right before cheerleading for a basketball game, I realized that I had forgotten to shave my armpits. I figured no one would notice. But they did. People were pointing and laughing and making up cheers about me.
2. While biking on a congested street, I wiped out royally and landed in a shallow ditch. The car in front of a long line of cars stopped traffic to ask if I was OK causing a traffic jam complete with angry drivers honking behind her.
3. Once I was running backwards in front of a group of people. I ran right into a great big, open trash can. I fell in, rear first, with only my arms and legs sticking out of the top.
The hydrant episode was close to making the top ten of embarrassing moments, simply because I liked Parke so much and I wanted to impress him. I was humiliated. And when Parke realized that I was OK, he started laughing (adding fuel to the fire).
“That was AWESOME!” and laughed until he couldn’t breathe.
The next day we took San Francisco by storm. We explored the Japanese Tea Gardens, ate clam chowder on the wharf, took at a ferry to Alcatraz, walked on the beach, ate overlooking the Pacific, rode a trolley and visited the LDS Oakland Temple. I suppose any city is romantic when you are with the man you love but San Francisco is particularly enchanting. My favorite memory occurred while walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. As we strolled along the bridge we noticed that the door was open that guarded cavernous hollow of the South Tower. We looked inside and up the looming tower. It was abandoned. A sign warned: Trespassing. $20,000 fine. There was an enticing set of fixed vertical stairs leading up the tower. The temptation beckoned. Parke was cooking danger for lunch and I was hungry. We started up the stairs and shut the door behind us. It was exhilarating to be in the belly of that majestic bridge, trespassing with the one you love. Parke was adventurous and exciting. The kisses we shared in the haul of the bridge were adventurous and exciting to match. He carved a heart with our initials in it on the wall to forever mark our adventure. Vandalism and trespassing are some of Parke’s best qualities.
Minutes later we were still one person in the haul of that great bridge. Although Parke was almost a foot taller than me, we fit. We were lock and key.
We headed down when we heard someone speaking outside the door. When we got closer, Parke realized they were speaking German. There’s not much that can pull Parke away from kissing me but when he heard the German language it was music to his ears. We snuck out and Parke began conversing with the two strangers in their native tongue. Most people would not consider German a language of love, with its harsh, gravely, Hitleresque tone, but when I heard Parke easily engaging with these two strangers, I was awestruck.
The night before his departure, we were sitting on my couch talking, OK, mostly kissing. However, the discussion turned serious as we started discussing religion. I loved that we could discuss spiritual matters without weirdness or ignorance. He told me that sometimes he missed his other half, although he didn’t know who she was. He didn’t want to be married necessarily; he just longed for that person who would complete him. It was like a preemptive loss. His eyes got misty. “You probably don’t know what I mean”, he tried covering his emotions. But I DID know what he meant.
The conversation arrived at our patriarchal blessings. In the LDS church, a Patriarchal Blessing is a special blessing that you receive from an ordained Patriarch just once in your life. Patriarchal blessings include a declaration of a person's lineage in the house of Israel and contain personal counsel from God. Basically, it’s like telling your future, in a sacred, special way. Its transcribed and given to you in written form. I’ve always liked mine because it is very specific and has powerful promises.
In one part, it states that I knew my husband previously, before this Earth life, and that we were supposed to find each other.
As he was explaining his yearning for his other half, the moment seemed appropriate so I relayed the promise made to me in my Patriarchal blessing. As soon as shared that I knew my companion previously, the most powerful, overwhelming feeling came over me. Encompassing warmth started at my head and bathed my entire body. It was so engulfing that I could hardly breathe or speak. Tears welled up in my eyes. Embarrassed, I turned away from Parke. I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable or see me get emotional. I quickly changed the subject although the sensation lingered. I knew The Spirit had spoken to me. I had read that line in my Patriarchal Blessing many times in my life with curiosity. But I had never experienced a reaction such as this.
I believe in fate. I believe in choice also. However, there are a few specific things that I know I am meant to do. I know there is just one specific man for me. At that moment, Heavenly Father was speaking to me. Was He telling me that Parke was the one I was supposed to find? Was Parke the man who I knew before?
YES!
I had only dated Parke over two weekends. But I was never surer of anything in my entire life.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Chapter 13 Love
“Dear Ashley,
Ever since our first email, our first date, kiss, walk under the stars, swing in the park…is this for real? Is it possible to have such a match? Friendship? Love? I just looked at our pictures for the thousandth time. It is real. I can see it in our smiles and in our eyes. I can hear it when we laugh and sense it in my heart when we talk and especially when we are separated.
Parke”
I knew it was real too. I knew that Parke was much more than a boyfriend, he was my future husband. I was absolutely sure of it. To deny it would be to deny divine inspiration. I was keeping a juicy, exhilarating secret inside me but I wasn’t ready to tell Parke. We weren’t even at boyfriend-girlfriend status. Telling him my revelation would be jumping the gun. I decided to let our relationship ripen naturally, without pressure or expectation. But secretly knowing the outcome of our relationship comforted me immensely.
Parke served a 2-year LDS Mission in Berlin, Germany. He spent his own money and two years of his life teaching Christian principles and doing service for the German citizens and, in return, he baptized one person. We still tease him about his “sightseeing” mission to Germany since the people were not highly receptive to his message. However, he worked hard, followed strict rules and finished honorably. I respect him deeply for his service and commitment to the LDS Church.
When 19-year-old boys get called on a mission they go through metamorphosis from immature, pimply boys into pious teachers. Church leaders fill every second of their mission with study, prayer and preaching so that they forget that they have testosterone. They are never allowed to be in the same room alone with a female for their protection. After two years of suppressing attraction for the fairer sex, their badge is relinquished and they are pushed back into the dating world with a swift kick. They are urged: “Now you’re free! Get married as soon as physically possible so that you don’t fall victim to premarital sex”.
Being the first girl to kiss a Return Missionary is worthy of a badge. Every Mormon girl should experience this rite of passage like checking off a personal progress goal. The boy has been waiting for his reentry into the kissing world for two long years and, in the time that they were only using their lips for prayer; our feminine lips have been staying warm with practice, practice, practice. We women, finally have the upper hand. That, however, is the only good thing about dating a fresh RM. Just like an engine which has not been tuned up for two years, freshly returned missionaries are rusty in the kissing department. They have completely forgotten how to treat a girl, touch a girl and kiss a girl. They talk about their mission 24-7 which displays their spiritual side, but can be very boring. I was highly experienced with dating returned missionaries, having spent five years at Brigham Young University. Getting involved with a green RM is a sacrifice indeed.
Luckily, Parke had kissed a couple of girls between his return and meeting me which I was grateful for. I avoid fresh RM’s like the swine flu. I was not so lucky when meeting Jake.
Previously, I was home on break from college. Boys back home were always the “boys back home”. Been there, done that. Why then had I never noticed this cutie sitting in front of me at the stake church fireside? I leaned into my dad, “Who is that?” My dad smiled, pleased to note that I was, in fact, interested in boys who weren’t gangsters or losers. “That’s Jake Tenley. He’s the mayor’s son. Jake just returned from his 2-year mission in Spain”. (Completing a mission earns a boy 2 extra points on their dating score. And completing a foreign mission tacks on a couple more points; Boise, Idaho isn’t as exciting as Kiev, Ukraine).
Oooooh, a cutie AND a Returned Missionary, I’m interested.
I talked to him after the fireside and gave him my number. When he called we set up a date to see a movie and to go ice skating.
Although Jake was only two weeks fresh from his mission, he was a sacrifice I was willing to engage in because he was very easy on the eyes…muscular, light hair, dark eyes and tan skin. The drawback with Jake is that he was slow in every respect. Once, when he was playing a board game with my family we kept laughing at his expense because every time it was his turn we had to wait a long, long, time. “Come. On. Jake. Go!” He spoke slowly, he walked slowly and he was intellectually slow. On our first date, I mentioned something about Freud. “Who’s Freud?” he questioned. I was shocked, “You’ve never heard of Sigmund Freud!?!” From that point on, I knew there was no future for us. Oh well, maybe he’s a good kisser…
We saw each other every night since our first date. The conversation was so dim that I found myself tuning anything auditory out and just looking at him and touching him since that was more pleasant. The first kiss was awful. Our lips didn’t match. He had thin lips and mine are full. Our kissing styles were completely different. His style was (just guess) extremely slow. Hmmm, he couldn’t converse and he couldn’t kiss. Is it worth carrying on? The kissing went from worse to bad, then bad to decent; but I was content keeping my lips warm over a chilly Christmas break.
Since the kissing was a sliver more pleasant than the conversation, that what we did mostly. My lips were in a constant state of chap; so much, that the Carmex Corporation sent me a letter of appreciation.
What’s the conversation like while kissing someone? With any boy, I found it hard to merge the cognitive world with the physical realm. Enlightening conversation is rare. Verbiage usually includes silly comments, expressions of gratitude and flirty warnings. I can’t remember any notable conversation during any kissing session, except Jake’s. In the middle of something physical, he whispered in my ear “I love you”.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard a record player scratching.
“What…..did you say?” What I felt like saying though was “What are you thinking? This is our second date! Why did you have to say something awkward like that? I am purely using you for your brawn, don’t you get that?”
But instead, I said sensitively “You don’t love me. We hardly know each other. Thanks though, that’s sweet.”
I have told numerous boys that I have loved them. Saying “I love you” is a subsequent step in relationship development after the thrill of kissing wanes. But how many of those promises of affection were truthful? I never lied intentionally. In the moment I probably felt as though I loved them. After looking back and analyzing the relationship I can admit to loving three men during different periods of my life. I knew which men I loved and which I didn’t by asking myself these questions: Did I sacrifice for that person? Did I truly want the best for them? Did they return their love by word and deed? Did I have a wandering eye during the relationship? Did we respect each other’s values? Could I see a family and future with that person?
I definitely did not love Jake.
Ever since our first email, our first date, kiss, walk under the stars, swing in the park…is this for real? Is it possible to have such a match? Friendship? Love? I just looked at our pictures for the thousandth time. It is real. I can see it in our smiles and in our eyes. I can hear it when we laugh and sense it in my heart when we talk and especially when we are separated.
Parke”
I knew it was real too. I knew that Parke was much more than a boyfriend, he was my future husband. I was absolutely sure of it. To deny it would be to deny divine inspiration. I was keeping a juicy, exhilarating secret inside me but I wasn’t ready to tell Parke. We weren’t even at boyfriend-girlfriend status. Telling him my revelation would be jumping the gun. I decided to let our relationship ripen naturally, without pressure or expectation. But secretly knowing the outcome of our relationship comforted me immensely.
Parke served a 2-year LDS Mission in Berlin, Germany. He spent his own money and two years of his life teaching Christian principles and doing service for the German citizens and, in return, he baptized one person. We still tease him about his “sightseeing” mission to Germany since the people were not highly receptive to his message. However, he worked hard, followed strict rules and finished honorably. I respect him deeply for his service and commitment to the LDS Church.
