Blowing in the Wind

The most amazing thing happened last night!

I almost got into a fist fight with my best friend from back in the day.

We were both waiting in line to get seats for our local high school production of Damn Yankees--me, with 2o of my Young Women, and she, with 10 of her kids.

I kid not. She really has ten kids. (And she's still skinny.) Her mom had ten kids too. (And she's still skinny.)

I was like "Hey, lady, you and your ten kids are crowded us!" And she was like, "Oh, yea!? You wanna make something of it?"

Then just as we were about to start pulling hair, a flicker of recognition crossed between us.

"Mary?" I gasped, and then we fell into each others arms in a fit of giggles.

Talk about whiplash!


I don't remember when our friendship began, but she told me last night that she distinctly remembers vacuuming my living room floor before my baptism, which fascinates me because the only thing I remember about my baptism was that after it was all over I told a fib on the way to the city dump and spoiled the whole thing.

I don't remember when our friendship fizzled out either, but it must have been quite some time after her family moved to Eureka to live in an old church with her cousins. We commuted back and forth on weekends for a while, but eventually the long distance relationship took it's toll.


You can't tell, but we were sporting our Donny and Marie t-shirts in these photos. You have no idea how many hours we spent stretched out across her bedroom floor listening to Marie Osmond sing Paper Roses and wishing we had a brother who wore Purple socks.

The coolest thing about Mary's bedroom was that it was actually the cry room of that old church in Eureka, which means that half of one wall was a window overlooking the sacrament pews. The cry room was situated above the chapel and was designed for mothers with disruptive children. The idea was that the mothers would be able to see and hear the church services, without the church services being able to see and hear them. A brilliant idea, which also came in handy for catching her cousins, who lived in the rooms on the other side of the cultural hall, in the act of plotting secret missions to take over the church.

The crazy thing about seeing Mary last night was that she has a memory like a mouse trap.

"Remember that hit song we wrote?" she said and then she sang it: "We are the dancing dolls. We are the dancing dolls. We turn around and touch the ground. We are the dancing dolls."

Startling how heelarious I was even at the tender age of ten.

"And remember that year I came to your Bicentenial family reunion in Mt. Carmel?" she said. "I still have Todd Lookinlands autograph in my scrapbook."

I had completely forgotten about that autograph. And about the fact that not only do I see famous people, I'm also related to famous people.

You all know Bobby Brady, right?

Well we just so happen to be blood kin.

I've never met him, but his brother, Todd, came to our Bicentenial family reunion.

Lookie, this is him in 1976--the very same year we got his autograph--with Elizabeth Taylor in The Blue Bird. He went on to play the chicken boy in Karate Kid and surfer #3 in Big Wednesday. The list goes on and on but I don't want to sound like a Braggedy Ann.

Todd Lookinland wasn't the only thing Mary remembered about that reunion. She also remember singing Blowing in the Wind and If I had a Hammer and Leaving on a Jet Plane at the top of our lungs all the way down to Mt. Carmel. And she remembers asking my mom if she was going to have any more kids. Apparently my mom laughed and said "I don't think so, I've already ruined seven of them."

What a silly goose mom.

The most surprising thing Mary remembered was my dad's sense of humor. That image of him usually gets upstaged in my mind by his presence, yet absence in my life. He was present, yes, but withdrawn and depressed. Or Present, yet strung out on pain meds. Or present, yet nursing another serious bleed caused by his hemophilia.

It was surreal almost, listening to her talk about him. "He was always so funny," she said and then she repeated a story as if she were telling a joke about how on the way to the reunion she asked him to stop at the next bathroom.

"Why?" he said, "Do you need to take a bath?"

"No, I need to go to the restroom," she told him.

"Why, are you tired? Do you need to take a nap?"


Three words: Ba dum bum


He would have made a great Crash Test Dummy, don't you think? And I would have made a great side kick.

But he's been absent, yet present in my life for 28 years now, tomorrow.

March 27th.

In fact 28 years ago today I was a freshman at Provo High School, trying to decide what I was going to wear to the big dance at Timpview. I spent most of the day at American Fork high at a choir competition wrestling with a strong, persistent, almost urgent, nagging feeling that I needed to go see my dad, who lived in an apartment five blocks from my house. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him so it didn't make much sense to suddenly pop in. I thought of dropping by and asking if I could borrow ten bucks to buy the hot pink double breasted bolero from Lerners I'd been eyeballing for the dance, but I never borrowed money from my dad so that didn't make sense either.

In the end I borrowed ten bucks from my tithing, walked downtown to Lerners and bought the bolero. When my hot rollers went out while I was getting ready for the dance and my mom told me to go ask my dad to fix them. Again I ignored the opportunity.

Sometime during the dance that night, while I was praying with all my heart that Keith Sperry would catch me on a slow song, my dad overdosed.

It's strange how things stick to memory when your life is about to change colors. I distinctly recall going outside during the dance and pausing and looking up at the sky, inky and vaguely punctuated by a spattering of random stars. I distinctly recall inhaling deeply even though I had no idea what was about to hit me.

For one moment in time I stood alone in my hot pink bolero, paid for by God, while the moody March air wrapped her arms around me and chastised me, gently.

"I'm sorry kid," she said, shaking her head, "but you're going to regret this night for the rest of your life."

Regretting something you did is a heavy cross to bear, but regretting something you didn't do, that you could have done, and SHOULD have done, is a whole different animal.

I've gone back to that night many times in my mind, as depicted in my short story Letting Daddy Die, which many of you have already read, but this year, thanks to Mary, I'm not going back. This year I'd rather drive shotgun to a family reunion in Mt. Carmel and sing Blowing in the Wind at the top my lungs.

This year I'd rather smile and giggle at my dad making like a crash test dummy.

LY, Dad!

And ba dum bum