That list goes a little something like this:
I blog...
1. Because I don't keep baby books.
2. Because I have a bad memory.
3. Because I like to read people's comments
4. Because writing is a therapeutic outlet for me.
5. Because I have stories I want to share.
6. Because sometimes I have something to say.
7. Because I want to keep family and friends updated.
8. Because I'd like to keep some family history.
I had no expectations when I started, but I must say that some of the people I initially thought would really enjoy reading it, to my knowledge, never do.
That's okay. Because the other reasons for writing keep me satisfied enough.
But in an effort to illustrate one of the main reasons, not included on that list, I must first begin with a story.
Spring Break on Daytona Beach has always been somewhat of a party, I imagine. March 2011 will probably find that place only slightly crazier than March of 1965.
Leslie was 16. Her first trip without her parents, though with a chaperone, took her to Florida. She was a shy girl from Kentucky. Her decidedly Mormon family was the perfect mix of Southern class and down home country. And her sweet parents apparently saw no harm in sending their beautiful, teenage daughter into the den of sin that was Spring Break on Daytona Beach. But when she arrived, Leslie was overwhelmed with so much of what was going on, she spent a lot of her time in her hotel room.
Todd was 18, done with high school and always ready for a party. He drove down to Florida from Michigan with his friends. He was a football player and a weightlifter, tall, dark, and handsome. He came from a hard working, blue collar, Catholic family, who worked mostly at the Kellogg plant and factory in Battle Creek. After a stop at the liquor store, these guys were on the prowl and ready for some action.
His friends had scoped out some girls at a nearby motel and while he waited on his friend, Todd spied a pretty, young thing sitting up on the balcony by herself. Her dark hair was long, but her legs were longer. He went on up to say hello.
Leslie was not amused with the whole scene, nor was she eager to venture out with him. So when she turned him down, he asked her what she would do that night instead. Her reply,
"Stay in my room and watch TV."
"Well, can I watch with you?"
"I don't care."
So he came back later that night. They sat on the floor next to each other, their backs propped up against the bed, and watched TV. The chaperone sat nearby. After a few minutes Leslie said,
"Please don't breathe on me. The smell of beer makes me sick to my stomach."
Despite her less than enthusiastic attitude, they spent the rest of their time together. Todd skipped the parties. But of course the time came for these young love birds to say goodbye. She had to go back to Kentucky, and he to Michigan.
Todd stopped all along the way home to make payphone calls to Leslie. They wanted to stay in touch. They wanted to see each other again. But to most, the likelihood of either was slim.
Over the course of the next 2 and a half years, they saw each other every single month. Todd would get out of work on a Friday at 11 pm. He would make the 6 hour drive through the night and would arrive in Lexington, where Leslie eagerly awaited him. They would spend all of Saturday together, go out on Saturday night, and then finally after their date he would sleep for the first time since Thursday. And he would sleep all morning while Leslie and her parents were at church. He would leave Sunday after dinner to make it home in time for some sleep and work the next morning. And he did it every single month.
Leslie made her way through high school. Todd kept working at the Kellogg plant. They loved each other, they wrote letters, they made a few phone calls, and they saw each other each month.
Somewhere along the way, Todd agreed to meet with the Mormon missionaries, just in order to have all the facts and understand better the religion of his beloved. Since his time was so short in Lexington, he met with the missionaries for an entire Saturday, in order to squeeze everything in.
After their date that night, he fell into the bed, exhausted. And then he remembered the promise he had made to the missionaries. They had asked and he agreed, to read a part of the Book of Mormon and then pray if it was true. He had no intentions of believing it. He didn't really even want to know. But he had said he would do it, and reminded of his own Father's insistence to his children, to "do what you say you're going to do", he crawled out of the warm bed. He knelt on the floor, read a short passage, and began to pray... Is this true?