When 19-year-old boys get called on a mission they go through metamorphosis from immature, pimply boys into pious teachers. Church leaders fill every second of their mission with study, prayer and preaching so that they forget that they have testosterone. They are never allowed to be in the same room alone with a female for their protection. After two years of suppressing attraction for the fairer sex, their badge is relinquished and they are pushed back into the dating world with a swift kick. They are urged: “Now you’re free! Get married as soon as physically possible so that you don’t fall victim to premarital sex”.
Being the first girl to kiss a Return Missionary is worthy of a badge. Every Mormon girl should experience this rite of passage like checking off a personal progress goal. The boy has been waiting for his reentry into the kissing world for two long years and, in the time that they were only using their lips for prayer; our feminine lips have been staying warm with practice, practice, practice. We women, finally have the upper hand. That, however, is the only good thing about dating a fresh RM. Just like an engine which has not been tuned up for two years, freshly returned missionaries are rusty in the kissing department. They have completely forgotten how to treat a girl, touch a girl and kiss a girl. They talk about their mission 24-7 which displays their spiritual side, but can be very boring. I was highly experienced with dating returned missionaries, having spent five years at Brigham Young University. Getting involved with a green RM is a sacrifice indeed.
Luckily, Parke had kissed a couple of girls between his return and meeting me which I was grateful for. I avoid fresh RM’s like the swine flu. I was not so lucky when meeting Jake.
Previously, I was home on break from college. Boys back home were always the “boys back home”. Been there, done that. Why then had I never noticed this cutie sitting in front of me at the stake church fireside? I leaned into my dad, “Who is that?” My dad smiled, pleased to note that I was, in fact, interested in boys who weren’t gangsters or losers. “That’s Jake Tenley. He’s the mayor’s son. Jake just returned from his 2-year mission in Spain”. (Completing a mission earns a boy 2 extra points on their dating score. And completing a foreign mission tacks on a couple more points; Boise, Idaho isn’t as exciting as Kiev, Ukraine).
Oooooh, a cutie AND a Returned Missionary, I’m interested.
I talked to him after the fireside and gave him my number. When he called we set up a date to see a movie and to go ice skating.
Although Jake was only two weeks fresh from his mission, he was a sacrifice I was willing to engage in because he was very easy on the eyes…muscular, light hair, dark eyes and tan skin. The drawback with Jake is that he was slow in every respect. Once, when he was playing a board game with my family we kept laughing at his expense because every time it was his turn we had to wait a long, long, time. “Come. On. Jake. Go!” He spoke slowly, he walked slowly and he was intellectually slow. On our first date, I mentioned something about Freud. “Who’s Freud?” he questioned. I was shocked, “You’ve never heard of Sigmund Freud!?!” From that point on, I knew there was no future for us. Oh well, maybe he’s a good kisser…
We saw each other every night since our first date. The conversation was so dim that I found myself tuning anything auditory out and just looking at him and touching him since that was more pleasant. The first kiss was awful. Our lips didn’t match. He had thin lips and mine are full. Our kissing styles were completely different. His style was (just guess) extremely slow. Hmmm, he couldn’t converse and he couldn’t kiss. Is it worth carrying on? The kissing went from worse to bad, then bad to decent; but I was content keeping my lips warm over a chilly Christmas break.
Since the kissing was a sliver more pleasant than the conversation, that what we did mostly. My lips were in a constant state of chap; so much, that the Carmex Corporation sent me a letter of appreciation.
What’s the conversation like while kissing someone? With any boy, I found it hard to merge the cognitive world with the physical realm. Enlightening conversation is rare. Verbiage usually includes silly comments, expressions of gratitude and flirty warnings. I can’t remember any notable conversation during any kissing session, except Jake’s. In the middle of something physical, he whispered in my ear “I love you”.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard a record player scratching.
“What…..did you say?” What I felt like saying though was “What are you thinking? This is our second date! Why did you have to say something awkward like that? I am purely using you for your brawn, don’t you get that?”
But instead, I said sensitively “You don’t love me. We hardly know each other. Thanks though, that’s sweet.”
I have told numerous boys that I have loved them. Saying “I love you” is a subsequent step in relationship development after the thrill of kissing wanes. But how many of those promises of affection were truthful? I never lied intentionally. In the moment I probably felt as though I loved them. After looking back and analyzing the relationship I can admit to loving three men during different periods of my life. I knew which men I loved and which I didn’t by asking myself these questions: Did I sacrifice for that person? Did I truly want the best for them? Did they return their love by word and deed? Did I have a wandering eye during the relationship? Did we respect each other’s values? Could I see a family and future with that person?
I definitely did not love Jake.
Chapter 14 I Love You
I typically would not fly across the country to meet up with a man, but this was not any man, this was my destiny. It was now halfway through the longest summer of my life but our need to be physically together could not be squelched by daily emails, phone calls and letters. He invited me to Cheyenne, Wyoming for a visit and I jumped at the chance.
Wyoming has twice the amount of cows as people. Having been branded as a “California Girl”, I tried not to hypocritically judge Parke, being from Wyoming. But I had no idea what to expect. Comments directed at Cheyenne were good, blasé and negative, but mostly negative. The good comments were “Oh, we’ve been to Wyoming. Aren’t the Tetons gorgeous?” (Nine hours away from Cheyenne) Negative comments were directed at the wind, the prairie or the cowboy mentality. But most people said the same blasé thing about Cheyenne “Oh, I’ve driven through there”, which makes sense since it is located at the crossing of two major interstates: 1-80 and 1-25.
Learning the German language seemed less intimidating than fitting into Cheyenne’s western lifestyle. Thinking of this cow-town reminded me of (previously suppressed) bad memories from my BYU Equitation class. At BYU, students have to take three physical education classes. I immensely enjoyed my jogging, ballroom dancing and ice skating classes so I decided to enroll in an additional Horseback Riding PE class since I come from a long line of equestrians and rodeo queens. However, after a semester of training, I still can’t ride a horse to save my life. In my class of eight girls, I was only one who wasn’t from a ranch. While they effortlessly maneuvered their horses through obstacle courses and over jumps, my horse just looked at me and snorted. While the cowgirls trotted with finesse, I got bucked off and landed in the mud. Again, my horse snorted at me.
I was wary of chickens and cows stink.
And children? Will Parke expect me to raise our children on a ranch somewhere? A nightmare flashed before my eyes of giving birth to our 3 children (Wild Bill, Wyatt, and Bonnie-Mae) squatting in some prairie with wild chickens and prairie dogs as my birth attendants.
Parke didn’t strike me as a cowboy; he dressed more like a surfer and didn’t listen to country music.
I may not like cows, but I do like cowboys. When Kenny Chesney sang “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”, he could very well have been talking about me. I dated a cowboy once with positive results so I was anxious to see Parke in his element to decipher if he could be my bronco-bustin’ buckaroo, or at least my urban cowboy.
When thinking back on Travis, the word dreamy comes to mind. Yes, I said “dreamy”; I know this isn't the 50's, but it just fits. He was a true bona fide cowboy. Growing up in Northern California, I was surrounded by many wannabe cowboys. These were boys who wore tight wranglers, boots and cowboy hats. They may have driven a huge truck with George Straight blasting, but they had never ridden, let alone, seen a horse in their life. Travis was different. He actually competed in rodeos and owned his own horses.
Travis was popular because he was flirty and funny. He had slick black hair, nice white teeth and was “like, totally cute”. He didn’t strike me as very intelligent, but when has that mattered to a 7th grader?
Travis used to let me wear his parka which was doused in his cologne every morning. We were "going out" which translated to writing love notes (folded in special ways), hanging out at recess, occasional phone calls and wearing of the boy’s parka. When a girl wore a boy's parka it was a stamp of possession, a public display of marking his territory. Truly, it was a sacrifice for the boy. While the girl was toasty warm with her initial coat and the boy's parka, the boy is left freezing with exposure. Travis had two coats that I would wear. One was an Oakland Raiders parka and the other was an acid-wash, tattered jean jacket.
We were in the thick of late 1980’s fashion. I wore my hair as high as I possibly could on my head. The higher and thicker the hair stood on your head, the more marketable you were to the opposite sex. It was a powerful pheromone. Complimenting the bangs was my “Sun-In” died and kinky-permed locks. Oh yes, I was the hottest thing since pegged pants.
Travis and I first kissed as a request. John had asked out Tiffani. Tiffani said she would only give her answer if Travis and I kissed. (Gasp!) There was a crowd of people watching but this was my chance! He flashed me a smile which said “I’m game, you?” I nodded. Travis had to perform well so that he could claim bragging rights among the guys afterwards. Once our lips met I almost forgot about the crowd watching and whistling. That kiss produced a buzz starting at my lips and ending at my toes. So kissing is fun after all! Travis’ kiss was nothing like the insulting helicopter kiss, although the techniques were pretty similar. This taught me that the majority of enjoyment from a kiss comes from the feelings behind a kiss, not the technique. I’m sure there were high-fives thrown after we were finished. I turned around, embarrassed. Tiffani said yes.
Travis and I kissed a couple more delightful times before I was dumped for some other girl with higher hair (or Travis was dumped for a boy with a warmer parka- I can’t remember).
I was stoked at the prospect of seeing Parke’s cute hiney in some tight Wranglers.
When pulling up to the Fischer home, I noticed a teenage girl riding a horse, herding cattle into a fenced area adjoining their property. A young man drove up on a John Deer tractor. “Howdy” he said, as he tipped his hat. As I walked up the long driveway to their sprawling ranch house, I had to jump to avoid a tumbleweed as it rolled by. I chuckled inside as his Dad answered the door wearing spurs and a bolo tie. Wow. Welcome to the wild, wild, west!
OK, that didn’t happen.
That is what I had envisioned, and secretly hoped, his Cheyenne home would be like but I could not be more wrong.
Parke’s dad was a friendly, stylish, distinguished lawyer who also owned a large department store in town. Parke’s sassy mother worked for the senate. They occupied a lovely home in an upper class neighborhood. There were flowers overflowing from large ceramic pots and Spanish music playing from the CD player. Although I was hoping for a stitch of western flair, there was none. I realized I was more of a country girl than Parke was a country boy! Thank goodness--Wild Bill, Wyatt and Bonnie Mae would be born in hospital bed.
The Fischer’s were warm and inviting and over the span of a couple of days I was akin to some of their family traditions like Blat, the game where you put a Hostess pie in the street and wait for a car to run over it. Once a car does, everyone has to run in the street and eat a piece. Also, Snap Dragons, which is where after lighting brandy and prunes on fire, you have to grab a flaming prune from the flambé and pop it into your mouth. Then there was the game of Fuzzy Nuts. I’ll let your imagination run wild. The Fishers made their own fun. Obviously. The Fishers were also entertainers. Dinner at their house was a cultural and culinary experience. Parke’s mom bragged that “you take the first bite with your eyes”, and I did. Her meals were art on modern plates. We toasted in German with gorgeous stemware.
I didn’t just spend time in Parke’s kitchen though.
