Real Regret

While riding in a combine with my father in a small basin just to the left of the cedar covered hill we called Cedar Mountain, my dad was edgy and a bit at a loss for words. It was harvest of 1971, the last one I would experience while living at home. I listened for the sound of the engine and the rhythmic sound of grain going into the tank behind our cab. I was aware of any smell of hot bearings on the machine. This type of hypersensitivity is what you did, when my father showed you how to operate expensive, heavy equipment.

I watched the cutter bar for rocks, a common problem on any farm. It was the curse of living in the place where lava activity made the soil so rich. The purple stones with large holes ranged from the size of a grapefruit to several feet in width and height. You found them each year, after plows pierced the soil and forced them into the sunlight.

It was weeks before I departed for a large university. My dad was worried about something. Finally he spoke.



"When you choose a woman you want to marry, you have to choose carefully, wisely." He looked at me directly for a moment, before focusing again on the golden rows of wheat being cut and whipped onto the platform below us. He watched in silence for a few minutes, and then he continued: "You have to select someone who loves you, someone who takes care of you."

The second part is not a direct quote, because I didn't listen to the exact words of the latter part. I was this prideful nineteen-year-old, who thought he knew everything about the world. The comments were somehow irritating, because I always dated nice girls, pretty ones with intelligence. And I felt sensitive that my dad thought me unable to make a judgement like that. He was just worried about me.

I went to college and dated a girl from a big city, who did what my father warned me about. We went everywhere together, spent hours daily going to movies and to concerts and to college sporting events. I dated more there than I did throughout high school. We were together every day.

You see I thought she felt as I did. When you find the truth of the matter is when you step onto a plane and leave the country for two years. In fact, the relationship--in spite of a little ring--didn't last two months.

It seems silly now, because it was a "promise ring." I still find euphemisms interesting.

So now I'm going to tell a story about my soulmate. In the summer of 1970, we had spent a long week working on the farm. We finished that day in an 80 acre field just below Cedar Mountain, the field beyond the barbed wire fence. I drove a Caterpillar D-6. It was a dusty mess. Hours after driving it, your ears would ring.

That was the fact that always made me nervous, because we had a neighbor. This man drove a D-4, and during the winter, he rode in his truck with the windows rolled up tightly. His son, just a bit older than I, would throw bales of hay to his cattle. I could hear the radio playing two hundred yards away on a winter evening. I feared old age. I drove a tractor, a loud one. And I loved loud music.

On that summer day, there were no cows, and I didn't hear our neighbor's favorite radio station, but I spent the day driving tractor and setting large areas of straw ablaze. The combination of dust and soot made me look like Al Jolson, all decked out in black face makeup. We arrive at our house in Malad about 9:00 p.m. or so. Dad parks the white '63 Chevrolet pickup in the front of the house, where we always did. Suddenly, dad says this: "Hey, there's a carload of girls there."

I hear them laughing and talking. I make a break for the back door, when I hear my dad's voice again. "Jon, they're not here to talk to me." I'm still walking quickly. I turn momentarily, hoping no one is looking at me. There is Ann Thomas.

"We're having this party tomorrow night, a cookout. I want to know if you'd come with me."

I told a class once that I was shy in high school. They laughed. I told my college girlfriend I was shy. She laughed. Everyone, who knew me reacted the same way. But I was shy.

I said I would go. "I'll see you tomorrow night at 7:00." Ann turned and walked back to the car. A smile stretched across my father's face. He knew me. In spite of my "black face" of homegrown makeup made of dust and soot, I blushed. Somehow my dad knew it.

My dad grinned, just like he did when I he told another story about me. I was in sixth grade. Some classmates threw their high school stepsister into the waters of a reservoir, where dad and I fished. The girl was Malad's version of Dolly Parton, except for the singing part. She must have been home during the day, and it was hot, which explains why there was nothing under that T-shirt. Only a pervert would have noticed, until of course she emerged from the water. I looked once, and then I turned red-faced and stared away. My dad began to cackle, all while the girl called her step-brothers sonsabitches.

"Let's go home Jon." He didn't call me Jonie as usual. All the way home, he laughed, and then he said how he witness that his "Jonie was not a boy but a man now."

Dad told that story at every family reunion for 20 years. I called it The Day Jonie Became A Man story, and he finished by telling everyone how red my face and ears were. I blushed every time, and it made everyone laugh--even after hearing the story a dozen times or more.

I was shy.

The next day came. I was the kind of kid, who could hear his heart pounding in his throat, when he called or talked to a girl. Just thinking they could also hear that sound made it worse somehow. We did the dinner. Ann and I had fun together. She made me feel comfortable with everyone there. It was a small town, but I still felt uncomfortable.

