THE BEST DAY EVER

Much to my surprise, fifty-eight days after that horrendous first meeting, Darrell and I were married, legally and officially, at the Ford County Courthouse in Dodge City, Kansas. Camilla Haviland, whose name will forever head the list of local legends and characters of our hometown, zipped her judicial robe over her golfing shorts, ground out her cigarette, and in a most surprisingly serious manner, officiated our short little ceremony. It was one of the best weddings I've ever attended. Good friends Bob McLeod and Katie Mitchell stood up with us. Howard Yakshe popped through the door mid-ceremony, surprising us all, snapping black and white photos I still treasure today. I'd left school late that morning to have my hair done which resulted in shockingly Big Hair that was very out of character, but I loved it.  Earlier in the week, I'd bought a dress...a little blue chambray number that ended above the knee and I loved that too.  I'd also invested in really cute shoes. If I am really remembering them correctly and still had them today I'd put them on right now. That Thursday was, hands down, the greatest day ever. I can't believe how young and excited and happy and fearless and innocent I was. I can't believe how young and excited and happy and fearless and innocent your father was. Damn, I miss him!

Weather-wise, Thursday, March 25th, 1971, was a beautiful day, which was fortunate as we would be flying to Las Vegas very soon after our ten minute wedding. Earlier that week, Sam had called to tell me he'd arranged a Las Vegas honeymoon for us...and, no, Darrell couldn't know about it until after the wedding. That meant we ran back to the house so he could repack for a Las Vegas venue, sped to the airport, and hopped into the very first plane I'd ever even been close to. I sat in the back seat, Darrell in the front simply because the pilot Sam had commandeered wasn't very experienced and Sam thought Darrell might need to help him find Denver. Which, as it turned out, was exactly the case. Once our pilot had his bearings, he seemed very eager to get on the ground, became a little confused and, by mistake, landed on an active commercial runway. Darrell, who knew the ramifications of ignoring airport controllers, threw open the door, grabbed me and shouted "RUN." We barely made our flight to Las Vegas, but those were the days when you could drink and smoke and relax on a plane, and we did all three. It was wonderful.


I wish I could remember which hotel we stayed in during our three days in Las Vegas. I want to say the Sahara, but I really have no idea. Whichever  hotel it might have been, it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. That night we scored tickets to a show, and I seriously think the entertainers were Sonny and Cher. I may be delusional, because it was in a slightly dingy cocktail lounge. Not the anticipated big elaborate gorgeous room that held hundreds of people, just a smallish room with a few tables and chairs. (For reference, I just turned to Wikipedia, and Sonny and Cher were indeed on a downhill slide in 1971, touring and performing in nightclubs. So there is a chance I'm remembering correctly.) If I am, simply being in the same room with Sonny and Cher was exciting and fun whether they were skidding downhill or not. As far as I knew,  they were still hot in Dodge City.

The following evening, we watched people play Baccarat with real money--lots of real money and then purchased tickets to some other hotel's Big Room. The attraction was Anthony Newley. Darrell had never heard of Anthony Newley, but was sweet enough to go to the show that I so wanted to see. I loved Anthony Newley and would listen to him today if he were still  alive. From the first notes of the show..."Who Can I Turn To When Nobody Needs Me..." Darrell knew that he did NOT love Anthony Newley and couldn't believe that, besides us, other people actually paid money for this. He, with a couple of Jack Daniels under his belt, stayed for the entire performance, but made fun of Anthony Newley for years after.

A few weeks later, after Denise and Kristi moved to Dodge City, the Bryant's of Houston, Texas, offered their beach house to us for a "Family Honeymoon"...so to speak. The house was located on Galveston Island and, as I remember, was close to the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It was such a thoughtful thing for them to do...but, apparently, in our excitement and gratitude, we misunderstood the actual offer. We all (Bryants and Staggs) would be sharing this honeymoon in their house. We would recreate together, eat together, and sleep together. I don't even remember how many kids the Bryant's had but, at the time, I would have guessed five or seven. They were a loving, energetic and extremely loud family. It was nearly scary, and just a bit overwhelming.

This particular "THS MRS" was based on that Group Honeymoon but, obviously, did not tell half the story:

"With the advent of dandelions and dust storms, thoughts turn immediately to summer vacations. We went to Houston, Texas, last June--a trip so memorable I still get the shakes every time a televised football game takes place in the Astrodome.

For starters, our Kristi can't be driven three blocks to school without a plastic bag at the ready, while Denise and Mickie could sign on with Thor Heyerdahl for a six month voyage without a queasy moment.  

The day before we left, Scott (our cousin) came over to spend the afternoon. The girls played with Scott, wrestled with Scott, ate with Scott, hugged Scott, and sent him home.

At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, the phone rang. 'I hate to tell you this,' said Scott's mother, 'but I think Scott's got the flu. He was up all night and is still at it this morning.' Darrell reassured her that our kids were healthy as horses, yelled 'Load Up Babies' and we headed south.

It may be a Long Way to Tipperary but, believe me, it's even longer to Houston. We did average fifty miles between stops, however, and Texas should be praised for its roadside parks and clean ditches.

