Summer 1965: Two Kappa sisters and I were living in Mrs. Maggart's basement. Mrs. Maggart (soon to be Mother-in-Law of roommate Ann,) lived upstairs in the tiny house. The basement itself had been thrown together, and was dark, dingy and grim. The kitchen, perhaps the most attractive room in the apartment was, unfortunately, an inch and a half below Manhattan's water table. But, it was close to campus--an easy walk in that long-ago time when students didn't own cars.
I was taking "Appreciation of Architecture," "Modern Methods of Teaching Math," and some other class that has completely slipped my mind. I only remember that my newly found study habits, and access to the Kappa "Files" (my first time ever--I promise) yielded nine hours of "A" to prop up my wobbly transcript. But, even more important, I had reached the 126 hours I needed to graduate with a Bachelor of Science degree in Elementary Education. I was Free at Last! I fulfilled Daddy's requirement that I could marry TJG when I had my college degree; and, as of this early August Friday morning, I had it.
But, I wasn't feeling the joy. The accomplishment, yes, but not the joy. I wasn't sure I still wanted the one thing I had worked so hard to achieve. I'd traveled the good girl route: I would be a teacher. I had pledged Kappa. I attended Kansas State. I would be married to a good Catholic boy. I had my degree. But, those efforts and results were far outweighed by the doubts I'd been nursing most of that year.
The logical question might be: "Did you ever talk to your friends about your feelings?" But the answer, as illogical as it sounds, was "No. No, I didn't." I thought about talking to my spring semester roommate, but the whole situation felt so cemented into place...so written in stone that I choked back my opening sentence day after day. I think much of my fear, or concern, or hesitation was hinged on the notion that it would be overwhelmingly embarrassing to admit I'd made a mistake, to back out now.
There were, perhaps, ten or more Kappas getting married that summer. Everyone was giddy and excited and planning, but I didn't feel a part of it. I wanted to feel a part of it, but I didn't. Especially when I was alone in our dorm-style room...I just had a terrible weight in my stomach and felt as helpless as the little raccoon caught in one of those horrible traps that allows no escape. Without chewing off your paw, anyway. I didn't have the nerve to do that. Nor, did I have the nerve to embarrass Mother or Daddy, and waste the money they'd already invested in this affair. This wasn't a case of the nerves. This was months of deep down knowledge that I had chosen the wrong path. And, total fear of what might come next...marriage or a broken engagement. I was twenty-years old.
Years later, my roommate of that semester, Nancy Stone, happened to be in Dodge City and dropped by for a short visit. Darrell and I were together and living on Hart Avenue. Nancy and I had married about the same time and, coincidentally, divorced about the same time. It was that afternoon that I learned she had also been questioning her decision to marry...right along side of me in that tiny room in the Kappa house. She never said a word, as I had never said a word. Not one word. What a shame.
I held to the belief that the worst option would be calling off my wedding. I think it would have put my Mother in her grave, although my Dad might secretly have been pleased. I was stuck just as Nancy was stuck. We both went through with it, but I remember the morning of the ceremony when I stalled and stalled and stalled. One of Grandma's red butterfly chairs had made its way upstairs, and that's where I sat, lighting cigarette after cigarette. I'm sure I smelled like a neglected ashtray by the time we got to church.
The point of all this? I'm not sure I know. It's simply part of my story. A beginning and an ending. An embarrassment. A failure. A triumph. A sorrow. A questioning. All of which, I did not want to include in this little book, but it kept tapping me on the shoulder. It's a huge part of who and what I was, and who and what I am. Lots of people got married in 1965. They just didn't get divorced in 1969. I dragged that tombstone everywhere...Born in 1965-Died in 1969. Failed Marriage. And because I filed the papers, I was the one who failed. Failed to keep my commitment (for better or for worse), failed to keep my vows (in sickness and in health), failed to consider my Mother's sensibilities.
But: Succeeded in saving my child. Succeeded in saving myself. Succeeded in standing firm with those who tried to persuade me to return to him. Who considered it my obligation to save him. Succeeded in saying "No" to his mother. Succeeded in saying "No" to Father Lavrih--a kind and gentle man who had been in the Yugoslavian underground in the fight to topple Tito and then, somehow, escaped to the U.S. and ended up in Jetmore. He had married us, but I told him "No" kindly and he didn't argue. He came back from time to time but more, I think, to check on me than to carry messages from Agnes, my former mother-in-law. I know I had not possessed that strength before, and I'm not sure I've had it since. But, I had it then. Neither my daughter nor I would live in his world. We would create our own.
Which, as we all know, would eventually include a man who walked through fire for his two young daughters in order to save them, and together, to create their world.
PS: Last January, I thought there would be lots of Darrell in my stories but, as you see, he's missing. Surprisingly, trying to write about him has been much too hard this year...too many tears in the process. But, I believe it's a good process, so I'll explore it in more detail next year. In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed these little essays. And remember...I'm just getting my footing. Writing is "Progress, Not Perfection!" And, coincidentally, Your Mom is also "Progress, Not Perfection!" So, Merry Christmas to each of you. I love you all and...Stay Tuned.
