My worst mistake was . . .

Engagement party

September/October 1976

. . . getting married when I was 20 years old.
 

I first saw him in March 1976.  I was 19 years old, a sophomore at Cal State Fullerton, working as a hostess at Fiddler’s Three Restaurant on Yorba Linda Boulevard in Yorba Linda, California.  He was 23 years old, a salesman for his uncle’s company, and in his second year of law school.  He came into Fiddler’s Three regularly to see his younger sister, who was one of the waitresses. I admit I was attracted to his golden tan, piercing sky-blue eyes, and jet black hair.  He was very handsome --- a cross between Elvis Presley and Ricky Nelson.  The other hostesses and waitresses swooned over him and begged his sister to be “set up.”  She served him their offers along with his Reuben sandwich, cheese soup and coffee with cream.  He coyly turned them all down.

Several weeks later his sister approached me.  “I’m having a party to celebrate my 21st birthday.  Craig would like you there.  Will you come?”  I was stunned by the invitation.  I did not imagine myself pretty enough or smart enough for a 23-year-old law student. In my state of shock, I nodded my head in mute acceptance.

On Monday, April 12, 1976, I drove my red Toyota Corolla to 806 Alder Street in Brea, California.  The Corolla to 806 Alder Street in Brea, California.  The small house was filled with balloons, streamers, and beer-drinking partygoers.  Very introverted by nature, I was overwhelmed by the room full of strangers and found a safe place to “hide” -- on the bench of the player piano at the back wall of the dining room.  I sat there nervous and wide-eyed.  Suddenly Craig appeared in front of me, an Olympus camera in his hand.  “Hold on,” he said, “I want to take a few pictures and I’ll be right with you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Wow.  Kinda arrogant,” I thought. 

He came back awhile later and said, “Do you want to get out of here? ”  I said that I did.  As we left the house for a drive in his yellow, convertible TR-6, I felt rescued by a knight in shining armor.  We were together from that night on.

The first couple of weeks he took me three times to Cask and Cleaver, a high-end steak and seafood restaurant in Fullerton.  He was so much more sophisticated that the Phi Tau and Delta Chi frat boys I guzzled beer with on Wednesday “bar nights” and at weekend “keg” parties.  He had a credit card.  He was very handsome.  What else did a girl of the 70’s need?

It wasn’t long before he declared his love.  When he said he loved me I thought, “What is love?”  I had no idea. 

After dating non-stop for six weeks, Craig proposed with tears streaming down his face.  “Will you marry me?”  We had just had sex inside a sleeping bag on the floor of the Fireside Room of the La Jolla Congregational Church, an historic brick building from the late 1800’s.  I was surprised and also embarrassed, not only at the question, but at his uncharacteristic display of emotion.  I chalked the incident up to the fact that we had been drinking, patted him on the back and agreed to marry him. What else could I say?  He was crying! 

Later that night, and we got up to explore the eerily quiet sanctuary.  Behind the pulpit was a magnificent organ with pipes that filled the back wall and climbed 50 feet to the peaked ceiling.  The wooden pews groaned as we sat on them.  Every wall had exquisite stained glass windows, beautiful in the moonlight that illuminated them.

Suddenly Craig got up and climbed the stairs to the huge organ.  He sat down on the bench, laid his hands gracefully on the ivory keys, and played Bach’s Tocatta and Fugue in d minor.  In the dark, still, empty church I imagined the souls of decades of saints sent stirring at the midnight intrusion of their hallowed sanctuary.  The base tones resonated between the brick walls and the wooden ceiling and through to the very core of my being.  I was enthralled, enraptured, elevated by the music and the unveiling of this elevated by the music and the unveiling of this previously unknown talent of his.  The deliciousness of Bach’s composing, the force of the organ, the intimacy of the moment, and, still, I did not love him.

The next morning, while loading up the yellow TR-6 to attend his best friend’s wedding, he opened my door.  As I lowered myself into the car, he stopped me.

“You remember what I said last night?” Craig asked seriously.  Thinking he was looking for way out of the proposal, I quipped, “Don’t worry about it.  You were drunk.”  I started again to get into the car.  

He took both my arms and turned me until I faced him.  He looked deep into my eyes and said, “I’m serious, Melinda.  I want to marry you.”

A million thoughts rushed through my head.  I was only a sophomore in college.  Did he want me to stop going to school?  I had plans to study Spanish (my major) in Guadalajara, Mexico, for a year.  Did he want me to abandon the trip?  I was an active member of the Epsilon Tau chapter of the Sigma Kappa sorority.  I would have to leave the sorority if I got married.  Was I willing to give up my sorority sisters and fraternity parties?  Most importantly, I had known him only six weeks.

On the other hand, I had cruel, physically and mentally-abusive parents who terrorized me and made my life hell.

He had a credit card.

He was extremely handsome.

He was already making a good income.

In a few years, he would be an attorney.

Still, I did not love him. 

I looked into his blue eyes, kissed him, and promised to be his wife.

January 8, 1977, was a cold, cloudy Saturday with intermittent drizzles and rain.  I spent the morning watching reruns of The Three Stooges, until it was time to leave for the church.

