DOS was the early system for home computer operations which allowed users to do all sorts of really basic things, with instructions written in Medieval Martian. I never did figure out the language, and I was totally relieved when my very young daughter took a hairbrush to the keyboard virtually destroying the whole computer. It was useless to me and took up way too much space.
Later I bought a simple word processor. It was a step up from a typewriter and a step down from a 1990’s PC. The biggest struggle I had with historical writing was that I was limited to libraries and card catalogues. If the library didn’t have the resource I was looking for, I had to apply for an interlibrary loan, which often weeks before I could either get a copy of the information I needed or get the actual book through mail.
When I went back to school fifteen years after graduating high school, I was finally introduced to the wonders of Windows and the internet. I could save so much time looking if the information was available online. I felt lucky to have found most of the Second Wife’s information on the internet in 2002, giving me a structure for her story. New information was being posted daily from all corners of the world and exponentially speeding up research results .
Fast forward to 2025. It was the year we finally bought a house in Kentucky and nearly the same month when I had my first epiphany. I did have a lot of roadblocks to my research at that time due to lack of internet for about a month, and later, another broken computer. But when I could get to a computer at the library, I was astonished to find that I could get answers to nearly every question I had and then some.
That wasn’t good for my ADHD. I would find an answer and come up with two more questions before I could get the link to the first answer into my research table. My biggest frustration was that many of those questions were relevant to me but completely irrelevant to my subject. I had to leave several pages open on the browser while finding the correct files to store every piece of information with AI making more suggestions causing me to leave even more pages open.
But enough was enough. I had to stop. The strange timelines created by my scatterbrained method of research caused the same information to be saved to several different locations or the wrong location, and occasionally the wrong external drive. Once I realized I finally had enough information to begin writing, I also realized that I would have to sort through more than a dozen files to get things into better order.
It took a while, but once I could place everything into chronological order for the first three chapters, I announced that I was ready to write.
Nope.
I opened the PPT I had moved chapter one’s information to and began writing my first bridge. by this time yesterday, I had come to the conclusion that I had so much information that my bridge to the first chapter had taken on a life of its own and that I needed to do some heavy editing before I could come up with a rough draft ready to proofread and publish
In short, I had too much information to publish yesterday’s blog post on time. That is why you will get yesterday’s post next Wednesday and this post in place of what should have been posted yesterday.
My goal is to have several posts scheduled for posting ahead of time so I can proofread and publish just before the Wednesday deadline.
If you find strange errors in today’s post, you can thank ADHD combined with TMI and AI. I didn’t have time to proofread, but I was determined to post; so I did.
There is a sign hanging in my mother’s laundry room. It says, “On this site in 1897 nothing happened.” But who knows if that’s actually true? Who’s to say nothing happened on that site. Right there. You know, on that very spot right next to the washing machine? If there’s no evidence of schoolchildren following a path to an old schoolhouse just down the road, a young woman milking cows, an old farmer stooping to clear a clogged ditch, or a native woman searching for firewood to warm her hearth, I’m betting that there were a whole lot of somethings going on not too far away, and every time I see that silly sign, I wonder exactly what those somethings were.
Of course, I might be exaggerating a little, but the first log cabin was built in the area in 1877, so something could have happened there. Mom’s laundry room memorial makes me think. We post memorials for all sorts of historical events, things like battles, negotiations, inventions, catastrophes, births of historical figures, and of course, deaths (to name a few). Those memorials can tell us a lot. And although I could probably visit the local museum to find out if anything happened in the general vicinity of my mother’s dryer in 1897, I was inspired by Edgar Lee Masters’ somewhat irreverent and semi-fictional collection of poetic epitaphs to look in a graveyard.
I have always been drawn to cemeteries. In 1997 when Utah celebrated the 150th anniversary of the arrival the first wave of Mormon Pioneers, metal plaques emblazoned with the phrase, “Faith in every footstep,” began appearing on tombstones throughout the state. Those tombstones belonged to Utah pioneers who traveled by foot, horseback, wagon, or handcart, before the arrival of the transcontinental railroad in 1869. The year was 2001, and those markers were the first thing I thought of, so I headed for the first cemetery I could think of.
Utah pioneer grave marker courtesy of Sons of Utah Pioneers
I was raised in Utah and I have absolutely no pioneer ancestors, but I still remember the stories of courage, struggle, heartache and triumph that accompanied the many families who crossed the American plains mostly by foot. It was an unfathomable journey taking about three months. I tried it a few years ago by car with my daughter and granddaughter from Kentucky to Utah. It took us four days. Of course, it was a round-trip ride, which meant a total of eight days in an air conditioned car. By the time we arrived back home, we discovered that we’d picked up stowaways in the form of bed bugs along the way. I am in no hurry to try that trip again any time soon.
By 2001 when my interest in graveyards had fully matured. The histories known, and the mysteries unknown, called to me like ghosts in a romantic novel. So when I stepped into the Cemetery in Plain City Utah, I was hoping those ghosts would lead me to a story.
And they did.
Inscriptions on tombstones are not usually put there to make you laugh (even though some do). They are there to make you think. The family memorial I found that day left me thinking for years. Along with the pioneer grave marker, names and dates are inscribed on all four sides of the tombstone. I could tell just by looking at birth dates that this was the grave site of pioneer settlers, but that’s not what got me thinking. It was the birth and death dates accompanying nine other names; all children. In the Fall of 1870, and into early winter of the next year, eight of those children died. Now I knew there had been an epidemic of some sort and I could see that there was a mystery begging to be solved.
I was in college on that initial visit, and a single mom at that. I didn’t have time to look for clues and answers, but that story stuck with me enough that I knew I had to write about it. I used an essay assignment from one of my English classes as an excuse to put my conjectures into writing. The essay won second place in a department contest at Weber State University, and I kept it over the years.