Our first day in Houston found Busch Gardens on the itinerary. It's a lovely area and we watched the birds, admired the leopards, laughed at the monkeys and ate hamburgers like the last steer had been slaughtered yesterday.

After four hours of such abundant enjoyment, feeling the need to recuperate a bit, we went to the Hospitality House. Busch Garden's Hospitality House is beautiful. Plush carpeting, stylish rattan divans, chairs and tables, and house-broken parrots nesting in the beams.

Seconds after the waiter brought our Cokes, Mickie announced, 'I don't feel so good.'

Before I could say, 'Yes, you do,' everything she had eaten over the last nine days hit every piece of furniture and strand of carpeting in the building. After frantically rushing around (which heightened our problem) we discovered the closest bathroom was half a block away hidden from view by hundreds of people standing in line.

Mickie is now, unfortunately, the only five year-old child whose picture is posted at the entrance of every Busch Garden from Missouri to Florida to be denied admittance.

In a family the size of ours, sharing is a necessity and the bug hit us all. Kristi was asked to leave SeaArama, the beach patrol escorted Denise from Galveston and I was fined for throwing up in a restricted area of Astroworld.

During all of these crises we kept hearing Darrell grumbling...'the weaker sex,' 'complaining women,' 'psychosomatic...' 

However, on our last night in Houston I awoke in time to catch a brief glimpse of Darrell sprinting to the bathroom. Moments later he emerged, groaning...'I'm dying.'

'No, you're not,' I answered. 'I realize dying would be a pleasure, but it won't happen.'

'I'm dying and I intend to die in my own bed. Pack up the kids--we're leaving.'

'It's 2:30 in the morning.'

'I don't care...we're leaving.'

Driving from Houston to Dodge City under the best of conditions has never rated a star from AAA, but with a flu-ish family it becomes a real ordeal. The kids were still weak enough to sleep most of the way, only occasionally working up the energy to argue. Darrell muttered, 'Oh my God...' from time to time, and I drove as if the Highway Patrol was out on strike.

So, when the kids blew in from school yesterday announcing only thirty more days of Reading and 'Rithmetic and grabbed the Atlas to plot this year's journey, I began my campaign.

'Hey kids--I understand the Garden City Zoo is lovely in mid-June."

And it was!

From today's perspective, this could have been much more entertaining if I had written the truth. This wasn't a vacation. This was a honeymoon, populated by the Bride and Groom, three children who barely knew each other and an extremely loud and rambunctious host family who loved togetherness.

I could have written about the surprise arrival of that family--the Bryant's. Remember how the screen door slammed against the wall as screaming children began pouring in? Unfortunately, I have completely forgotten their names. I might remember an Odie. Or, perhaps that was a TV show. But, for sure, I remember how loud they all were.

I could have written that I barely knew Denise on the day we went to the beach. I could have written that I had to change into my swimsuit in the backseat of Mrs. Bryant's car with leering and laughing teenagers hanging around way too close. I could have written that Kristi missed the whole beach afternoon because she was sick and staying at the house with Darrell and throwing up again and again and again. I could have written that I'd never prayed harder than I did that day for the Beach Patrol to find Denise, and that my knees buckled and I cried with joy when they brought her to me.

I could have written about Astroworld which was, of course, my time of bodily torture. I spent that day in a bathroom stall praying to die...soon. I think Darrell might have sent one or another of you to check on me from time to time, but there was no hope and the day was endless...

And, I could have written that, still weak, I sucked it up because I WOULD BE NEEDED to drive us all home safely while your father was curled into a ball, moaning in the front seat, licking his own wounds...just as I had been the person driving us all TO Houston safely because your father had recently lost his Driver's License for being a Habitual Traffic Violator and snubbing his nose at Safe Driving School.  Had he not snubbed his nose at Safe Driving School he would have been able to drive with a restricted license for six months or so and then regain his real license. But, because of that snub, a very tall and stern Highway Patrolman appeared at our front door one evening and ripped your father's Drivers License from your father's billfold.

I still remember the panic I felt at the sight of that Highway Patrolman. I didn't know I had married a Habitual Traffic Violator and, at the sight of the Patrolman, I suffered a flashback and knew I had married someone who had, no doubt, driven drunk. Probably more than than once. Probably destroying odd mailboxes and small animals as he careened down the road. He was losing his license and was going to jail. I'd only met him a few months before. We weren't terribly well acquainted when we got married and, just as my Mother had predicted, I had apparently jumped from the metaphorical frying pan into the metaphorical fire...only, this time, I had three children to raise instead of just one. My Mother was right and I was near hysteria. Have I mentioned I was younger than Emily when all this happened??

But...Happy Endings. You cannot imagine the joy and relief I felt when I learned that your father's only fault (as far as the Kansas Highway Patrol was concerned) was that he drove too fast and collected too many speeding tickets. And, yes, he did run red lights when he was in a hurry, and obviously ignored speeding summons' and court dates, but he was mine and I was his. I think I cried from relief.

June 9, 2019