It’s electrifying being in your guy’s bedroom. Things that bother mothers, like odor and mess, don’t bother a girlfriend, in fact, its endearing. Bad habits are adorable at first. Maybe I was love-blind but Parke simply didn’t have any bad habits. He had Collective Soul and Toad the Wet Sprocket music posters on his wall and pictures of me and him. Along one wall was a full-sized high school locker. It was my turn to see Parke in his element and I was soaking it up.
One morning I was lounging in his room while he was in shower. Lying in his soft bed and breathing in Parke’s lingering faint aroma was heavenly. Alone, I took the opportunity to hide love notes for him to find later. All of a sudden he kicked open the door wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK!
Was he getting me back for the bathing suit temptation?
His chest was defined and his abdomen rippled with muscles. I took the first bite with my eyes. I had never looked at pornography or been interested in naked male bodies but at that moment I had never been so jealous of a towel. I wanted to reach and out and touch someone. What attracted me even more than his physique was his confidence. He walked around the room like he was in a locker room with his buddies. It’s strange to me how men are comfortable being socially naked. Parke had nothing to hide though. He was absolutely beautiful. With a smirk, he condescendingly twirled his finger implying that I turn around while he changed. I buried my head in his fragrant sheets. Keeping with my mildly rebellious streak, I lifted my eyes just to get a peek.
WHAT!? This was going to be my husband! I just wanted to check out the goods before purchasing.
I caught sight of his full naked body from his back.
Wow, that’s going to be mine????? Who am I?
I didn’t tell Parke that I peeked at his naked bum until much later in our relationship. He laughed so hard, he cried. He admitted that he pulled that stunt to embarrass me.
One early morning, at 5 am, I was awakened by the bedroom door opening. Parke picked me up from bed in his arms and carried me to his car. I was curious and embarrassed. I am far from the woman in the Lunesta commercial who wakes up in a crisp, made bed, wearing a silky slip, with perfectly tousled hair and minty breath. No, my hair is always an unpredictable disaster and my mascara is smudged under my eyes. I stole a quick glance in the car mirror as Parke was securing something in back. Decent, not horrible, I licked my thumbs and wiped the mascara from under my eyes and slammed the mirror shut just as he opened his car door.
“Where are we going?” I wondered out loud.
“You’ll see” he said, as he flashed me a smile.
Parke lived about 5 minutes from the prairie. The real prairie. His Ford Explorer four-wheeled to a designated spot overlooking the expanse of the prairie. We got out of his car and sat on the tail gate, facing east. He wrapped us in a blanket and broke out biscuits and orange juice. The dark sky was starting to lighten and within an hour we were bathed in yellow, pink light. Parke wanted to show me a Cheyenne sunrise. The sky was bigger than I had ever seen it. The streaks of color enhanced the gorgeous rolling hills and tumbleweed. It is a backdrop that I will never forget. The moment was perfect. I decided to tell him that I wanted to be with him…forever, because I did.
“Parke, I can’t see myself with any other man. I want to be with you, always. We are meant to be together.” It wasn’t rehearsed, it flowed naturally. I spoke from the heart.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. I gulped. Then he looked down and pointed his index finger on the floor as he spoke to accentuate every word. He spoke softly and paused between each word.
“I Love You So Much.”
The entire time I knew Parke, I had never seen him nervous. But when he looked up at me with pools in his vulnerable eyes, my heart melted and I brought him into me. We connected in a long, dizzying kiss. We were finally able to share our feelings, unrestricted.
“I love you too!” I professed. It was undeniable.
Wyoming has twice the amount of cows as people. Having been branded as a “California Girl”, I tried not to hypocritically judge Parke, being from Wyoming. But I had no idea what to expect. Comments directed at Cheyenne were good, blasé and negative, but mostly negative. The good comments were “Oh, we’ve been to Wyoming. Aren’t the Tetons gorgeous?” (Nine hours away from Cheyenne) Negative comments were directed at the wind, the prairie or the cowboy mentality. But most people said the same blasé thing about Cheyenne “Oh, I’ve driven through there”, which makes sense since it is located at the crossing of two major interstates: 1-80 and 1-25.
Learning the German language seemed less intimidating than fitting into Cheyenne’s western lifestyle. Thinking of this cow-town reminded me of (previously suppressed) bad memories from my BYU Equitation class. At BYU, students have to take three physical education classes. I immensely enjoyed my jogging, ballroom dancing and ice skating classes so I decided to enroll in an additional Horseback Riding PE class since I come from a long line of equestrians and rodeo queens. However, after a semester of training, I still can’t ride a horse to save my life. In my class of eight girls, I was only one who wasn’t from a ranch. While they effortlessly maneuvered their horses through obstacle courses and over jumps, my horse just looked at me and snorted. While the cowgirls trotted with finesse, I got bucked off and landed in the mud. Again, my horse snorted at me.
I was wary of chickens and cows stink.
And children? Will Parke expect me to raise our children on a ranch somewhere? A nightmare flashed before my eyes of giving birth to our 3 children (Wild Bill, Wyatt, and Bonnie-Mae) squatting in some prairie with wild chickens and prairie dogs as my birth attendants.
Parke didn’t strike me as a cowboy; he dressed more like a surfer and didn’t listen to country music.
I may not like cows, but I do like cowboys. When Kenny Chesney sang “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”, he could very well have been talking about me. I dated a cowboy once with positive results so I was anxious to see Parke in his element to decipher if he could be my bronco-bustin’ buckaroo, or at least my urban cowboy.
When thinking back on Travis, the word dreamy comes to mind. Yes, I said “dreamy”; I know this isn't the 50's, but it just fits. He was a true bona fide cowboy. Growing up in Northern California, I was surrounded by many wannabe cowboys. These were boys who wore tight wranglers, boots and cowboy hats. They may have driven a huge truck with George Straight blasting, but they had never ridden, let alone, seen a horse in their life. Travis was different. He actually competed in rodeos and owned his own horses.
Travis was popular because he was flirty and funny. He had slick black hair, nice white teeth and was “like, totally cute”. He didn’t strike me as very intelligent, but when has that mattered to a 7th grader?
Travis used to let me wear his parka which was doused in his cologne every morning. We were "going out" which translated to writing love notes (folded in special ways), hanging out at recess, occasional phone calls and wearing of the boy’s parka. When a girl wore a boy's parka it was a stamp of possession, a public display of marking his territory. Truly, it was a sacrifice for the boy. While the girl was toasty warm with her initial coat and the boy's parka, the boy is left freezing with exposure. Travis had two coats that I would wear. One was an Oakland Raiders parka and the other was an acid-wash, tattered jean jacket.
We were in the thick of late 1980’s fashion. I wore my hair as high as I possibly could on my head. The higher and thicker the hair stood on your head, the more marketable you were to the opposite sex. It was a powerful pheromone. Complimenting the bangs was my “Sun-In” died and kinky-permed locks. Oh yes, I was the hottest thing since pegged pants.
Travis and I first kissed as a request. John had asked out Tiffani. Tiffani said she would only give her answer if Travis and I kissed. (Gasp!) There was a crowd of people watching but this was my chance! He flashed me a smile which said “I’m game, you?” I nodded. Travis had to perform well so that he could claim bragging rights among the guys afterwards. Once our lips met I almost forgot about the crowd watching and whistling. That kiss produced a buzz starting at my lips and ending at my toes. So kissing is fun after all! Travis’ kiss was nothing like the insulting helicopter kiss, although the techniques were pretty similar. This taught me that the majority of enjoyment from a kiss comes from the feelings behind a kiss, not the technique. I’m sure there were high-fives thrown after we were finished. I turned around, embarrassed. Tiffani said yes.
Travis and I kissed a couple more delightful times before I was dumped for some other girl with higher hair (or Travis was dumped for a boy with a warmer parka- I can’t remember).
I was stoked at the prospect of seeing Parke’s cute hiney in some tight Wranglers.
When pulling up to the Fischer home, I noticed a teenage girl riding a horse, herding cattle into a fenced area adjoining their property. A young man drove up on a John Deer tractor. “Howdy” he said, as he tipped his hat. As I walked up the long driveway to their sprawling ranch house, I had to jump to avoid a tumbleweed as it rolled by. I chuckled inside as his Dad answered the door wearing spurs and a bolo tie. Wow. Welcome to the wild, wild, west!
OK, that didn’t happen.
That is what I had envisioned, and secretly hoped, his Cheyenne home would be like but I could not be more wrong.
Parke’s dad was a friendly, stylish, distinguished lawyer who also owned a large department store in town. Parke’s sassy mother worked for the senate. They occupied a lovely home in an upper class neighborhood. There were flowers overflowing from large ceramic pots and Spanish music playing from the CD player. Although I was hoping for a stitch of western flair, there was none. I realized I was more of a country girl than Parke was a country boy! Thank goodness--Wild Bill, Wyatt and Bonnie Mae would be born in hospital bed.
The Fischer’s were warm and inviting and over the span of a couple of days I was akin to some of their family traditions like Blat, the game where you put a Hostess pie in the street and wait for a car to run over it. Once a car does, everyone has to run in the street and eat a piece. Also, Snap Dragons, which is where after lighting brandy and prunes on fire, you have to grab a flaming prune from the flambé and pop it into your mouth. Then there was the game of Fuzzy Nuts. I’ll let your imagination run wild. The Fishers made their own fun. Obviously. The Fishers were also entertainers. Dinner at their house was a cultural and culinary experience. Parke’s mom bragged that “you take the first bite with your eyes”, and I did. Her meals were art on modern plates. We toasted in German with gorgeous stemware.
I didn’t just spend time in Parke’s kitchen though.
It’s electrifying being in your guy’s bedroom. Things that bother mothers, like odor and mess, don’t bother a girlfriend, in fact, its endearing. Bad habits are adorable at first. Maybe I was love-blind but Parke simply didn’t have any bad habits. He had Collective Soul and Toad the Wet Sprocket music posters on his wall and pictures of me and him. Along one wall was a full-sized high school locker. It was my turn to see Parke in his element and I was soaking it up.
One morning I was lounging in his room while he was in shower. Lying in his soft bed and breathing in Parke’s lingering faint aroma was heavenly. Alone, I took the opportunity to hide love notes for him to find later. All of a sudden he kicked open the door wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK!
Was he getting me back for the bathing suit temptation?
His chest was defined and his abdomen rippled with muscles. I took the first bite with my eyes. I had never looked at pornography or been interested in naked male bodies but at that moment I had never been so jealous of a towel. I wanted to reach and out and touch someone. What attracted me even more than his physique was his confidence. He walked around the room like he was in a locker room with his buddies. It’s strange to me how men are comfortable being socially naked. Parke had nothing to hide though. He was absolutely beautiful. With a smirk, he condescendingly twirled his finger implying that I turn around while he changed. I buried my head in his fragrant sheets. Keeping with my mildly rebellious streak, I lifted my eyes just to get a peek.
WHAT!? This was going to be my husband! I just wanted to check out the goods before purchasing.
I caught sight of his full naked body from his back.
Wow, that’s going to be mine????? Who am I?