When I finished school and became an empty-nester, I finally started digging for the tombstone’s story. My first foray came up with some answers–enough to help me see that I could easily build a history around that grave marker. I went back to Plain City and took pictures of all four sides of the tombstone. What I found, shocked me. On the backside of the tombstone are the names of three of the children who died during the epidemic, and one more who was born and died in the following years. It wasn’t those children that surprised me, though. It was the inscription I had missed in my first visit at the bottom of the back side of the tombstone. It said, “Children of William and Mary Skeen.” I stepped back around to the front and looked at the bottom. It said, “Children of William and Caroline Skeen.” There were two different mothers and one father. This was a polygamous family.
If you zoom in, you can see Mary’s name at the bottom of the memorial. The names of her progeny, Elisha, Benjamin and Thomas, who died as children are above hers.
I grew up in Utah as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Most of the English speaking world knows us as Mormons. In recent years, active members of the church have cast off that misnomer, and choose the full mouthful of the title or simply use the acronym of LDS. Those who don’t know us well often conflate the term Mormon with polygamy. However, I am very familiar with polygamy. Many Utah pioneers practiced polygamy, and I had friends who were descendants of polygamous marriages. There were even a handful of families in my old neighborhood who still practice it even though it was disavowed by the LDS Church in the late 19th century. Current church members who enter into such unions are now quickly excommunicated.
Knowing what I know about Utah and polygamy, I won’t pass judgment on the pioneer families of the past, or discuss those who still practice it despite laws and church condemnation. But I am not blind to the fact that some sects have taken the practice much too far by forcing children into unwanted marriages. It’s because of that second marriage that I decided to focus on Mary Davis, the second wife of William Dolby Skeen. I have no plans to base Mary’s story on her polygamous marriage. I will build the narrative around polygamy at the point where it affects her personally, but Mary’s story is the story of her life and polygamy was a small part of it.
I’ve lived outside of Utah for most of the time since I started my research, but that hasn’t stopped me. The internet was in its infancy when I started the project, but now I have access to nearly everything I need to complete my research. It’s a wonder to me that I could build a compelling biography of an utter stranger without ever having met her or having any access to written memoirs.
I nearly missed Mary, tucked away as she was at the bottom of the backside of that monument. When I found her, I realized that her story is far more compelling than the location on the tombstone suggests. At a first glance, it’s easy to think nothing happened here. But from surrounding names, places, and dates, I could see that something had happened, and that little name tucked away at the bottom on the back side had been there and had played an integral role in the town’s history.
It’s not her death that’s important, it’s her life. I don’t want Mary Davis Skeen to be forgotten, and I feel compelled to commit her to the memory of others who would never have known her otherwise.
We are surrounded on a daily basis by people living what they feel are ordinary and unremarkable lives, but if we make an effort to get to know them, we can learn valuable lessons and come to see them as crucial members of our community. Mary’s tale unfolds in bits and pieces. Like a patchwork quilt, it is colorful, warm and inviting. Her story includes heartache, tragedy and tribulation along with faith, perseverance and promise. While Mary’s story reminds us that happily ever after never happens, it also tells us that happy endings do.
Please join me in my journey to tell Mary’s story. Your comments and helpful criticism are welcome and encouraged. Treat each post as rough drafts to Mary’s biography, as that is what they are intended to be. Mary’s story will be told one chapter at a time, and one month at a time, over the next year. My ultimate goal is to publish them together in a book. If you feel that you have information that may be helpful, or that will clarify ambiguities in Mary’s story, please leave a comment or contact me. And thank you in advance for your help!
I can’t remember a time when my dad wasn’t my hero. Like most kids, I thought my home and family were just normal. I had a mom, a dad, siblings, a house, pets, neighbors, and church. Didn’t everyone live like that? As I grew, I came to understand that I was fortunate because I had all those things; but it was more than just good fortune for me. My parents had very different backgrounds and shared tales of their youth in bits and pieces, which are both worthy of publication on a biographical level, but as the stories were told of a tough upbringing, poverty, independence at a young age, fire-fighting, military, a life-changing decision made aboard a military warship and missionary service, all before he met and married my mom, I began to see my father as a hero. When I reached adulthood, my deep regard for him continued to grow and change. Although he still remains my hero, I’ve come to understand the human side of him. When my dad asked for help putting his story into book form, I eagerly accepted.
Now that I’m an old lady myself, and I still have an 85 year-old mom and a 91 year-old dad, I’ve come to see the urgency in getting as many of these stories of common heroes told before it is too late. Mary’s story is more than ready to be told, and I have no intention of putting her off any longer, so I’ve got to take the time to put Dad’s story together while keeping both at priority level. You’ll be seeing updates and opportunities to help for both stories on a regular basis.
I am currently plugging Dad’s story into a timeline while fighting technological lag, (living in a high-tech world, without high-tech training). He lives in Utah, and I’m in Kentucky. Dad has a degree in Civil Engineering, but he doesn’t use a cellphone or trust the internet. (Can’t blame him.) Although mom didn’t work outside of the home much after she met dad, she does have a cellphone and uses it for more things than I know how to do with the device, that’s not a whole lot of help. I was lucky that I entered college as the internet was entering its childhood, but the lag is real for me, too. Dad does have a laptop, but he uses it mostly for reading Facebook and word-processing, so I’m getting a lot of printout and pc photo scans by snail-mail. I called my son in Utah an hour-ago and hopefully talked him into meeting with Dad on a regular basis to send the scans and docs by email. If I have to, I’ll get my brother involved. (Don’t make me call your uncle!) We’ll get this thing moving.
Dad’s story will be put into book form, but this is his biography, so my role will be more of a ghost-writer/editor than a third-party observer. I don’t know how the publication will work; that depends on Dad. For now, his biography is planned for private publication, but don’t you worry, I have plenty of third-party observations to be made. As they are approved you will be able to follow along and help, if you can and are willing, as his story is told.