December 25, 2016
I was taking "Appreciation of Architecture," "Modern Methods of Teaching Math," and some other class that has completely slipped my mind. I only remember that my newly found study habits, and access to the Kappa "Files" (my first time ever--I promise) yielded nine hours of "A" to prop up my wobbly transcript. But, even more important, I had reached the 126 hours I needed to graduate with a Bachelor of Science degree in Elementary Education. I was Free at Last! I fulfilled Daddy's requirement that I could marry TJG when I had my college degree; and, as of this early August Friday morning, I had it.
But, I wasn't feeling the joy. The accomplishment, yes, but not the joy. I wasn't sure I still wanted the one thing I had worked so hard to achieve. I'd traveled the good girl route: I would be a teacher. I had pledged Kappa. I attended Kansas State. I would be married to a good Catholic boy. I had my degree. But, those efforts and results were far outweighed by the doubts I'd been nursing most of that year.
The logical question might be: "Did you ever talk to your friends about your feelings?" But the answer, as illogical as it sounds, was "No. No, I didn't." I thought about talking to my spring semester roommate, but the whole situation felt so cemented into place...so written in stone that I choked back my opening sentence day after day. I think much of my fear, or concern, or hesitation was hinged on the notion that it would be overwhelmingly embarrassing to admit I'd made a mistake, to back out now.
There were, perhaps, ten or more Kappas getting married that summer. Everyone was giddy and excited and planning, but I didn't feel a part of it. I wanted to feel a part of it, but I didn't. Especially when I was alone in our dorm-style room...I just had a terrible weight in my stomach and felt as helpless as the little raccoon caught in one of those horrible traps that allows no escape. Without chewing off your paw, anyway. I didn't have the nerve to do that. Nor, did I have the nerve to embarrass Mother or Daddy, and waste the money they'd already invested in this affair. This wasn't a case of the nerves. This was months of deep down knowledge that I had chosen the wrong path. And, total fear of what might come next...marriage or a broken engagement. I was twenty-years old.
Years later, my roommate of that semester, Nancy Stone, happened to be in Dodge City and dropped by for a short visit. Darrell and I were together and living on Hart Avenue. Nancy and I had married about the same time and, coincidentally, divorced about the same time. It was that afternoon that I learned she had also been questioning her decision to marry...right along side of me in that tiny room in the Kappa house. She never said a word, as I had never said a word. Not one word. What a shame.
I held to the belief that the worst option would be calling off my wedding. I think it would have put my Mother in her grave, although my Dad might secretly have been pleased. I was stuck just as Nancy was stuck. We both went through with it, but I remember the morning of the ceremony when I stalled and stalled and stalled. One of Grandma's red butterfly chairs had made its way upstairs, and that's where I sat, lighting cigarette after cigarette. I'm sure I smelled like a neglected ashtray by the time we got to church.
The point of all this? I'm not sure I know. It's simply part of my story. A beginning and an ending. An embarrassment. A failure. A triumph. A sorrow. A questioning. All of which, I did not want to include in this little book, but it kept tapping me on the shoulder. It's a huge part of who and what I was, and who and what I am. Lots of people got married in 1965. They just didn't get divorced in 1969. I dragged that tombstone everywhere...Born in 1965-Died in 1969. Failed Marriage. And because I filed the papers, I was the one who failed. Failed to keep my commitment (for better or for worse), failed to keep my vows (in sickness and in health), failed to consider my Mother's sensibilities.
But: Succeeded in saving my child. Succeeded in saving myself. Succeeded in standing firm with those who tried to persuade me to return to him. Who considered it my obligation to save him. Succeeded in saying "No" to his mother. Succeeded in saying "No" to Father Lavrih--a kind and gentle man who had been in the Yugoslavian underground in the fight to topple Tito and then, somehow, escaped to the U.S. and ended up in Jetmore. He had married us, but I told him "No" kindly and he didn't argue. He came back from time to time but more, I think, to check on me than to carry messages from Agnes, my former mother-in-law. I know I had not possessed that strength before, and I'm not sure I've had it since. But, I had it then. Neither my daughter nor I would live in his world. We would create our own.
Which, as we all know, would eventually include a man who walked through fire for his two young daughters in order to save them, and together, to create their world.
PS: Last January, I thought there would be lots of Darrell in my stories but, as you see, he's missing. Surprisingly, trying to write about him has been much too hard this year...too many tears in the process. But, I believe it's a good process, so I'll explore it in more detail next year. In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed these little essays. And remember...I'm just getting my footing. Writing is "Progress, Not Perfection!" And, coincidentally, Your Mom is also "Progress, Not Perfection!" So, Merry Christmas to each of you. I love you all and...Stay Tuned.
December 25, 2016
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