I didn’t tell Parke that I peeked at his naked bum until much later in our relationship. He laughed so hard, he cried. He admitted that he pulled that stunt to embarrass me.
One early morning, at 5 am, I was awakened by the bedroom door opening. Parke picked me up from bed in his arms and carried me to his car. I was curious and embarrassed. I am far from the woman in the Lunesta commercial who wakes up in a crisp, made bed, wearing a silky slip, with perfectly tousled hair and minty breath. No, my hair is always an unpredictable disaster and my mascara is smudged under my eyes. I stole a quick glance in the car mirror as Parke was securing something in back. Decent, not horrible, I licked my thumbs and wiped the mascara from under my eyes and slammed the mirror shut just as he opened his car door.
“Where are we going?” I wondered out loud.
“You’ll see” he said, as he flashed me a smile.
Parke lived about 5 minutes from the prairie. The real prairie. His Ford Explorer four-wheeled to a designated spot overlooking the expanse of the prairie. We got out of his car and sat on the tail gate, facing east. He wrapped us in a blanket and broke out biscuits and orange juice. The dark sky was starting to lighten and within an hour we were bathed in yellow, pink light. Parke wanted to show me a Cheyenne sunrise. The sky was bigger than I had ever seen it. The streaks of color enhanced the gorgeous rolling hills and tumbleweed. It is a backdrop that I will never forget. The moment was perfect. I decided to tell him that I wanted to be with him…forever, because I did.
“Parke, I can’t see myself with any other man. I want to be with you, always. We are meant to be together.” It wasn’t rehearsed, it flowed naturally. I spoke from the heart.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. I gulped. Then he looked down and pointed his index finger on the floor as he spoke to accentuate every word. He spoke softly and paused between each word.
“I Love You So Much.”
The entire time I knew Parke, I had never seen him nervous. But when he looked up at me with pools in his vulnerable eyes, my heart melted and I brought him into me. We connected in a long, dizzying kiss. We were finally able to share our feelings, unrestricted.
“I love you too!” I professed. It was undeniable.
Chapter 15 The Honor Code
As a senior in High School, I received an acceptance packet from Brigham Young University, the school of my choice. I was elated that my academic efforts had paid off. Among the papers in the packet, one read:
The Honor Code
The Honor Code is the statement including the rules of conduct that a student must live by at BYU.
On BYU’s campus there is an office, full of staff whose sole purpose in life is to make sure that BYU students are living by the Honor Code rules. They punish those who break those laws. In the Honor Code Office, they have a “Ten Most Wanted” wall. On this wall you’ll find framed pictures of clean cut boys and girls. The first picture on that wall is of Brigham Christiansen. He is wanted for cheating on an ethics test. Molly Mormane’s countenance is shining in her eyes in the 2nd picture. However she was caught wearing her skirt too high: 1 inch above the knee. The third picture is of Moroni Tafua, the football player who drank a Bartles and James premium wine cooler after the game. Then there’s Josiah Smith IV. He got busted for not shaving his face for 2 days without having a beard card. The fifth picture frames Enos Johnson. Poor, Enos, he didn’t do anything wrong. He simply had an uber-Mormon name that easily rhymed with a sex organ. Since the Honor Code discourages even the appearance of evil, Enos has been placed on probation. Then there’s Emma Osmond. That unfortunate girl was indicted for allowing a boy into her room to read the scriptures together. Peter Priestly is framed in the 7th picture. He got locked outside his dorm after getting home 5 minutes after the midnight curfew. Eighth is Chastity Hatch, who had more than one earring in her ear. The Ninth frame holds Parley Ezra, who had a poster of a belly-baring Britney Spears up in his dorm room. The Tenth picture is of Yours Truly. We won’t say why my picture is on the wall. But the Honor Code and I are on a first name basis. When I walk in, everyone cheers “ASHLEY!” Even now, living in Minnesota, I still have my phone tapped and their surveillance cameras following me.
In the Honor Code Office there is another hallway, celestially lighted, adorned with 10 other pictures. These celebrities are the people who turned the aforementioned sinners into the Honor Code Office. As it states in the Honor Code Statement, “Encourage others in their commitment to comply with the Honor Code”. Once, I caught an ad in The Daily Universe, BYU’s campus newspaper. It was a form which was used to anonymously turn in fellow students who were not living the Honor Code. BYU is a tattletale society. We were pawns in George Orwell's totalitarian state.
I love the Honor Code. I claim full responsibility for my run-ins with the Honor Code. People who don’t like the Honor Code are people who don’t live the Honor Code. Having signed a commitment to the Honor Code, they have no one to blame but themselves for their offenses. People who go to BYU to party go away utterly broken and bitter (and by “party” I mean it in a non-FHE-Root-Beer-Float-Making Party way). BYU is highly competitive and there are thousands are other students that would gladly take their spot. The Honor Code has supreme power and there is no crossing them.
During my freshman year, I met a senior BYU student named Gavin. He had grown up in Provo and his dad was a professor at BYU in the Engineering Department. I loved his parents. He came from the perfect family. I would go over to their house every Sunday for dinner and they treated me like one of their own, which is just what I needed during my freshman year as I was trying to adjust to life alone. Gavin followed in the intellectual footsteps of his genius father. Not only was Gavin brilliant, he was good looking too. Sounds good so far, right? Well he also had bleached blond hair, drove a Harley, had a tongue-ring and always painted his nails black. He was obsessed with punk music. I’m not sure how he sailed through his BYU years without getting turned in to the Honor Code Office, but he did. And just my luck, I happened to meet the one bad boy at BYU. What attracted Gavin to me? I’m sure he saw me as a white canvas, waiting to be splashed with red paint. He was a snake in disguise slowly coiling himself around my body. I tried to run but he caught me by the lips. He was wild and I fell for him. It was refreshing to date Rocky Road in a sea of Vanilla.
We dated exclusively for 1 ½ years. I was hypnotized. However, one day I looked in the mirror at myself. Now I was the one with black nail polish, bleached blond hair and a tongue ring. Who was this stranger, this sheep following blindly? I snapped out of it and broke up with Gavin. Gavin was the scaffolding between me and my all-too-frequent visits with the Honor Code Office and I was ready to detonate that bridge. Although I was ready to end things with Gavin, I was crushed about breaking up with his parents. Oh, if only I could keep the parents but give back the boyfriend. I would have married the parents if such a thing had been even remotely ethical, but unfortunately they were a package deal.
Students that attend BYU have to live in BYU-approved housing and have to live by the Honor Code’s Residential Living Standards, which states:
“Visitors of the opposite sex are permitted in living rooms and kitchens but not in the bedrooms in off-campus living units. The use of the bathroom areas by members of the opposite sex is not appropriate unless emergency or civility dictates otherwise. And by emergency, we mean explosive diarrhea.” (I added that last part)
I lived with many roommates that were practically having orgies in their bedrooms with multiple boys; they were never once caught by the Honor Code Gestapo. However, if a boy even stepped foot in my hallway, lights and sirens would go off in the Honor Code office. The BYU President’s pager would sound off. The Y on the mountain would turn a scarlet A. A switchboard would light up and SWAT teams would be engaged. They would kick down my door and drag away the poor sap in handcuffs. The next Monday, I’d be back in the Honor Code office.
Cheers (jeers), “ASHLEY!”
At least that’s how I felt. But I still respected the Honor Code and tried to live it.
My rap sheet at the Honor Code Office was as long as Santa’s naughty list; I was on shaky ground. For the previous couple of years I had been on my best behavior. Further, I held a coveted spot in BYU’s Nursing Program and wasn’t about to risk that by having a boy in my bedroom.
Unfortunately (and fortunately), when returning to BYU after my romantic summer with Parke, I moved into an apartment with a balcony off of my bedroom. And that balcony was only 5 feet off of the ground….and Parke was 6 foot tall. Get my drift? That year, almost every night he’d put me to bed with a kiss. In the morning he’d climb up my balcony and wake me with a kiss. For the most part, our rendezvous were innocent. But, looking back, I can’t believe how absolutely careless we were. Another brush with the Honor Code would have changed my academic and professional future. I’d lose my job in the anatomy lab and my spot in the Nursing program. I know it’s sacrilegious to wonder if Heavenly Father had been turning an omniscient eye by allowing us to break the Honor Code Residential Living Standards; but truly there was some divine assistance afoot!
It’s still amazing to me that we never got caught with all of the surveillance cameras and snitches around.
“Yeah, suckas!!”
(Shoot, don’t tell the Honor Code that I said that, I’m still a little scared of them…)
The Honor Code
The Honor Code is the statement including the rules of conduct that a student must live by at BYU.
On BYU’s campus there is an office, full of staff whose sole purpose in life is to make sure that BYU students are living by the Honor Code rules. They punish those who break those laws. In the Honor Code Office, they have a “Ten Most Wanted” wall. On this wall you’ll find framed pictures of clean cut boys and girls. The first picture on that wall is of Brigham Christiansen. He is wanted for cheating on an ethics test. Molly Mormane’s countenance is shining in her eyes in the 2nd picture. However she was caught wearing her skirt too high: 1 inch above the knee. The third picture is of Moroni Tafua, the football player who drank a Bartles and James premium wine cooler after the game. Then there’s Josiah Smith IV. He got busted for not shaving his face for 2 days without having a beard card. The fifth picture frames Enos Johnson. Poor, Enos, he didn’t do anything wrong. He simply had an uber-Mormon name that easily rhymed with a sex organ. Since the Honor Code discourages even the appearance of evil, Enos has been placed on probation. Then there’s Emma Osmond. That unfortunate girl was indicted for allowing a boy into her room to read the scriptures together. Peter Priestly is framed in the 7th picture. He got locked outside his dorm after getting home 5 minutes after the midnight curfew. Eighth is Chastity Hatch, who had more than one earring in her ear. The Ninth frame holds Parley Ezra, who had a poster of a belly-baring Britney Spears up in his dorm room. The Tenth picture is of Yours Truly. We won’t say why my picture is on the wall. But the Honor Code and I are on a first name basis. When I walk in, everyone cheers “ASHLEY!” Even now, living in Minnesota, I still have my phone tapped and their surveillance cameras following me.
In the Honor Code Office there is another hallway, celestially lighted, adorned with 10 other pictures. These celebrities are the people who turned the aforementioned sinners into the Honor Code Office. As it states in the Honor Code Statement, “Encourage others in their commitment to comply with the Honor Code”. Once, I caught an ad in The Daily Universe, BYU’s campus newspaper. It was a form which was used to anonymously turn in fellow students who were not living the Honor Code. BYU is a tattletale society. We were pawns in George Orwell's totalitarian state.
I love the Honor Code. I claim full responsibility for my run-ins with the Honor Code. People who don’t like the Honor Code are people who don’t live the Honor Code. Having signed a commitment to the Honor Code, they have no one to blame but themselves for their offenses. People who go to BYU to party go away utterly broken and bitter (and by “party” I mean it in a non-FHE-Root-Beer-Float-Making Party way). BYU is highly competitive and there are thousands are other students that would gladly take their spot. The Honor Code has supreme power and there is no crossing them.