Just like Mary’s story, Dad’s story is fascinating and compelling. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
The Second Wife’s Story is coming together, but I had to quit working on it for a couple of months. I’m now two months now, but I’m back on track and working on a second biography as well. There’s so much to tell, and I’m so excited to share my progress with you!
Many of you know me personally and many others have known me by my birthname on Facebook and other social media sites. Here on WordPress, I have gone by Too Many Hats for too many years. Some of those hats have come off so it’s now time to change, not just my profile name, but my pen-name as well.
I chose my pen-name many, many years ago, when I decided that someday I would become a writer of books. That someday has been a long time in coming, so the name change is finally underway.
I began looking into that name on Facebook about a month ago–just to see how many individuals might be affected by my choice and just a couple of weeks later a profile with that very name showed up as a friend request. This was very suspicious to me at the moment, so I immediately blocked the request. I was concerned that someone, or some-thing, was trying to take over my professional identity. Since then, I have realized that it was most likely a Facebook generated suggestion and not an attempt to steal anything. I’ve since tried to figure out how to unblock the suggestion so I can send an apologetic friend request, but to no avail.
I thought I’d better go public soon, anyway, so at least my readers won’t get as confused as I am. I hope this helps. You may see me here on WordPress and on other social media by both my given name and Mari K. Flowers, an English variation on my given name. Either way it’s still me, and you will be seeing much more of both of me in the near future!
A few months ago, I began researching and preparing to re-open Stories from The Past with a fully fleshed out version of The Second Wife’s Story written written as a series of posts to be prepared for publication by 2027. As I neared the end of 2025, and the holidays approached, I found it necessary to focus on home and family for a few weeks. . I had come to the end of my research topics and was already organizing the very large set of files into chapters and putting details into the timeline. I wasn’t worried, though, by November I only had to tie up a few loose ends and thought I could take my time doing it.
I planned my new year beginning with my Epiphany post and clarification. The Rebirth of Stories From the Past was set to begin on the Christian Holy Day of Epiphany because the connection between finding something important and the significance of the day were filed in my memory waiting to be fleshed out some January when I would explain the connection. Thanks to the 2025 “Super-flu” which extended into the new year, that post was only partially completed and not in the least well-explained when it automatically posted without my knowledge, a day late.
Oops.
To be fair, I was on my third week of battling the aforementioned flu and I still didn’t know I had it. I just thought I had overdone it, bringing on a vestibular migraine that that reused to go away and was steadily getting worse. On top of that, I thought I had caught a bad cold. In fact, on the very day my Epiphany post published, I was in the emergency room with a mindboggling set of symptoms. When you’re that sick, you don’t know to think of course I have the flu!
So the holidays came and went with their usual fanfare thanks to the fact that I’d prepared well, but The Second Wife’s Story and blogging were left untouched. By the time I knew I had the flu it was too late for all of that. I just figured I’d get caught up when I finally started feeling better and thinking straight.
That was yesterday; the day I found the accidental Epiphany post.
You might be wondering what Epiphany has to do with Mary Davis. I’ll have to say a whole lot and not much at all, depending on how you look at it.
As far as Mary’s story is concerned, my epiphany was just those two words: Industrial Revolution. It was the sudden realization that Mary’s life was inextricably and intimately linked to the beginning and end of the first of several industrial revolutions. My research following that first epiphany led me down the proverbial rabbit hole, but the continuing epiphanies coming out of that one revelation, led me to understand Mary better, and even more importantly, the human conditions leading the Skeen Family, and later the Davis family, down the Mormon Trail. Six months later I had my story from beginning to end.
The day of Epiphany showed up as the perfect day to revive Stories From the Past along with a lost tradition, so I focused on that day. Unfortunately my body had other ideas and the day came and went. But I’m back now and only a couple of weeks behind.
I guess I’ll have to flesh out a new Epiphany post next holiday season. I’m not even sure if it will post to this particular blog. (I have others.) I’ll be sure to link it to Stories From the Past for those who want to follow along.
As far as the Industrial Revolution and it’s accompanying epiphanies go, I’ll have that list along with my plans for Stories From the Past ready for preview next week.
Thanks for sticking with me. It’s good to be back!
It came to me in early June, just after we bought our beautiful new-to-us home: How to start Mary Davis’s biography. We’d been packing, unpacking, cleaning, and everything else that goes with grandparenting, moving, and dealing with a chronic disability. It had been staring me in the face for years, but I couldn’t see it. I don’t remember if it happened during packing or unpacking, sleeping or awake, cleaning our apartment or our home, or even in casual conversation, but there it was; just two words: Industrial Revolution.
I already knew the what and where of every significant stage or event of Mary Davis Skeen’s life. She was born in Llanelly Wales, joined the Mormon pioneer movement, and settled in Weber County, Utah. She lived her whole adult life and died there.
I’ve had Mary’s story in my brain for nearly 24 years now, I studied everything I could find: genealogy records, local histories, maps, websites, photographs, blogs, videos, podcasts, and anything else I could get my hands on. I knew some things about Wales even before I found Mary’s story, but I just couldn’t pinpoint a good starting place.
I thought that I should just get back to my blog and put the story aside for a while, but those two words remained firmly in place: Industrial Revolution.
I’m back to Wednesday blog posts: and I mean it! No excuses.
This website is really old, and never has reached its full potential. It’s in desperate need of updating; so here’s what’s up:
January 2026: Thanks to Super-flu 2025, this newsletter, which should have posted the last year, didn’t make it out on time. So STORIES FROM THE PAST is already two weeks behind and I already have some catching up to do.
Here’s what you can expect this year:
New Theme, Logo, letterhead, and other organizational updates. (You should already see some of them.)