The next Saturday, we are in town early. We clean up. The sun is still bright. Dad looks at me. "Did you call Ann?"

"What? Why would I do that?" My dad shakes his head and smiles. He looks at me again. You need to thank her for asking you to that party.

I get on the phone immediately and dial the number. My heart is pounding in my throat. Within 15 minutes, I start my Model A pickup, and I'm driving toward Ann's house. We went to the Malad Drive-In. I know it doesn't sound like much, but on fancy nights, I took Ann to The Chat 'N Chew, a diner not far from the fast food place.

Ann and I sat in my truck. She talked. I listened. We sat in the shade of a large tree at The Malad Drive-In.

In October, my dad put my cassette stereo in the family car. It had this anti-theft bracket, so I not only could remove it, but I could also put it in additional cars as I wished, and I did, after I went to school. On that night in October, we rode in our family car, an olive green Ford Torino GT. It was a great car. It had bucket seats. I was a gentleman. I opened the driver's side, which meant that Ann sat on the middle hard part between the seats next to me. For me, it was about having her close to me.

I played Buffalo Springfield's album entitled Retrospective, a greatest hits album. As soon as I shut the door, Ann identifies the band's name, which was my favorite. Then she tells me the names of the members: Neil Young, Stephen Stills and Richie Furay on guitar; Bruce Palmer on bass, and Dewey Martin on drums. I was in love. It was a match in heaven.

We dated until January of 1971. When we stopped dating, I was devastated. It frightened my parents. For months, I listened to my Buffalo Springfield collection. My mom even encouraged me to buy additional albums, something new. Led Zeppelin and The Moody Blues showed me a bit of relief, but when it came to college, I listened closely.

I had a music scholarship offer to go to Utah State. The main person is someone, who really liked me as a person and especially as a musician. Not only did I play in several summer band programs he conducted, but I also had the chance to tour Europe with a large band he put together after my senior year. I didn't do it. It's the curse of being the only son in a family with a large ranch.

There were applications sent to Utah State University and BYU. I had housing approved and waiting at both schools. I waited to see, where Ann went. She had scholarship offers at both universities. She went to BYU. Anyone, who knows me, also knows that it took something like this to get me to Happy Valley, yet all while I was there, I didn't date Ann: not even once. We hadn't talked sine January.

The dating of a girl from Salt Lake was something I don't understand. I wasn't mature enough for a relationship, so maybe it was fun to see the look on Ann's face occasionally, when she saw me with someone there. I had been unhappy, and I wanted to share that gift I guess.

One semester is how long I spent at BYU before going on a mission to Germany. Within weeks of being in a language training center, the girl from Salt Lake distanced herself from me emotionally.

We began fighting in letters, not a good sign of a healthy relationship.

In February of 1972, my mom sent this large package with three types of my favorite homemade cookies, two cakes, Rice Krispy Treats and other assorted things. There was enough to feed at least 15 nineteen-year-old males, and I did exactly that. My mother sends me this note. She tells me that she sent the package to Provo from Malad with Ann, so that I would get everything freshly baked and nice. And by the way, she continues, "It's Ann's birthday on the nineteenth of February."

I wrote a card. We began writing, and we continued for two years, with only a few weeks when we didn't send anything. It was usually when Ann had finals and when I had to travel to conferences in Germany.

Before January of 1974, I told Ann about my intentions of not returning to BYU. She sent me materials to sign up for school there. Ann encouraged me to complete them.

On January 9, 1974, I stepped off a jet in Salt Lake City, and there was this beautiful brunette with chocolate brown eyes, red cheeks, blue bell bottomed slacks. Ann hesitated, when I told her to ride home with our family, but we began dating immediately.

She rode with me to see the stake president, when he released me from my mission, which by the way was something that would not be seen as appropriate today. Ann and I rode there alone. Ann and I spent every day together, going to movies, to concerts, to athletic events. We drove home together.

Within four weeks of getting home, we talked about marriage. Here's my regret. I regret not marrying her sooner, but that was pretty much impossible. I regret not dating her in my first semester in college, but that was not possible either. I would have been unable to leave her, and that could not have been a positive option.

The real regret is this. I didn't get down on a knee and formally propose and hand her a ring. We made the decision like every one we made throughout our 37 years of marriage. We did it together, after talking about it and deciding on a course of action.

She remains the love of my life. She is the woman my dad talked to me about all those years ago--a woman, who truly loved me as much as I loved her, a woman, who took care of me for as long as I remember, a woman, who loves me in spite of my being me.

I still am in love with the beauty with the chocolate brown eyes. And we still enjoy the music of Buffalo Springfield. My dad was right. My Annie has been a blessing to me in my life.