During my freshman year, I met a senior BYU student named Gavin. He had grown up in Provo and his dad was a professor at BYU in the Engineering Department. I loved his parents. He came from the perfect family. I would go over to their house every Sunday for dinner and they treated me like one of their own, which is just what I needed during my freshman year as I was trying to adjust to life alone. Gavin followed in the intellectual footsteps of his genius father. Not only was Gavin brilliant, he was good looking too. Sounds good so far, right? Well he also had bleached blond hair, drove a Harley, had a tongue-ring and always painted his nails black. He was obsessed with punk music. I’m not sure how he sailed through his BYU years without getting turned in to the Honor Code Office, but he did. And just my luck, I happened to meet the one bad boy at BYU. What attracted Gavin to me? I’m sure he saw me as a white canvas, waiting to be splashed with red paint. He was a snake in disguise slowly coiling himself around my body. I tried to run but he caught me by the lips. He was wild and I fell for him. It was refreshing to date Rocky Road in a sea of Vanilla.
We dated exclusively for 1 ½ years. I was hypnotized. However, one day I looked in the mirror at myself. Now I was the one with black nail polish, bleached blond hair and a tongue ring. Who was this stranger, this sheep following blindly? I snapped out of it and broke up with Gavin. Gavin was the scaffolding between me and my all-too-frequent visits with the Honor Code Office and I was ready to detonate that bridge. Although I was ready to end things with Gavin, I was crushed about breaking up with his parents. Oh, if only I could keep the parents but give back the boyfriend. I would have married the parents if such a thing had been even remotely ethical, but unfortunately they were a package deal.
Students that attend BYU have to live in BYU-approved housing and have to live by the Honor Code’s Residential Living Standards, which states:
“Visitors of the opposite sex are permitted in living rooms and kitchens but not in the bedrooms in off-campus living units. The use of the bathroom areas by members of the opposite sex is not appropriate unless emergency or civility dictates otherwise. And by emergency, we mean explosive diarrhea.” (I added that last part)
I lived with many roommates that were practically having orgies in their bedrooms with multiple boys; they were never once caught by the Honor Code Gestapo. However, if a boy even stepped foot in my hallway, lights and sirens would go off in the Honor Code office. The BYU President’s pager would sound off. The Y on the mountain would turn a scarlet A. A switchboard would light up and SWAT teams would be engaged. They would kick down my door and drag away the poor sap in handcuffs. The next Monday, I’d be back in the Honor Code office.
Cheers (jeers), “ASHLEY!”
At least that’s how I felt. But I still respected the Honor Code and tried to live it.
My rap sheet at the Honor Code Office was as long as Santa’s naughty list; I was on shaky ground. For the previous couple of years I had been on my best behavior. Further, I held a coveted spot in BYU’s Nursing Program and wasn’t about to risk that by having a boy in my bedroom.
Unfortunately (and fortunately), when returning to BYU after my romantic summer with Parke, I moved into an apartment with a balcony off of my bedroom. And that balcony was only 5 feet off of the ground….and Parke was 6 foot tall. Get my drift? That year, almost every night he’d put me to bed with a kiss. In the morning he’d climb up my balcony and wake me with a kiss. For the most part, our rendezvous were innocent. But, looking back, I can’t believe how absolutely careless we were. Another brush with the Honor Code would have changed my academic and professional future. I’d lose my job in the anatomy lab and my spot in the Nursing program. I know it’s sacrilegious to wonder if Heavenly Father had been turning an omniscient eye by allowing us to break the Honor Code Residential Living Standards; but truly there was some divine assistance afoot!
It’s still amazing to me that we never got caught with all of the surveillance cameras and snitches around.
“Yeah, suckas!!”
(Shoot, don’t tell the Honor Code that I said that, I’m still a little scared of them…)
Chapter 16 Engagement
Contemplating engagement, I decided to ask God if I was supposed to marry Parke. This would be the biggest decision of my temporal and eternal life, I couldn’t be wrong. I kept the previous spiritual experience in my heart, but felt like I needed another confirmation. I had always been taught the process for receiving a spiritual confirmation: study it out, ponder, make a decision and ask God through fasting and prayer. My spiritual experience didn’t fit the classic mold and I was concerned that I needed to go through the proper steps.
I cleansed my life by removing any and all bad influences that would hinder revelation from flowing. I read my scriptures and prayed more diligently. I wrote lists and plans. It all felt good. I felt peace. But I was waiting for something more powerful. One day, while fasting, I drove up to the mountains. I knelt by a tree and prayed. Hours went by. I poured my heart out to the Lord. I repented, I expressed gratitude, I asked, I listened. I asked for clarity, a sign, anything….I waited.
I felt peace, but nothing more.
After hours of pleading and raw knees, I decided to go home. I was hugely disappointed. Where was the angel, the dream, the voice? I walked through the door, defeated and weak. My grandfather was visiting and he could tell something was wrong. He patted the couch next to him and listened while I shared my frustrations.
My grandfather is the patriarch of our family in all respects. He is an Army hero (awarded the bronze star), spiritual giant and one of my closest confidants. As a soldier in World War II, he was on the front lines in Germany. During an intense air raid, he was taking cover in a foxhole. It was quiet when he heard a voice distinctly say “Get out of the foxhole and run to the trees.” He knew he was alone, but still, he looked around. For a moment, he shrugged it off as a figment of his imagination. That’s when the voice came more forcefully. “Get out of the foxhole and run to the trees!” He knew he was being warned by the Spirit of God. He shimmied out of his hiding spot and ran to the trees, 500 yards away. Once in the safety of the arbor canopy, he heard enemy planes flying overhead. A bomb was dropped and landed directly in the foxhole blowing the earth to smithereens.
“Why couldn’t I have an experience like yours Grandpa?” I pouted.
“How did you feel when you were praying?” he probed.
“I felt peace. I felt good” I admitted.
He tenderly said “Sounds like you got your answer”.
At that moment, I knew. Yes. I did receive an answer on the couch a month ago. And since then, I’ve felt nothing but peace. God had spoken to me. To give me another answer would be redundant, and to ask would be insulting.
I felt so honored that God considered me worthy of this perfect boy. Although Parke had a higher dating score than me, God felt that we were equals (or maybe He knew I’d need a lot of help during my life’s journey).
Parke asked me to go BYU’s Homecoming dance. We had been busy that day making and delivering corsages and boutonnieres for my own side business. I took time to make a boutonniere for Parke and a corsage for me. We seemed way too old to be going to a date dance, but didn’t care. When we arrived in Salt Lake City, we had a leisurely, romantic dinner and then walked around downtown. We ended up in one of the upper conference rooms of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, an ornate, historic hotel. In this particular room, there were windows overlooking the entire city. In one corner there was a grand piano and Parke encouraged me to sit down and play. I played “Clair de Lune”. Once finished I turned around to see Parke lounging in a window well, smiling big. Oh, I love seeing those delicious teeth. They were my drug of choice. He was holding a small gold box. He walked up to the piano bench and slid the box across the bench to me.
“Open it” he encouraged.
I knew what was in that little gold box and I was so ready to open it. When I removed the top, there was a smaller velvet, maroon ring box inside. I lifted it out and took a deep breath. When I raised the top, a sparkle caught my eye. I gasped. The hugest diamond that I had ever seen (in real life) stared back at me. The ring boasted a 2-carat princess cut diamond with complimenting diamonds embedded in the band. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
This is for me????
Then Parke took the box from me and removed the ring from the box. He got down on one knee.
“I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I was in High School. I saw myself proposing to my wife, I just couldn’t see your face. Then when you stood up in lab that first day I was in awe of you. As I got to know you, I realized that you were more than just a beautiful face, you are beautiful person. I know that you were the one I was missing. With you, I feel complete. We’re one.”
He continued, “I love you. Will you marry me?”
And as I looked at Parke I again thought, This is for me????
I joined him kneeling on the floor and looked deep in his eyes.
Just then, Parke’s and my history flashed before my eyes. I thought about all of the times I’d opened my email hoping for a message from him, reading his favorite books just to be close to him, licking my lips after our date just to taste the remnant of our kiss and smelling my shirt, desperate to get another whiff of him, laughing at his jokes and pondering his philosophies. I thought of the mornings where I’d hear his boots land on my balcony and my heart would leap, and hearing his deep, sexy, voice on the other end of the phone. I remembered being states away from him and the pain and longing I felt to be in his arms again. And then when I was in his arms again, I was home. Yes, this was right. This was so, so right. We were one. I couldn’t go a day without seeing him, let alone an eternity….
“I love you too! Of course I’ll marry you.”
Then he brought me into a crushing embrace. Our eyes couldn’t contain the tears. There was no shame. We wept in each other’s arms. We had found each other, just as we had promised.
Laughing and wiping away the tears, he said “Now let’s put this ring on you!”
The ring easily slipped on my finger and we hugged again. While his arms were around me I could help but gawk at the ring from behind his back. I stretched my hand out and marveled at the sheer size and beauty of it.
“It’s perfect! How did you know?” I gushed.
“Well, remember when I asked you what kind of ring you’d like?” he reminded.
Sheepishly, I remembered. “I said ‘I don’t care, just make it BIG’”.
“Is it BIG enough?” he asked, and we both laughed.
“But how did you afford it?” I asked.
Parke explained “When I went on my mission I invested $5,000 in the stock market. When I came back my investment had quadrupled. I saved this money for your ring, for our honeymoon and for starting our life together.”
We went to the dance and had a great time. The ring felt wonderfully heavy on my finger. Every so often I’d glance down and be delightfully surprised when I’d find that platinum sparkler on my ring finger. It’s like wearing a training bra for the first time; you keep peeking down your shirt to see if the bra is still there and feel a thrill that you are finally a woman.
I was a woman; Parke’s woman! I knew that Parke was mine months ago, but to wear his ring was to say that I was taken. I was off the shelf, bought and paid for. My practice kissing days were over…I found the one to kiss forever.
I cleansed my life by removing any and all bad influences that would hinder revelation from flowing. I read my scriptures and prayed more diligently. I wrote lists and plans. It all felt good. I felt peace. But I was waiting for something more powerful. One day, while fasting, I drove up to the mountains. I knelt by a tree and prayed. Hours went by. I poured my heart out to the Lord. I repented, I expressed gratitude, I asked, I listened. I asked for clarity, a sign, anything….I waited.
I felt peace, but nothing more.
After hours of pleading and raw knees, I decided to go home. I was hugely disappointed. Where was the angel, the dream, the voice? I walked through the door, defeated and weak. My grandfather was visiting and he could tell something was wrong. He patted the couch next to him and listened while I shared my frustrations.