About Us focusing less on beginnings and more on readers. (This keeps you involved.)
Research for Mary Damron’s story (untitled) and at least one more story I can’t wait to get started on.
Austria report from 2019
Family History Conference reviews
Added post days
New Social media connections
February 2026: New research on a new biography. This is near and dear to my heart. but I am quite sure that many of my existing readers and even more of my new readers will be able to find a personal connection or two along the way.
I can’t wait to tell you about it! Stay tuned; preliminary details will be released on January 28.
You will see changes every week, and I’ll be sure to keep you updated.
Truth is often stranger than fiction. Maybe that’s why I like historical fiction. Even though the story line isn’t true, the background of the story is truthful and accurate. This is the case with most novel ideas that have come to me. In this case, the truth is that I developed a close relationship with a man fourteen years younger than myself. Josh had become my best friend. I warned him that I was falling in love with him, but he ignored my warning and the warnings of others until it was too late. Just over a year after we first met, Josh finally admitted that it wouldn’t be possible to marry me. He blamed the age difference, but I was angry with his mom for standing in our way. Although I knew that I should have blamed Josh, I was just sad, because he couldn’t stand up to her.
I learned so much about love with Josh. I was convinced that I had found my soulmate. I was hurt that he couldn’t see it. I am confident that this will make an excellent story, but I needed Josh’s permission to write it. Heaven forbid it should appear in print without his consent. Josh, being the understanding spirit that he is, read the story based on one of my journal entries as it appears in this multi-genre work, and gave me his blessing. It’s no wonder that I love him.
Any Man of Mine
Shania Twain
Any man of mine better be proud of me Even when I’m ugly, he still better love me And I can be late for a date that’s fine But he better be on time
Any man of mine’ll say it fits just right When last year’s dress is just a little too tight And anything I do or say better be okay When I have a bad hair day
Well any man of mine better disagree When I say another woman’s lookin’ better than me And when I cook him dinner and I burn it black He better say, mmmm, I like it like that.
And if I change my mind A million times I wanna hear him say Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Yeah, I like it that way.
Any man of mine better walk the line Better show me a teasin’ squeezin’ pleasin’ kinda time I need a man who knows, how the story goes He’s gotta be a heartbeatin’ fine treatin’ Breathtakin’ earthquakin’ kind
Any man of mine.
First
Impressions
I had been married. Got divorced. After a controlled marriage, I had to be the one in control.
I went back to school. Something I wasn’t allowed to do– When I was married.
I liked my freedom. I liked being in control. I didn’t like men.
The absolute truth? I could trust no man with my heart.
Summer term, Students raved about the new math tutor– Said his name was Josh And he could do math in his sleep.
This man looked nothing like the typical 21 year-old Utah boy. He certainly looked like a math tutor, though.
“Are you tutoring, or can I sit here?”
“Please sit.”
“So Josh, how was your weekend?”
“… Marianne, just what is it that you’re after?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What are you after?”
“Um… I don’t know, Josh, what am I supposed to be after?
“My mom says that women like you are only after one thing, so what is it?”
“Maybe you should ask your mom, cuz I have no clue. Apparently you find this more amusing than I do; and how do you raise just one eyebrow at a time like that? Are you going to tell me?”
“Don’t be offended, but I really do think it’s funny. When I came home on Friday I was raving about you. When Jim came over on Saturday, I was still going on about you, and my mom finally asked, ‘So Josh, just who is this Marianne?’ So I told her about you.”
“And what exactly did you tell her?”
“Everything.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything for a minute, and then she got mad. The next thing I knew, she was the one raving. By Sunday, my dad was trying to calm her down.”
“So she thinks I’m after something.”
“Yep. She told me I should stay away from you.”
“So what are you doing here with me, Josh?”
“You approached me, remember? Should I stay away from you?”
“I don’t know, should you? Tell your mom I’m after your body and your money.”
“I’m not staying away from you, Marianne.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“It’s all good.”
March 16, 2001
Dear Peppi,
I’m so confused. Josh knows that I’m falling for him, and he says that we’ll always be friends, but I think I want more than that. I have no clue what he wants, but everything he does points straight to eternity.
I tried to hide in a corner study room with my headphones and CDs today, but Josh found me. He walked in, closed the door, sat down next to me and raised one eyebrow. I burst into tears, and he pulled me to him. I wanted so much more than just a hug, but I didn’t do anything but lay my head on his shoulder. He let me go, and asked what was wrong. I shook my head and didn’t say anything for a minute. He just sat there with his hand on my knee and watched and waited. Josh is so patient.
I know how his mom feels about us, and it frustrates me that she gets so upset when she knows we’re together. It bugs me, because Josh and I really do spend a lot of time together, but most of the time we’re with other people, and we’ve never done anything that either one of us would ever be ashamed of. I’ve never even kissed him.
I finally told him that I was frustrated because he is going to be such an awesome husband. It hurts to know that I spent thirteen years in an abusive marriage, and now that I’m free, and have found the perfect man for me, the age difference seems insurmountable. It doesn’t matter who Josh marries, he is going to treat that woman the same way that he’s treated me and every other woman I’ve seen him interact with. I so want to be that woman, and I can’t see it happening.
Josh did nothing more than pat my knee and say, “I know.” Why can’t he just say Marianne, will you marry me? I would say yes. He says his mother’s opinion doesn’t mean anything, because she just doesn’t know me, but I know that if he wasn’t so worried about disappointing his mom, that we could get past the age difference. I know that if his mom knew me like Josh knows me, she wouldn’t be having this problem. She’s never even met me!