At 4:30 PM the organ pelted out the first notes of “Here Comes the Bride”. Four hundred guests stood up, turned towards the back of the church, and watched me step into the aisle on my father’s arm.  My waist-length hair was pulled back and covered in a beaded cap and veil.  All 127 pounds of me was dressed in an empire-waist wedding dress I had designed and sewn myself.  Cream-colored satin, layered with lace on the bodice and 10-inch cuffs, each with a row of six satin-covered buttons tucked into hand-sewn loops. Thirty more buttons and loops, from the top of the high collar to the top of my butt, decorated the back of the dress.  Dangling from my neck was a gold necklace and heart locket he had his best man deliver to my dressing room just before the ceremony was to begin.  The locket was my “something new,” and I also had a penny in my shoe.  I know there was “something old,” “something borrowed,” and “something blue,” but, for the life of me, I cannot remember what they were.

As the organ played and music filled the sanctuary, I stepped out to where countless brides had walked before me to participate in that time-honored ceremony where a man leaves his father and mother to be united with his wife so that the two could become one flesh.  A smile on my face as I looked through netting into the faces of wedding guests I mostly did not know, I pondered the union of marriage and the man waiting for me at the other end of the aisle, smiling nervously in his maroon tuxedo and tie.

“I wonder how long this will last,” I thought to myself. “Well, at least he doesn’t hit me.”

Write about your mother's cooking.

Adopted at six-months

First weekend with "new mommy"

Mothers Day 1957

I do not have happy memories of my mother. She turned 92 in February 2009, and she is still the same woman she was when she raised me -- mean-spirited, cruel, abusive, manipulative, controlling, unreasonable, and a teller of blatant lies. I stopped all contact with her after my father died in December 1998, and in those ten years since I have been able to step back from the narcissism and determine one good thing about the woman who raised me -- she was a fabulous cook!

Until I was 8 years old we lived on a piece of property that had a small orchard. We had lemon, apple and peach trees, all kinds of vegetables, and rhubarb. Because she did not have to work outside the home, and because she had studied nutrition in college, my mother enjoyed preparing fresh meals. We grew up on homemade bread (because the store brands were “too expensive”). We ate fresh apple, blueberry, peach, and lemon pies, with crusts so light and flakey the layers could be separated with a feather. My favorite was her apple pie, a double-crust delicacy filled with fresh apples, cinnamon, sugar, and butter. I never asked for a cake on my birthday; I always asked for an apple pie. We had fresh applesauce and rhubarbsause for breakfast, each fruit soaked in its own juices and added suger.

My favorite meal was meatloaf with baked potatoes and vegetables. Her “secret” was to use crushed Saltine crackers instead of bread crumbs, and to mix in a quarter pound of ground pork with the beef. The baked potatoes were covered in butter and sour cream, with lots of salt and pepper added to taste. Absolutely “hog heaven,” as my Aunt Rosie would say.

When I got married in 1977, I, of course, had to prepare meatloaf for my new husband. That is when she told me her “secret” to the recipe, and explained that the pork added fat and flavor to the beef. I remember I made the meatloaf for my husband as a surprise. He came home just as I was pulling the steaming meatloaf from the oven. The smell filled the house, the juices were bubbling in the pan, and I thought he would love me forever as soon as he tasted my masterpiece. Instead, he looked at the pan in my mitt-covered hands and said, “If that’s a meatloaf I won’t eat it. I hate meatloaf.” When we divorced a decade later, one of the first meals I prepared for myself in my new apartment was meatloaf and baked potatoes.

My mother also made the best potato salad I have ever tasted. I used to watch her prepare the salad, and cut the potatoes into perfect little cubes. Then she added hard-boiled eggs, scallions, celery, celery seed, celery salt, and mayonnaise. Whenever I think of summer, I think of her potato salad and her finger-licking-good fried chicken, with strawberry shortcake for dessert. Her secret for the potato salad is to allow the cut potatoes to soak overnight in Italian salad dressing. It adds more flavor to the potatoes.

She also perfected a “gringa” recipe for enchiladas. She would brown the ground beef in oil and spices. In a separate pan, the tortillas were fried in hot oil, then placed in a baking dish and filled with the cooked beef, sliced yellow onions, and chopped olives. Then she folded the tortilla in half, covering the filling. She could get about 20 of those tortillas into the baking dish. Then she poured canned enchilada sauce over the folded tortillas and then covered all of that with grated cheddar cheese. As the enchiladas baked in the oven, the house filled with a smell that even now is making my mouth water. After 20 minutes, the piping hot, cheesy enchiladas were ready to eat. It was heaven!

Over the years I have tried to duplicate her cooking. I never learned how to make a pie -- it was her secret and she would not share it with me. The last time I had her apple pie was in 1995. After that she stopped making them for me. She said it was “too much trouble.” I also never leaned how to fry chicken. Another secret she’ll take to her grave.

I’ve leaned how to make potato salad, and everyone who eats my potato says how good it is. The truth is, I do not have the patience to cut the potatoes into small cubes like she did. Also, there’s just “something” missing from my salad. My friends cannot taste it, but I can. Nothing is as good as the salad she made. I could go on and on about the extraordinary meals that came from her kitchen, especially on holidays like Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. I guess I can say I’m lucky to have these good memories, for then I can see that my childhood wasn’t all bad. I do confess, I miss those days of coming home to a house filled with the smells of home cooking.