My grandfather is the patriarch of our family in all respects. He is an Army hero (awarded the bronze star), spiritual giant and one of my closest confidants. As a soldier in World War II, he was on the front lines in Germany. During an intense air raid, he was taking cover in a foxhole. It was quiet when he heard a voice distinctly say “Get out of the foxhole and run to the trees.” He knew he was alone, but still, he looked around. For a moment, he shrugged it off as a figment of his imagination. That’s when the voice came more forcefully. “Get out of the foxhole and run to the trees!” He knew he was being warned by the Spirit of God. He shimmied out of his hiding spot and ran to the trees, 500 yards away. Once in the safety of the arbor canopy, he heard enemy planes flying overhead. A bomb was dropped and landed directly in the foxhole blowing the earth to smithereens.
“Why couldn’t I have an experience like yours Grandpa?” I pouted.
“How did you feel when you were praying?” he probed.
“I felt peace. I felt good” I admitted.
He tenderly said “Sounds like you got your answer”.
At that moment, I knew. Yes. I did receive an answer on the couch a month ago. And since then, I’ve felt nothing but peace. God had spoken to me. To give me another answer would be redundant, and to ask would be insulting.
I felt so honored that God considered me worthy of this perfect boy. Although Parke had a higher dating score than me, God felt that we were equals (or maybe He knew I’d need a lot of help during my life’s journey).
Parke asked me to go BYU’s Homecoming dance. We had been busy that day making and delivering corsages and boutonnieres for my own side business. I took time to make a boutonniere for Parke and a corsage for me. We seemed way too old to be going to a date dance, but didn’t care. When we arrived in Salt Lake City, we had a leisurely, romantic dinner and then walked around downtown. We ended up in one of the upper conference rooms of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, an ornate, historic hotel. In this particular room, there were windows overlooking the entire city. In one corner there was a grand piano and Parke encouraged me to sit down and play. I played “Clair de Lune”. Once finished I turned around to see Parke lounging in a window well, smiling big. Oh, I love seeing those delicious teeth. They were my drug of choice. He was holding a small gold box. He walked up to the piano bench and slid the box across the bench to me.
“Open it” he encouraged.
I knew what was in that little gold box and I was so ready to open it. When I removed the top, there was a smaller velvet, maroon ring box inside. I lifted it out and took a deep breath. When I raised the top, a sparkle caught my eye. I gasped. The hugest diamond that I had ever seen (in real life) stared back at me. The ring boasted a 2-carat princess cut diamond with complimenting diamonds embedded in the band. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
This is for me????
Then Parke took the box from me and removed the ring from the box. He got down on one knee.
“I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I was in High School. I saw myself proposing to my wife, I just couldn’t see your face. Then when you stood up in lab that first day I was in awe of you. As I got to know you, I realized that you were more than just a beautiful face, you are beautiful person. I know that you were the one I was missing. With you, I feel complete. We’re one.”
He continued, “I love you. Will you marry me?”
And as I looked at Parke I again thought, This is for me????
I joined him kneeling on the floor and looked deep in his eyes.
Just then, Parke’s and my history flashed before my eyes. I thought about all of the times I’d opened my email hoping for a message from him, reading his favorite books just to be close to him, licking my lips after our date just to taste the remnant of our kiss and smelling my shirt, desperate to get another whiff of him, laughing at his jokes and pondering his philosophies. I thought of the mornings where I’d hear his boots land on my balcony and my heart would leap, and hearing his deep, sexy, voice on the other end of the phone. I remembered being states away from him and the pain and longing I felt to be in his arms again. And then when I was in his arms again, I was home. Yes, this was right. This was so, so right. We were one. I couldn’t go a day without seeing him, let alone an eternity….
“I love you too! Of course I’ll marry you.”
Then he brought me into a crushing embrace. Our eyes couldn’t contain the tears. There was no shame. We wept in each other’s arms. We had found each other, just as we had promised.
Laughing and wiping away the tears, he said “Now let’s put this ring on you!”
The ring easily slipped on my finger and we hugged again. While his arms were around me I could help but gawk at the ring from behind his back. I stretched my hand out and marveled at the sheer size and beauty of it.
“It’s perfect! How did you know?” I gushed.
“Well, remember when I asked you what kind of ring you’d like?” he reminded.
Sheepishly, I remembered. “I said ‘I don’t care, just make it BIG’”.
“Is it BIG enough?” he asked, and we both laughed.
“But how did you afford it?” I asked.
Parke explained “When I went on my mission I invested $5,000 in the stock market. When I came back my investment had quadrupled. I saved this money for your ring, for our honeymoon and for starting our life together.”
We went to the dance and had a great time. The ring felt wonderfully heavy on my finger. Every so often I’d glance down and be delightfully surprised when I’d find that platinum sparkler on my ring finger. It’s like wearing a training bra for the first time; you keep peeking down your shirt to see if the bra is still there and feel a thrill that you are finally a woman.
I was a woman; Parke’s woman! I knew that Parke was mine months ago, but to wear his ring was to say that I was taken. I was off the shelf, bought and paid for. My practice kissing days were over…I found the one to kiss forever.
Chapter 17 XXX
I was cleaning out Parke’s car one day when I noticed a book wedged under the back seat with a picture being used as a bookmark. I pulled it out to look at it. It was a picture of two people holding each other, obviously in love. I recognized one: Parke. And I was not the other woman. A jealous monster invaded my body.
Who was the woman? Why is Parke looking at her like that? And holy cow, can those babies be real?
I wanted to rewind, put the picture back in its book and out of my mind. Then she’d go away and fade back into The Land of People who Don’t Exist, where she’d lived before I saw the picture.
But I looked again. I admitted, she was pretty. Gorgeous actually. She had blond hair. Of course, she just had to have blond hair. She had nice teeth. Suddenly my teeth seemed yellow. The picture was taken at arm’s length forcing their bodies to press up against each other. Stop touching my man! I can see why jealousy is a sin because all of a sudden I was filled with rabid anger and envy. I was a mother bear protecting her cub. I looked down at my ring. Good, I wasn’t imagining things--Parke is mine, he chose me.
I stuck the picture in my pocket and decided to question Parke about it instead of torturing myself.
Later, I met him for lunch and after a quick kiss I got down to business. I pulled the picture out of my pocket.
“Who’s this?”
I was expecting him to shy away, look embarrassed, act discombobulated. But he took a bite of his sandwich and shrugged, answering as if I had asked him how the weather was.
“That’s Lexi. We dated before my mission.”
Lexi might as well been spelled LeXXXi because all I could think about was her ginormous breasts brushing up against Parke’s arm in the picture. He was probably heartbroken that they broke up. I studied his reaction. He didn’t seem heartbroken; he was engrossed in his sandwich.
“So how was class today, baby?” he asked, oblivious. Guys are so oblivious.
“HELLO?!? How come you’ve never mentioned Pamela Anderson? I need DE-TAILS.” (I was a little upset and the Valley Girl tends to come out when I get upset.)
He looked up, surprised that I was upset. Then he laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve really never mentioned Lexi?”
I just stared back with arms folded, lips pressed.
He laughed again. “OK, let’s see. We dated in the dorms. She was in my Chem class. See wrote to me on my mission.”
“I said DE-TAILS, not man facts.” I demanded.
He put down his sandwich. He was serious now and sincerely wanted to please me. “What do you want to know?”
“How long did you date? How serious were you? Did she wait for you? Where is she now? Do you ever talk to her?” And then there were the questions I wanted to ask, but didn’t: Am I a better kisser? How far did you go? Are the jugs real?
He looked up as if he were reaching into the dusty corners of his cerebrum. “We dated for 6 months before I went on my mission. I guess we were pretty serious because we wrote back and forth every month of my mission and talked about possibly getting married. Then when I came home I drove out to BYU see her. But things were different. We were both changed people. She started dating another guy and the rest is history.”
Each word made me cringe. But I was relieved to note that Parke was cool and detached while relaying the story. He didn’t seem affected by it in any way. Parke knew every morsel about my past relationships. But he never pressed me for details. If anything, the only detail that he wanted to know was what kind of Harley Gavin owned. He was so full of faith in our relationship. He trusted me. Parke was wildly protective of me, but not jealous (probably because he knew that I would NEVER leave him).
I just had to ask one more question to put my mind at ease. “Do you ever see or talk to her?” I winced.
“No”.
A better answer would have been: “Oh, yeah, I saw her the other day. She is very happily married. But she had gained, like, 100 pounds. Must’ve been from the having three kids in 3 years. Oh, and her boobs had shrunken down to size A’s; she was actually wearing a water bra that whole time.”
But I settled for “No”.
He could tell that I was distressed and said “Come here”. Oh, I just love when he says “Come here”.
I sat on his lap and he gave me a dizzying kiss that told me that I was the one, the only, woman in his life, then and always. I hoped that LeXXXi would find happiness someday (and a good physician who specializes in upper back pain) but, as far we were concerned, Lexi was lowered into the ground as we threw flowers on her casket.
Who was the woman? Why is Parke looking at her like that? And holy cow, can those babies be real?
I wanted to rewind, put the picture back in its book and out of my mind. Then she’d go away and fade back into The Land of People who Don’t Exist, where she’d lived before I saw the picture.
But I looked again. I admitted, she was pretty. Gorgeous actually. She had blond hair. Of course, she just had to have blond hair. She had nice teeth. Suddenly my teeth seemed yellow. The picture was taken at arm’s length forcing their bodies to press up against each other. Stop touching my man! I can see why jealousy is a sin because all of a sudden I was filled with rabid anger and envy. I was a mother bear protecting her cub. I looked down at my ring. Good, I wasn’t imagining things--Parke is mine, he chose me.
I stuck the picture in my pocket and decided to question Parke about it instead of torturing myself.
Later, I met him for lunch and after a quick kiss I got down to business. I pulled the picture out of my pocket.
“Who’s this?”
I was expecting him to shy away, look embarrassed, act discombobulated. But he took a bite of his sandwich and shrugged, answering as if I had asked him how the weather was.
“That’s Lexi. We dated before my mission.”
Lexi might as well been spelled LeXXXi because all I could think about was her ginormous breasts brushing up against Parke’s arm in the picture. He was probably heartbroken that they broke up. I studied his reaction. He didn’t seem heartbroken; he was engrossed in his sandwich.
“So how was class today, baby?” he asked, oblivious. Guys are so oblivious.
“HELLO?!? How come you’ve never mentioned Pamela Anderson? I need DE-TAILS.” (I was a little upset and the Valley Girl tends to come out when I get upset.)
He looked up, surprised that I was upset. Then he laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve really never mentioned Lexi?”
I just stared back with arms folded, lips pressed.
He laughed again. “OK, let’s see. We dated in the dorms. She was in my Chem class. See wrote to me on my mission.”
“I said DE-TAILS, not man facts.” I demanded.
He put down his sandwich. He was serious now and sincerely wanted to please me. “What do you want to know?”
“How long did you date? How serious were you? Did she wait for you? Where is she now? Do you ever talk to her?” And then there were the questions I wanted to ask, but didn’t: Am I a better kisser? How far did you go? Are the jugs real?
He looked up as if he were reaching into the dusty corners of his cerebrum. “We dated for 6 months before I went on my mission. I guess we were pretty serious because we wrote back and forth every month of my mission and talked about possibly getting married. Then when I came home I drove out to BYU see her. But things were different. We were both changed people. She started dating another guy and the rest is history.”