I left my CDs with Josh while I went to class. He likes my music, and I never mind sharing. When I came back, Josh had returned to the corner room. I walked in, and he pointed to the headphones on his ears and said “John.” He meant John Denver. I grabbed the headphones and said “Mine.” He grabbed them back and said, “Can’t you share?” I know that Josh understood I was teasing, but I was still hurting, and all I really wanted to do was sit with my CDs and feel sorry for myself. I gave up, and just sank into my seat. Josh put the headphones on my head and said, “Let’s take turns.”
I listened to a couple of songs, then passed them back. Josh loves digging through my CDs and listens to a variety of stuff. Sometimes he brings his own music and we share that too. Once he brought Michael Boulton, and I was thinking about How am I Supposed to Live Without You? It’s one of Josh’s favorites. I wanted to stick the music in, and make him listen to it, but he didn’t have it with him today. Why doesn’t he get it?
We studied, passing the headphones back and forth, for more than an hour. Maybe I should say that we tried to study, but most of the time we spent talking about music and comparing homework. Josh is taking a Shakespeare class, and he loves to tell me about it. I didn’t get much done, and now, I’ve spent the last hour writing in my journal. I hope I don’t fall behind.
I was actually relieved when he glanced at his watch and said, “Uh Oh, I’m supposed to be tutoring!” I thought I might finally get some homework done, but Josh grabbed the headphones off my head, took Shania Twain out, put the headphones back on his head, and stuck John Denver back in the CD player. He did it all so fast that I didn’t even have time to ask what are you doing? He started pushing buttons madly, then slowed down, listened for a second, took the headphones off and put them back on my head, pushed a couple more buttons and then ran out of the room.
There’s no way I could do any more homework today, anyway. When Josh left the room and the music started playing, the message came loud and clear; “Lady, are you crying, do the tears belong to me?” Obviously, Josh understands more than I think he does. Now I’m more confused and frustrated than before. Why would he want to send that message to me?
Josh knew that I had to leave during his tutoring session so I could get home to my kids. I couldn’t ask him what he meant. This is so not fair!!!
My Sweet Lady
John Denver
Lady, are you crying? Do the tears belong to me? Did you think our time together was all gone? Lady, you’ve been dreaming, I’m as close as I can be. I swear to you our time has just begun.
Close your eyes and rest your weary mind. I promise I will stay right here beside you. Today our lives were joined, became entwined; I wish you could know how much I love you.
Lady, are you happy, do you feel the way I do? Are there meanings that you’ve never seen before? Lady, my sweet lady, I just can’t believe it’s true And it’s like I’ve never ever loved before.
Close your eyes and rest your weary mind. I promise I will stay right here beside you. Today our lives were joined, became entwined. I wish you could know how much I love you.
Lady, are you crying, do the tears belong to me. Did you think our time together was all gone. Lady, my sweet lady, I’m as close as I can be. I swear to you our time has just begun.
How do You Love Me? Let Me Count the Ways
Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning
You look at me and one raise one eyebrow.
You sing loudly and off-key in while assembling my new computer desk.
You play with my hair from the seat behind me in our Book of Mormon class.
You whisper John Denver lyrics in my ear as I catnap in the student union building.
You lead me by the hand to your secret hideaway to calm my nerves after I locked my keys in the car.
You try to hold my hand from the back seat of Sandra’s car while I ride shotgun. It’s awkward, but we make it work.
You ask a question that only my heart can answer while gazing into my eyes and replying with your own.
You lay your head on my shoulder until my tears slow.
You fold my laundry as you wait for me to get ready for a Michael McLean concert.
You bring me a miniscule piggy bank with my name printed in tiny letters from your weekend trip to California.
You interrupt a study session to drag me down the hallway to a “found” penny for my new piggy bank.
You present a downy duck feather to me halfway through one of our many walks around the duck pond.
You brag to our co-workers that you can outrun my ex-husband.
If outrunning him doesn’t work, you say you will hide under a table because he is six inches taller than you and won’t fit.
You sit quietly next to me without saying a word.
You nurse my injured foot on a broken-down pier while everyone else is splashing and playing in the lake.
You throw your arms around me saying “I missed my Marianne” when I come back from a month in Europe.
You say, “I’m right here.” in a voice so low only I can hear through the encroaching crowd.
You eat cherries with me and spit the pits in the bushes as we discuss more serious matters.
You lay next to me on the grass and watch the stars for 45 minutes after the post-fireworks traffic has cleared.
You play with my children as if I weren’t even there.
You hug a tree to show me you’re on my side because my family thinks I’m a crazy tree-hugger.
You stay with me as I wait for the last bus of the day, then hop on your bike for a seven-mile ride into an oncoming storm.
You call to tell me you’ve made it home safely.
When You Say Nothing at All
Ronan Keating
It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart. Without saying a word, you can light up the dark. Try as I may, I could never explain What I hear when you don’t say a thing.
All day long I can hear people talking out loud, But when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd. Old Mr. Webster could never define What’s being said between your heart and mine.
The smile on your face lets me know that you need me. There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me. The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall. You say it best when you say nothing at all.
A Broken Pipe
It was Josh’s silence that caused so much trouble that summer. Josh was always willing, even eager, to listen to anything and everything that Marianne had to say, but when it came to revealing himself to her, he was disturbingly silent.
It took a discussion about a broken pipe in his uncle’s lawn to get Josh to open up. The pair sat at the top of a man-made waterfall on a large stone. Marianne’s children were spending the weekend with their father, so she had invited Josh to visit Utah State University with her. She had made it sound so innocent, but she desperately needed to talk.
Josh was going on about his uncle who wouldn’t fix a broken water pipe in his lawn. Marianne seized the moment, “I have a broken pipe.”
Curiosity piqued, “Is it a big pipe or a little pipe?” Josh asked.
Marianne swallowed. “It’s a big pipe.”
“That’s a real problem.” She could tell that Josh was thinking about a broken water pipe, and she continued to let him think that. She needed him to understand the enormity of her problem.
“You should get it fixed as soon as possible.” he said.