Even through his half-hearted attempt, he was overcome with a feeling so strong inside him. A feeling that made his whole body warm despite the cold temperature of the room. A feeling that now even if he didn't care or didn't want to know, he could never deny that the what he read was truth. And if that was true, all the rest had to be true as well.
And now what? What would he do? If he was going to act on this feeling, it was going to require big changes in his life. He didn't live like a Mormon. He lived like a rowdy kid who liked to have a good time, get in fights. It would not be an easy transition. What would his family think?
"Wait to get baptized until you're ready to move out, we don't want you to contaminate the family," his parents told him.
So he waited. Leslie graduated high school in May of 1966 and then started as a freshman at University of Kentucky. Todd was baptized in April of 1967. And they were married the next month, on June 10, 1967 at Spindletop in Lexington. And a year and a day later they were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple.
For all intents and purposes it never should have worked. But, nearly 44 years later, it is still working.
Now what does this have to do with me and my blog?
Well, besides the fact that Leslie and Todd are my parents and besides the fact that I really would like to include more family stories in this blog, there is a specific event that revolves around their story that if shared without the history, just wouldn't have been good enough.
When I was 16 we lived in New Hampshire. Our basement flooded and I can't remember why. But I was there with my mother, sorting through various boxes, keeping what we could and throwing out the rest.
I had heard the story of my parent's many, many times. It was almost like family lore. I could tell the story myself. I would have been uncertain about dates and some minor details, but I knew how it went and of course how it all played out. But to me, at 16, it still felt like a story.
In one of the boxes we discovered some papers and I took a big stack upstairs to the family room and sat down to sort them out. And what I found had me riveted.
I had in my hands, the letters that had been written between my father and mother all those years ago. The letters written by their hands, professing their love for each other. Words written by a girl my same age to the man she would marry. I can't remember what most of them said, except a line they both wrote to each other in almost every one,
"Please don't stop loving me."
When my mom came up and saw what I had found, I don't know exactly what she thought. I could tell that she was not overly excited about me reading them. She wasn't going to take them away before I had finished, but I had the feeling that once I had, I probably would not see them again. And I haven't.
But I sat on the floor there, reading their handwriting, and my whole little world seemed to shift. Not very much, but enough. After all, these were all things I knew, but suddenly I saw them just a little bit differently.
As children we see our parents as our parents. I saw them as Mom and Dad. I knew they had a life before I came along, but really no way to understand it and no reason to try. Until I read those letters. In a flash I could see my parents as people. I am sure it happens at some point to every child, but for me it happened then. All of the sudden I saw my mom so differently; as a woman, a girl, not just Mom. I saw part of her heart I had never seen before. And all of a sudden I saw myself differently, too. I was a girl. Someday I would be a woman. Someday I would marry a man. Did I know him already? We would have children. I would be a Mom. I would live my life and go places and do things, and be somebody. And there on the floor in the family room, those things that seemed so far away for me, became all the more real.
And now I am a woman, a girl, a mom. I found my husband. I've had babies. I have gone places, done things, and become somebody. And of course there is still so much ahead of me.
A year or so ago, I got an email from a friend, and what she wrote made me cry because I always cry and because she put into words what had been in my head and my heart since I had started writing.
She detailed a dream she had, I will spare the morbid details, but she went on to say that my kids would know me, because of what I had written. And that is what I really want. I want them to have the chance to see their mother as a person. To see what I loved and what I struggled with, what I did with them and to them, that I loved them, I loved their father, what I wished for, what I did and where I went.
And I want to give them the chance to see themselves. Not just for who and what they are when they read it, but for who they will be. I want them to realize, to feel, that they are going to grow and go places, and meet people, do things, and become someone. That life isn't just about how it is right now, but that time brings possibilities and changes. That someday they will be Mom or Dad.
Here I am now, writing posts on this blog. And while I have a list of reasons for doing so, I can sum it all up by saying,
I do it a little for you,
a little for me,
and mostly for them.