Each word made me cringe. But I was relieved to note that Parke was cool and detached while relaying the story. He didn’t seem affected by it in any way. Parke knew every morsel about my past relationships. But he never pressed me for details. If anything, the only detail that he wanted to know was what kind of Harley Gavin owned. He was so full of faith in our relationship. He trusted me. Parke was wildly protective of me, but not jealous (probably because he knew that I would NEVER leave him).
I just had to ask one more question to put my mind at ease. “Do you ever see or talk to her?” I winced.
“No”.
A better answer would have been: “Oh, yeah, I saw her the other day. She is very happily married. But she had gained, like, 100 pounds. Must’ve been from the having three kids in 3 years. Oh, and her boobs had shrunken down to size A’s; she was actually wearing a water bra that whole time.”
But I settled for “No”.
He could tell that I was distressed and said “Come here”. Oh, I just love when he says “Come here”.
I sat on his lap and he gave me a dizzying kiss that told me that I was the one, the only, woman in his life, then and always. I hoped that LeXXXi would find happiness someday (and a good physician who specializes in upper back pain) but, as far we were concerned, Lexi was lowered into the ground as we threw flowers on her casket.
Chapter 18 Announcing
“Ashley,
In this book by Sheldon Van Auken, he speaks of a network of strings, or instances of love that held him and his true love together. That’s like our connection: a thousand memories, letters, words, thoughts, feelings, yearnings that bind us together and makes what we have strong. We are weaving an incredible bond that holds us together. Who taught us to do this? Create what we have? I know it comes from the heart. What better tutor could we have?
Love, Parke”
Loving Parke was easy and carefree. My previous relationships induced something frustrating or left wanting. By my early twenties, I’d checked practically every flavor of cute boy off of my dating list. There was Dave, the cute shy guy that I was constantly pushing to make the moves. Graham, the cute comedian who’s kisses left me lukewarm. Jimmy was the cute guy-next-door, who would never progress from working the checkout at the local grocery store. Nash was the cute athletic guy who excelled at every sport he touched, but had a wandering eye. Chris, the cute flirt, just didn’t have a strong enough testimony. Then there was Rob, the cute nerdy guy, who would make me millions of dollars, but would never, ever take me to a Metallica concert. Gavin was the cute rebel guy but he would surely lead me to an early death. Bryan was the heavy metal-butt rockin’-mullet wearin’ cutie, but he was a heavy metal-butt rockin’-mullet wearer (And it wasn’t in the 1980’s). Enough said.
Loving Parke freed me from the silent criticism that accompanied my past relationships. He freed me from thinking that love had to be something to labor over or agonize about. Love came natural for us. Love is able to flow and grow when there aren’t rocks of disapproval in the way. Parke had all of the great qualities in previous boyfriends minus the bad habits and irritating characteristics. He was funny, but not clamorous. He was sporty, but wasn’t consumed with watching sports on TV all day and knowing every statistic. He was ambitious and hard-working, but knew how to have fun; he would definitely take me to Metallica. He was spontaneous, but careful and protective. He had longer hair, but it was definitely not a mullet.
Now that we were engaged I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Parke was my man!
We called my parents first. They were ecstatic and gushed their approval. Their only daughter was the ripe old age of 22 and they wanted grandchildren doggonitt! However, in Parke’s family another response unfolded. Although they liked me a lot and approved of our match, they felt Parke was too young to get married. The Fischer children were indoctrinated to follow the structured timeline: At 14: you get your Eagle Scout. A 16: you drive. At 18: you go to BYU. At 19: you go on a mission. At 25: you get married. After 3 years of marriage: you have 2.3 kids. All of the Fischer children were good obedient children, each of them following the timeline with exactness and honor. Until Parke. At age 22, Parke announced that he was getting married. There was quiet resistance and pressure put on Parke to wait. It was unthinkable that Parke could get married before age 25, and before his older brother. Parke hid the backlash from me.
We enthusiastically shared the news with our friends and school mates. However, there was one friend that I hadn’t told and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
It had been six months since I said goodbye to Chris. Since he was living in Arizona he didn’t know that I was dating, let alone engaged to the love of my life. Chris still thought that he was the love of my life. His emails became more frequent and probing since there was no response from me. I knew it was time to tell him about Parke. I owed him that.
Parke knew that I was going to break the news to Chris and he concerned about me. He asked if I’d like him to be there when I called him. “No”, I admitted, “but can you be on-call?”
Did I really want to open up Pandora’s box? I had loved Chris deeply and it had only been six months our relationship ended. The wounds were only recently patched. However, I knew I couldn’t keep ignoring his calls.
Luckily, Chris answered the on my first try.
“Hey Darlin’!” Oh, why did he have to call me that?
He knew something was afoot since I hadn’t answered his emails for phone messages for a couple of months. “I’ve been worried about you, girl. I was about to hop in my car and search for you”.
“Don’t do that!” I blurted out. I cursed my mouth for blurting without permission.
He continued teasing “What’s going on? You’re either completely absorbed in school or a boy. Which is it now?”
He knew me so well.
“A boy….” I whispered.
There was a long pause. Too long. In fact, it me that spoke again. “Chris, are you OK? Did you hear me? I’m so sorry”
When he finally spoke I could tell that he was covering his emotions by sounding interested and concerned. “Well, tell me all about him”.
And I did. Chris was still one of my best friends and it felt good to share my happiness with him. I carefully told him about how we met, what Parke was like and some things we had done. I could tell that each word was a dagger to Chris by the inflections in his voice. When he finally said more than two words, it came out in an impassioned tirade.
“Why have you given up on us? I’ve never given up. I still have our picture in my wallet. This isn’t right. You’re making a mistake, Ashley. You’ll come back. You always do.”
He was stung and I was raw. After honestly answering that, yes, I was in love and yes, I was happy, and no, I wasn’t coming back this time, I was emotionally spent. I couldn’t take any more. I left out one very important detail: the engagement. I decided that just telling him that I was in love with another man was sufficient misery for this phone call. I would let the wedding announcement deliver the crushing blow. I couldn’t; it was too painful.
After the phone call, Parke was there to hold me. I cried. I cried because I mourned Chris like losing a loved one to death. But it was strange because Chris was still there, living, on this earth. We’d been together for years, and we’d simply run our course. We’d run out of gas. Parke held me without jealousy interfering. He was assured of my commitment with him. And likewise, never once during the conversation did I doubt my decision of choosing Parke over Chris. It just hurt to be the deliverer of heartbreak.
A week went by and although I felt a pit in my stomach when I thought of the phone call with Chris, Parke filled every minute with joy. And there was more than enough joy to sweep out the sorrow.
One day I came home from clinical at the hospital and jumped into the shower. It was Friday night, Parke and I were going out that night and I wanted to look gorgeous for him. I had just put the finishing touches on my make-up when the doorbell rang. Hmmm. Parke’s early. I thought he had class until 6pm.
When I opened the door, I gasped softly. A different face smiled back at me.
“Hey darlin’.”
In this book by Sheldon Van Auken, he speaks of a network of strings, or instances of love that held him and his true love together. That’s like our connection: a thousand memories, letters, words, thoughts, feelings, yearnings that bind us together and makes what we have strong. We are weaving an incredible bond that holds us together. Who taught us to do this? Create what we have? I know it comes from the heart. What better tutor could we have?
Love, Parke”
Loving Parke was easy and carefree. My previous relationships induced something frustrating or left wanting. By my early twenties, I’d checked practically every flavor of cute boy off of my dating list. There was Dave, the cute shy guy that I was constantly pushing to make the moves. Graham, the cute comedian who’s kisses left me lukewarm. Jimmy was the cute guy-next-door, who would never progress from working the checkout at the local grocery store. Nash was the cute athletic guy who excelled at every sport he touched, but had a wandering eye. Chris, the cute flirt, just didn’t have a strong enough testimony. Then there was Rob, the cute nerdy guy, who would make me millions of dollars, but would never, ever take me to a Metallica concert. Gavin was the cute rebel guy but he would surely lead me to an early death. Bryan was the heavy metal-butt rockin’-mullet wearin’ cutie, but he was a heavy metal-butt rockin’-mullet wearer (And it wasn’t in the 1980’s). Enough said.
Loving Parke freed me from the silent criticism that accompanied my past relationships. He freed me from thinking that love had to be something to labor over or agonize about. Love came natural for us. Love is able to flow and grow when there aren’t rocks of disapproval in the way. Parke had all of the great qualities in previous boyfriends minus the bad habits and irritating characteristics. He was funny, but not clamorous. He was sporty, but wasn’t consumed with watching sports on TV all day and knowing every statistic. He was ambitious and hard-working, but knew how to have fun; he would definitely take me to Metallica. He was spontaneous, but careful and protective. He had longer hair, but it was definitely not a mullet.
Now that we were engaged I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Parke was my man!
We called my parents first. They were ecstatic and gushed their approval. Their only daughter was the ripe old age of 22 and they wanted grandchildren doggonitt! However, in Parke’s family another response unfolded. Although they liked me a lot and approved of our match, they felt Parke was too young to get married. The Fischer children were indoctrinated to follow the structured timeline: At 14: you get your Eagle Scout. A 16: you drive. At 18: you go to BYU. At 19: you go on a mission. At 25: you get married. After 3 years of marriage: you have 2.3 kids. All of the Fischer children were good obedient children, each of them following the timeline with exactness and honor. Until Parke. At age 22, Parke announced that he was getting married. There was quiet resistance and pressure put on Parke to wait. It was unthinkable that Parke could get married before age 25, and before his older brother. Parke hid the backlash from me.
We enthusiastically shared the news with our friends and school mates. However, there was one friend that I hadn’t told and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
It had been six months since I said goodbye to Chris. Since he was living in Arizona he didn’t know that I was dating, let alone engaged to the love of my life. Chris still thought that he was the love of my life. His emails became more frequent and probing since there was no response from me. I knew it was time to tell him about Parke. I owed him that.
Parke knew that I was going to break the news to Chris and he concerned about me. He asked if I’d like him to be there when I called him. “No”, I admitted, “but can you be on-call?”
Did I really want to open up Pandora’s box? I had loved Chris deeply and it had only been six months our relationship ended. The wounds were only recently patched. However, I knew I couldn’t keep ignoring his calls.
Luckily, Chris answered the on my first try.
“Hey Darlin’!” Oh, why did he have to call me that?
He knew something was afoot since I hadn’t answered his emails for phone messages for a couple of months. “I’ve been worried about you, girl. I was about to hop in my car and search for you”.
“Don’t do that!” I blurted out. I cursed my mouth for blurting without permission.
He continued teasing “What’s going on? You’re either completely absorbed in school or a boy. Which is it now?”
He knew me so well.
“A boy….” I whispered.
There was a long pause. Too long. In fact, it me that spoke again. “Chris, are you OK? Did you hear me? I’m so sorry”
When he finally spoke I could tell that he was covering his emotions by sounding interested and concerned. “Well, tell me all about him”.