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Is it inside or outside?”
Marianne was tempted keep the charade going and tell him that it was inside. Instead, she swallowed again, “It’s an emotional pipe.”
“Oh, I see.” Josh grew quiet. He could see where she was going with the conversation. “Do you need some help fixing it?”
“Josh,” Marianne choked, “I can’t fix it without your help.”
Another significant silence. She didn’t dare look at him; her vision was clouded by brimming tears.
“Did I break the pipe?” Josh asked.
It takes two to play in the game of love, and Marianne knew that she was not an innocent bystander, “You helped.” It still wasn’t easy to tell him, even though it was clear to both of them that he already knew the answer. She decided to get straight to the point by explaining that she needed to communicate, and he didn’t see the need. She reminded him of similar talks that they’d had in the past, and of the age difference.
“If I were fourteen years younger . . .”
“There’d be no question.”
Marianne was cut to the very core of her soul. “None whatsoever?”
“I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
Ouch. That hurt. That was it. She had to tell him, but it was still so hard. Marianne was so sure that he already knew. “Josh, I thought that I had made my feelings for you very clear when we talked before.”
“You made them very clear.”
“Very clear?” From Josh’s recent behavior, she wasn’t sure she’d been clear enough.
“Very clear.”
“Well, I need to be sure, so I have to make them perfectly clear, okay?”
Josh smiled and sat back. “Go ahead.”
Go ahead. Just like that. She decided she was a glutton for punishment; “This is so difficult. . . “
“Marianne, just say it.”
She gulped. The tears were running down her cheeks, and she so desperately wanted to think clearly. She couldn’t. “Josh, I love you more than I have ever loved any man in my life.”
The truth of the matter was that she hadn’t even known what true love was until now. Why did it have to be this way?
Silence. Except for a few muffled hiccoughs.
“Was that perfectly clear?” She had her glasses in her hand, and she couldn’t see him through her watery eyes, but she looked at him anyway.
“Perfectly.” His reply was quiet as he wrapped an arm around her and laid his head upon her shoulder. The tears continued to flow as she laid her head on his.
“Josh, this has been the most difficult summer of my life.” It was the happiest, hardest, saddest time of her life.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
“I tried to warn you…”
“But I wasn’t listening.”
“Is it possible that I was saying something you didn’t want to hear?”
“No, but it is possible that I just can’t figure out how to fast forward or reverse time.” They talked about time, eternity, and the age difference.
“Josh, you don’t see time the way I do. I don’t separate eternal time from worldly time.”
“I don’t see how you can live in this world without separating it from God’s time.”
“You think like a mathematician.” Thirty-six, minus twenty-two, equals fourteen. . .
“It’s not going to work, is it?”
“I don’t see how it can.”
Marianne was completely devastated. How was she supposed to live without him? Even though She had already learned that she could get along just fine without a man, she just didn’t want to get along without the companionship of her best friend. He wasn’t even gone but she was already missing him. For a while she just sat, snuggled in his arms until the tears slowed.
“Josh, you’re going to go on with your life. You’ll get married, be a fantastic husband, make some lucky girl incredibly happy, and I’m going to remain single for the rest of my life.”
“How can you say that? You’ll get married again.”
“Josh, you can’t really believe that.”
“What do you mean? You’re an awesome lady; someone will want to marry you.”
“That’s not the point, Josh. I could easily find a man, but I don’t want just any man, I want the right man, and it’s taken thirty-six years to find him. I don’t want to spend another thirty-six years looking.”
“Marianne, you’ll find someone.”
“Yeah, when Hell freezes over.”
“I hear they’ve been having a cold snap…”
She laughed a funny little hiccuppy laugh spawned by a breaking heart. Then sighed, and said flatly, “Josh, you just go on with your life. I’ll be right here waiting.” She placed her palm over her heart.
“Right here?” He looked down at the rock and patted it. “This isn’t the most comfortable place in the world. Where will you sleep at night? It might rain or snow. You’ll get cold. You’re gonna want an umbrella and a jacket.”
“Oh Josh, you know what I mean. “For the next few days, the tears fell freely until Marianne had to admit to herself that the emotions she was experiencing felt too similar to the pain of divorcing Bob. Because she had loved Josh so much more deeply than she had loved Bob, her immediate fear was that the deep emotional pain would last a lifetime.
It was useless; that pipe was never getting fixed.
Right Here Waiting For You
Richard Marx
Oceans apart day after day And I slowly go insane I hear your voice on the line But it doesn’t stop the pain.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
I took for granted, all the times That I thought would last somehow. I hear the laughter, I taste the tears, But I can’t get near you now.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
I wonder how we can survive This romance. But in the end if I’m with you, I’ll take the chance.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
Profound Loss
Josh and I were introduced by one of the students he was tutoring. In fact, I would have to say that Jenni went on and on about Josh just about the same as he would soon be going on and on about me. Like me, Jenni was a single mom, and just a year older than me. And like me, she found him to be a good friend. Unlike me, her friendship with Josh never changed. Because I was also a tutor, I knew I would soon know him as well, so I asked her to describe him to me. From Jenni’s nondescript description, I really couldn’t figure who he was. But I ran into her a few days later on her way to her appointment with Josh while I was on my way to work, so I asked her to show him to me. The poem, “First Impressions,” appears exactly how I saw him, and yes, even though it’s a stock photo, the cover photo is pretty true to my first impression of Josh.
That was Summer Term 2000, and the “What are You After?” conversation occurred at the beginning of Fall Semester after I’d set him up on a lunch date with the hottest girl in the room. We had a strong bond, and soon found ourselves doing nearly everything together during our school hours. During winter break, we even went on a double date. I was with another tutor closer to my age, and I’d fixed him up with a younger friend of mine from the bus we rode. It was a weird date because by the end of the night, Josh and I somehow ended up together deep in conversation while our dates sat awkwardly at either end of the room. It was Josh that got the goodbye hug while I don’t think my date even got a handshake.
I don’t recall when my physical attraction to him changed, but I do know it was after I found myself falling in love with him sometime in midwinter of 2001. I remember when the sudden realization hit me. Josh and I were on our way back to campus after attending an LDS temple session together. We’d already been talking about the age difference because I knew his mom flew into a rage every time my name came up or she found out we’d been spending time together. We were stopped at a traffic light, and it hit me like a punch in the gut. That was the first time the tears fell, and even though I didn’t actually say the words, it was at that moment we both realized I was falling in love with him. It was also when I began to feel the pain from the well-found fear of losing him.
That summer I spent a month in Europe immersing myself in the German language. I’m sure I was driving the students in my group a bit nuts over the fact that I couldn’t help myself from bringing him up in nearly every conversation. Either that or talking about my kids. Although we’d gone together on the same plane, a large portion of the students extended their stay to visit other countries, while I was more than happy to get home to my kids. I was homesick nearly the whole trip.
I remember quite vividly my flight over New York City on the way into Newark. It was my first time seeing the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the Twin Towers. I’d never in my life been that far East, let alone to Europe, so I was more than happy to have seen them up close even though it was from the air.
When I came back on campus, I was pleasantly surprised at Josh’s welcome home hug. It was the first time he’d ever called me My Marianne.
I so wanted to be his.
But there was something in the air that day, telling me it was the beginning of the end. There were two new women in the room, both with their eyes on Josh. Sandra had been hanging out with Josh while I was away, and she had set her sights on him. Yes, she’s the same Sandra driving the car while Josh held my hand from the back seat. She was none the wiser. The other, I might describe as mousy but not in a derogatory way. She was quiet and I don’t know if I’d say shy, but there was nothing more than ordinary about her. Looking back, she was the kind of woman who deserved a man like Josh.
At the end of that summer, I found myself sitting on the rock talking about a broken pipe. It was my last attempt to make him put up or shut up. He did neither. I’d say the Broken Pipe story was the day we broke up, but Josh didn’t see it like that. For me, it was that day that I knew for a certainty it was over.
Fall semester of my senior year came a week later. I found myself weeping from a broken heart whenever I was alone. But I also found myself looking for hiding places where I could study alone. It was so tough for me because Josh seemed to know where to look and I had to get more creative as time went on, and the more I needed to be left alone. I still loved being with him, but it was torture for me to feel that tiny glimmer of hope all the while knowing it was hopeless.
Just three or four weeks later, I remember crying a bit in the early morning hours while the kids were still asleep. Wiping my tears, I headed down the stairs to start my morning routine of switching the TV on to the morning news, more as background noise than anything else, while I woke the kids up for school. Dressed and nearly ready to go, I started back down the stairs to find the TV screen filled with the image of the North Tower with a gaping hole and black smoke billowing into the beautiful blue September sky. The complete irony of that day was not lost on me. It is the only day I remember where the skies were blue, and the weather was perfect from coast to coast.
My daughter seemed completely nonplussed when I pointed out the billowing tower on the screen, so I didn’t bother to bring it up to her five year-old brother. I shooed them into the car, turned the TV off, and headed out the door where my next-door neighbor informed me that the second tower had been hit. By that time, it was obvious to everyone that it was a terrorist attack. I didn’t know what to do, so I dropped the kids off at school and decided not to take the bus in that day. I wasn’t sure if I’d want to turn back around and go home. Despite those blue skies and temperate weather, a gray pall hung in the atmosphere and there was absolutely nothing normal about the traffic.
Regardless of the complete lack of accidents, road work, or emergency vehicles, traffic was going at a crawl and no one, including myself, seemed to care; we were all transfixed by the narrative replacing the music on every radio station. The first tower fell about halfway through my commute, and I suddenly found myself in a quandary: Do I go home to my children who were already at school, or do I keep going even though I was already an hour late for work? I was sure the kids didn’t care one way or another (they didn’t), so I kept going. From the parking lot, I called the tutoring center to tell them I would not come in that day, and was told that everyone was cancelling, both students and tutors, so it really didn’t matter anyway.
On campus, TVs had been brought out from everywhere, and every screen, including the theatres, displayed the same scene. Passageways, though filled with students, were eerily quiet except for the commentary from the screens. Some teachers canceled classes, but most kept their schedules in case students needed to talk. It didn’t matter whether or not I’d done my homework; it was irrelevant that day. I decided I didn’t want to be alone, so I headed to our favorite haunt– the nontraditional student center. Josh’s age and marital status may have made him a traditional student, but there was nothing traditional about him. He was there waiting for me. He took me by the hand and led me to the theater next door where we sat with my head on his shoulder crying and watching the horrific aftermath unfold. I still feel the irony of that day with the two of us snuggled in the theater like lovebirds at the movies. I cried and cried that day as I felt the double loss over and over again.
After that day, I marveled at the fact that my first time flying over New York came so close to the day when the towers fell. I wondered about other students doing study abroad who suddenly found their way home blocked by closed airways. I’m so glad it wasn’t me. I was so glad to be home with my kids when it happened, and even happier to know that I had gotten my chance to see the towers in person, even if it was from the air.
By the end of Fall Semester Josh was dating that sweet quiet girl, and I was looking even harder for better places to hide. I didn’t bother to deny the fact that I was hiding from him when he confronted me, and I was glad that to have finally found one place where he never looked in the Art building.
At the end of Spring semester, 2002, Josh and I went our separate ways. Josh married that girl the next year and they moved to Logan to finish school at Utah State. I did the graduation walk, with one incomplete class and took a two-year break while trying to focus on family issues. It was a disaster, and I fell into a deep depression. When I came back to Weber State, I completed that class, entered the teaching program, resumed work as a tutor, and tried to get used to the old familiar places without the old familiar face. I was grateful that I no longer thought of him on a daily basis, but the familiar places and faces often brought back raw hurt.