And I did. Chris was still one of my best friends and it felt good to share my happiness with him. I carefully told him about how we met, what Parke was like and some things we had done. I could tell that each word was a dagger to Chris by the inflections in his voice. When he finally said more than two words, it came out in an impassioned tirade.
“Why have you given up on us? I’ve never given up. I still have our picture in my wallet. This isn’t right. You’re making a mistake, Ashley. You’ll come back. You always do.”
He was stung and I was raw. After honestly answering that, yes, I was in love and yes, I was happy, and no, I wasn’t coming back this time, I was emotionally spent. I couldn’t take any more. I left out one very important detail: the engagement. I decided that just telling him that I was in love with another man was sufficient misery for this phone call. I would let the wedding announcement deliver the crushing blow. I couldn’t; it was too painful.
After the phone call, Parke was there to hold me. I cried. I cried because I mourned Chris like losing a loved one to death. But it was strange because Chris was still there, living, on this earth. We’d been together for years, and we’d simply run our course. We’d run out of gas. Parke held me without jealousy interfering. He was assured of my commitment with him. And likewise, never once during the conversation did I doubt my decision of choosing Parke over Chris. It just hurt to be the deliverer of heartbreak.
A week went by and although I felt a pit in my stomach when I thought of the phone call with Chris, Parke filled every minute with joy. And there was more than enough joy to sweep out the sorrow.
One day I came home from clinical at the hospital and jumped into the shower. It was Friday night, Parke and I were going out that night and I wanted to look gorgeous for him. I had just put the finishing touches on my make-up when the doorbell rang. Hmmm. Parke’s early. I thought he had class until 6pm.
When I opened the door, I gasped softly. A different face smiled back at me.
“Hey darlin’.”
Chapter 19 Last Plea
The meager Band-Aid patching the fresh hole in my heart created after the phone call finally came loose as my sympathetic response kicked in. My heart instantly beat faster and stronger which assisted the blood from gushing out of the wound. I started to feel lightheaded. I've never been the fainting type but am I...going.....to........ faint? I’m not sure if Chris caught me in his arms or if I voluntarily crossed the distance between him and me. But, I found myself in another man’s arms. It’s strange that Chris’ arms would be “another man’s” arms. Six months ago, he was the only man’s arms. He felt familiar and warm, but foreign at the same time. Then my brain received the blood it so desperately needed and snapped me out of my trance.
Stepping away, I asked “What are you doing here?” I was still trying to wrap my brain around that fact that he had just driven nine hours to see me.
He smiled that crooked smile and said “I’m here to remind you why we’re supposed to be together” as he bent down to claim a kiss. I pushed away. “Uh, there’s something I need to tell you…”
“Ashley, you talk too much. Why don’t you be quiet for a minute so I can say what I’ve driven all day to tell you.” I would have interrupted but frankly, I was interested to find out just what that was.
He pulled me down the stairs and down the forested path near my apartment building. He spoke about memories we shared and I listened. I didn’t interrupt.
“Ashley, I have been lost without you these past six months. I keep thinking you’ll come back, show up at my door, call me and tell me that you’ve been wrong, but you haven’t. I’m guessing this has to do with your new guy, but Ashley, it’s just a façade, a rebound. You know nothing can come close to what we have. “
He stopped and turned to look at me. I had tears in my eyes. I felt so many emotions. I was sad and reminiscent for the hundreds of happy times that I spent with this wonderful man. I felt sorry for him because he didn’t know what I knew--that I was madly in love and engaged to the man of my dreams. And I was a little peeved because I wasn’t sure of his motivation. Would he have come in the absence of a competitor? Or is this the brute state of a hunter fighting to hold onto what he thinks is his? My mind flashed to two male lions snarling at each over desperate to claim their prize of a wounded antelope. This was his last desperate attempt to hold on to the fraying string securing our relationship. He must have taken my tears as a good sign, instead of the sympathy that I was actually feeling. He continued.
“I know we’ve been fighting obstacles to get married these past two years. But I’m ready to do this the right way, in the temple like you wanted” Like I wanted? What about him? He pulled something out of his pocket and held a ring between his thumb and index finger. It was the ring that we had previously decided upon; a lovely round cut diamond in a tension setting.
“Marry me?”
It was the moment I had been waiting for and dreaming about…six months ago. Here was the man that I had dreamt about marrying hundreds of times. I had perfected writing my first name with his last name and thought about what our kids would look like. It was tragic to let that dream die, but I already had. I turned my head, squeezed my eyes together and put my right hand to my mouth. I thought I might faint again. He smiled and reached for my left hand. When he caught my hand he stopped dead. He noticed that my ring finger was already occupied. His eyes widened and he dropped my hand as if it were a baby pit viper ready to strike. His eyes flashed with anger and disbelief.
“What’s this?!” he demanded.
All of a sudden he was cold, detached, betrayed, clearly in shock. I reached out to touch his arm but he shrugged me off. He walked away from me and ran his fingers through his hair.
“You’ve known this Rebound for a couple of months and you’re ready to run off with him? I’ve been trying to get you to marrying me for 2 years!” Then he went off on a soliloquy about how I could possibly betray us like that, talking about me as if I wasn’t present. After a minute he quieted down looked at me again. “I want to make this work, don’t you?”
My heart plummeted. I hated hurting him like this. “That’s the problem, Chris. With our relationship, we were constantly working.” There were so many obstacles that I was worn out before the race even started. I sensitively continued “A relationship shouldn’t be so bipolar, so difficult. I set myself on fire for you for 2 years.” It was a cycle of warmth, passion, light and burns. “I loved you, and love you still, but we just aren’t supposed to be together. I told you that. At the time, I didn’t clearly understand why God told me not to marry you. I suffered; trust me. But I understand now, after meeting Parke.” I winced using Parke’s name. He was the one and only man for me but I knew using his name would further drive the dagger deeper.
He looked at the ring, rolled his eyes, wiped away a frustrated tear.
“I didn’t know you were so serious about this guy. You should have told me.”
“I know. I should have told you I was engaged. I’m so sorry.” This was a living nightmare.
After a candid conversation about Parke’s and my plans we walked back slowly to his car. He had another nine hour trip to drive that he wasn’t expecting to take so soon after his arrival.
The last thing he said to me before shutting the car door and driving out my life for good was “Be happy Ashley. That’s all I want for you.”
Doh! I would have rather him said something hateful or childish because those selfless words cut me to the bone. It further intensified the fact that he was the martyr and me, the persecutor. I knew I would be happy, just not at that moment. As he drove away, I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him or talk to him; and it was. The hard outer shell cracked away and I broke down. With shoulders slumped and shaking, I slunk back to my apartment. When the doorbell rang again, it was Parke. He took me into his strong arms when he saw the mascara painted down my cheeks.
Stepping away, I asked “What are you doing here?” I was still trying to wrap my brain around that fact that he had just driven nine hours to see me.
He smiled that crooked smile and said “I’m here to remind you why we’re supposed to be together” as he bent down to claim a kiss. I pushed away. “Uh, there’s something I need to tell you…”
“Ashley, you talk too much. Why don’t you be quiet for a minute so I can say what I’ve driven all day to tell you.” I would have interrupted but frankly, I was interested to find out just what that was.
He pulled me down the stairs and down the forested path near my apartment building. He spoke about memories we shared and I listened. I didn’t interrupt.
“Ashley, I have been lost without you these past six months. I keep thinking you’ll come back, show up at my door, call me and tell me that you’ve been wrong, but you haven’t. I’m guessing this has to do with your new guy, but Ashley, it’s just a façade, a rebound. You know nothing can come close to what we have. “
He stopped and turned to look at me. I had tears in my eyes. I felt so many emotions. I was sad and reminiscent for the hundreds of happy times that I spent with this wonderful man. I felt sorry for him because he didn’t know what I knew--that I was madly in love and engaged to the man of my dreams. And I was a little peeved because I wasn’t sure of his motivation. Would he have come in the absence of a competitor? Or is this the brute state of a hunter fighting to hold onto what he thinks is his? My mind flashed to two male lions snarling at each over desperate to claim their prize of a wounded antelope. This was his last desperate attempt to hold on to the fraying string securing our relationship. He must have taken my tears as a good sign, instead of the sympathy that I was actually feeling. He continued.
“I know we’ve been fighting obstacles to get married these past two years. But I’m ready to do this the right way, in the temple like you wanted” Like I wanted? What about him? He pulled something out of his pocket and held a ring between his thumb and index finger. It was the ring that we had previously decided upon; a lovely round cut diamond in a tension setting.
“Marry me?”
It was the moment I had been waiting for and dreaming about…six months ago. Here was the man that I had dreamt about marrying hundreds of times. I had perfected writing my first name with his last name and thought about what our kids would look like. It was tragic to let that dream die, but I already had. I turned my head, squeezed my eyes together and put my right hand to my mouth. I thought I might faint again. He smiled and reached for my left hand. When he caught my hand he stopped dead. He noticed that my ring finger was already occupied. His eyes widened and he dropped my hand as if it were a baby pit viper ready to strike. His eyes flashed with anger and disbelief.
“What’s this?!” he demanded.
All of a sudden he was cold, detached, betrayed, clearly in shock. I reached out to touch his arm but he shrugged me off. He walked away from me and ran his fingers through his hair.
“You’ve known this Rebound for a couple of months and you’re ready to run off with him? I’ve been trying to get you to marrying me for 2 years!” Then he went off on a soliloquy about how I could possibly betray us like that, talking about me as if I wasn’t present. After a minute he quieted down looked at me again. “I want to make this work, don’t you?”
My heart plummeted. I hated hurting him like this. “That’s the problem, Chris. With our relationship, we were constantly working.” There were so many obstacles that I was worn out before the race even started. I sensitively continued “A relationship shouldn’t be so bipolar, so difficult. I set myself on fire for you for 2 years.” It was a cycle of warmth, passion, light and burns. “I loved you, and love you still, but we just aren’t supposed to be together. I told you that. At the time, I didn’t clearly understand why God told me not to marry you. I suffered; trust me. But I understand now, after meeting Parke.” I winced using Parke’s name. He was the one and only man for me but I knew using his name would further drive the dagger deeper.
He looked at the ring, rolled his eyes, wiped away a frustrated tear.
“I didn’t know you were so serious about this guy. You should have told me.”
“I know. I should have told you I was engaged. I’m so sorry.” This was a living nightmare.
After a candid conversation about Parke’s and my plans we walked back slowly to his car. He had another nine hour trip to drive that he wasn’t expecting to take so soon after his arrival.
The last thing he said to me before shutting the car door and driving out my life for good was “Be happy Ashley. That’s all I want for you.”
Doh! I would have rather him said something hateful or childish because those selfless words cut me to the bone. It further intensified the fact that he was the martyr and me, the persecutor. I knew I would be happy, just not at that moment. As he drove away, I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him or talk to him; and it was. The hard outer shell cracked away and I broke down. With shoulders slumped and shaking, I slunk back to my apartment. When the doorbell rang again, it was Parke. He took me into his strong arms when he saw the mascara painted down my cheeks.
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