Loving Josh was sweet, beautiful, and painful. I fought that depression for another three years, but finally found my way out when I moved to Chicago for grad school and met and married Tony. Tony read this story before I married him, and said he’d love to meet Josh someday. That was when I knew I’d found a great guy. I haven’t shed any tears over Josh for more than fifteen years, except when one of those songs catches me unaware. Even then, I think I’m finally truly done with the tears.
Why They Call it Falling
Lee Ann Womack
It’s like jumpin’ It’s like leapin’ It’s like walkin on the ceiling It’s like floatin’ It’s like flying through the air It’s like soarin’ It’s like glidin’ It’s a rocket ship you’re ridin’ It’s a feeling that can take you anywhere
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ I don’t know
There was passion There was laughter The first mornin’ after I just couldn’t get my feet to touch the ground Every time we were together We talked about forever I was certain it was Heaven we had found
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ I don’t know
But you can’t live your life Walkin’ in the clouds Sooner or later You have to come down
It’s like a knife Through the heart When it all comes apart It’s like someone takes a pin to your balloon
It’s a hole It’s a cave It’s kinda like a grave When he tells you that he’s found somebody new
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Now I know.
Ooh, why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Now I know.
Music is a powerful memory keeper. My husband Tony, who is six years older than me, likes an oldies station, and when we are in the car together with the radio on, we inevitably end up talking about his college years or old beaus and my high school football games. Queen was big in my high school years; Another One Bites the Dust and WeAre the Champions always pull me back to the stadium and cool autumn evenings.
I was a single mother in my senior year of college when the twin towers fell. That particular day was doubly hard on me because it happened at the tail end of a failed relationship. We stayed good friends, and on that day in 2001 we sat together in the college theater watching the whole thing unfold in real time with his arm around me and my head on his shoulder because good friends comfort each other. I cried so much that day, not only from the devastation appearing on every screen, but for my lost love.
There was no music on the air that day, and when my favorite country station returned to music in the following days, One More Day by Diamond Rio featured heavily on their playlist. Every time I heard it, I not only went back to the people who lost so much on 9.11, but the love that I had lost just two weeks before. Even writing about it today brings a lump to my throat and I find myself pausing to wipe my eyes, take slow deep breaths blowing the air out in a whoosh in attempts to release the pain in my heart from so long ago. AND I’M NOT EVEN LISTENING TO THE MUSIC RIGHT NOW!
I wrote the story in my journal as it happened. I had hoped that somehow putting pen to paper might force our relationship in a better direction. I turned one entry into a short story regarding our “break up” discussion. I titled it Love Lost on the Rock. I asked him if he would mind if someday I put our story into a full-length novel. Surprisingly, but not surprisingly if you know Josh, he gave me his consent.
I did finally write that story about three years after it happened. I was back in school two years later to get a teaching certificate when I was given the assignment to write a multi-genre paper. Given the amount of music Josh and I shared in that one year, I thought it would be the perfect bridge from one genre to the next, but as I wrote, the tears fell freely and abundantly. A myriad of emotions filled me with each word or phrase I put to laptop screen, from frustration and sadness to happiness and comfort. I don’t know if you can call pain an emotion, but I felt it from beginning to end of that assignment. I got an A, but I knew a full-length novel would be put on hold for some time.
Six years after the multi-genre story I met Tony. I love him in a different way than I did Josh, and even though a part of my heart still belongs to Josh, I didn’t have any problem telling Tony. Even though he’s never met Josh, he says he would like to meet him someday.
I was alone driving on the freeway when the familiar piano solo leading into Richard Marx’s song, Right Here Waitingfor You came on. I didn’t realize it was an oldie, but I was catapulted back to that Day in August 2001 when I finally knew our relationship was irrevocably over. It was suddenly like it happened yesterday. My heart skipped a beat, and I really wondered if I should just turn it off. My right hand seemed frozen on the wheel. I was sure I was going to cry, but as the song went on, my eyes stayed dry. Instead, I felt searing pain starting at the roof of my mouth, meandering through my sinuses, and down my throat filling my chest and settling in the pit of my stomach. It was then that I realized that this was one story I did not want to tell again. This was the result of that one time in my life that I had truly madly deeply fallen in love (apologies to Savage Garden).
The date? September 11, 2023.
The irony was not lost on me.
On that day, I knew it was time to publish the story in its original form and move on to other stories. I tried to do it yesterday, but I’m still struggling with WordPress’s new editor. It did not turn out the way I intended, so I trashed it. I’ll try again later today If I get my work for the Garden of Hope done. If not, I’ll post it tomorrow.
After 22 years, I wonder what would happen if Josh and I suddenly found ourselves single again. Would I still be right here waiting for him?
Burgenland is a state of Austria encompassing the entire eastern border adjacent to Hungary. The Bucklige Welt, or Hunchback World, is a region of foothills situated in the southeastern corner of Lower Austria particularly suited to hiking and biking. Also called “The Land of a Thousand Hills,” Bucklige Welt shares the northern corner of Burgenland. As an American “tourist,” I’d describe the area as Austria’s best-kept secret.
The secrets to my Semitic past have been left behind in the remaining homes, synagogues, and cemeteries of the Austrian Jews from the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. The unfortunate tides of history have forever altered access to those secrets. Homes and synagogues were torn down and aryanized while cemeteries were desecrated and/or destroyed. Larger cemeteries in key cities were often lost to the ravages of war. Many of those cities, such as Wiener Neustadt, have made quite successful attempts at restoring their historical town centers to their former glory, despite the loss of vibrant and thriving Jewish sectors. (more…)
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