Mrs. Who?

So, the news is that a famous prisoner has been granted permission to marry.

The question is, who would marry him?

This is a young man who has had his whole face and head (and, perhaps body, but I'm not going there) tattooed with hate messages. More importantly, he is a convicted murderer.

Although I'm not personally fond of tattoos, I know many nice people have them. However, this man has carried it so far that I can't see what he looks like. Maybe this was his purpose. Along with not having an attractive look in my book, someone who is completely hiding behind tattoos may possibly be an unlikely candidate for the open and honest thing most of us want in a relationship. And he's violent.

Also, the guy is in prison. For the rest of his life. Could also be on death row. It's probably just me, but that's not what I would look for in a guy. I kind of like someone I can have access to on a frequent basis, who can contribute to the household finances and chores, be a role model for my children, be there for me when I need a partner, or at least cook my dinner.

As far as I know, the news has not revealed who the lucky bride-to-be is, but it does make one wonder.

Back in my single days, I started to notice that there is not exactly equity between the sexes as far as ease in getting married. I used to go to dances and sometimes stand on the side for most of the time, because all of the attractive men had brought their own dates. And this was back when I was cute. I would re-shower, put on something very nice and often dry cleanable only, recurl my hair, redo my makeup, pay for a baby sitter, and go out trying to meet my match.

Then I would stand in a steaming crowd among other beautiful, classy, trim, and intelligent-looking women, and wait.

Men would show up in jeans and a tee shirt--having made no effort at all. If they didn't already have all their dances pre-booked with the date they brought, decent men were so in demand that they could dance every dance with someone different and not even make a dent in the number of women looking at them.

There used to be a guy at every dance whom I, not really affectionately, called "the Mole." I picked this name for him because I never knew his name, and because he walked around with his head down on his chubby front and his shoulders shrugged. Had there been grass on the dance floor, he would have tunneled right through it to me. He always asked me to dance twice a night.

At first, I would dance with him just to be nice and to get me out there on the floor in order to be seen. But when I found myself busy all night with those who would be his friends if they knew how to make friends, I had to wonder if this was hurting instead of helping my chances. I was not overly vain, but I did own a mirror, and I had to wonder if these crowd-fringe guys really thought they were my equal, or didn't care as long as I danced with them, or what? The Mole never tried to talk to me, so I really didn't know his intentions, and maybe he had none.

But some guys did. I can't even tell you how many "between jobs" (this was before the bad economy), "slipped a disk," "going back to school but I don't know what in yet," "was excommunicated but don't worry about it," "wife just died," and "living with Mom" stories I heard in the first fifteen seconds of meeting someone this way. And I noticed that, when I started going to the older dances instead of the younger ones, the first question I was asked changed from, "What school do you go to?" to "Why are you divorced?"

I am not a mean person. I'm not talking about good-catches-but just-not-quite-Prince-Charming here. I am talking about guys who would show up smelling so badly of mildew that they must have dried their clothes in the dryer without turning it on. (It takes I would guess about a week that way.) Guys who nervously confessed as I tried to avoid their smelly armpits that their bishops had "challenged" them come to a dance.

So I decided I was no longer going to make such an effort and pay good money to dance all night with guys who just, frankly, didn't have a chance. I decided to give a guy one look and, if there was honestly no way, just say no.

I'll never forget the first time I tried it. A guy shuffled his way over to me and I gave him the once-over. His clothes were dirty and torn, and his mustache had food in it. I smiled sweetly and said, "No, but thank you."

He was so sure the answer would be yes that he turned to start walking out on the dance floor (assuming I'd follow), and then did a double-take. "What did you say?"

"Thank you for asking, but, no thanks."

He stared at me like what I had done was completely unbelievable.

It was an experiment, and I found the results fascinating. Seriously? I wondered. Does every girl always say yes, no matter what?

Then I started extending this asking-for-a-dance thing in my mind to analyze the whole male-female thing. I know there are plenty of males who stay in a relationship too long or put up with what they shouldn't, but it seems to me to be a particularly common female downfall.

Are we so brainwashed by the stories of how when the prince shows up, all the problems are solved, that we will take anyone male? No matter what?

It's just not like that for women. Most of the time, in order for a woman to attract a man, she has to meet up to certain criteria. If a man cannot find anyone who meets his criteria, he can still find a woman, because there are plenty of women who I think will take anyone. There do not seem to be plenty of men who will take any woman, no matter what.

I have known of so many stories, some of them my own, where women put up with all kinds of far-less-than-ideal situations just to hang on to or catch a man who seems, really, not all that worth catching. The one whose live-in "fiance" slept with other women in his office in the same building where we all worked. The one whose husband held her hostage in her home for a week, yet she took him back. The one whose husband raped her six-month-old baby, which killed it, and she took him back. The ones who let guys live off of their welfare benefits and never contribute in any way other than as a sperm bank.

I wish I could get the whole of society to try an experiment. What if we didn't accept any man in any circumstance? What if all women required a man to meet a certain standard before accepting him? Wouldn't men do the male equivalent of dolling themselves up, so to speak--improving themselves in the ways we need them to--for women? I betcha they would if it was the only way to get one.

Sadly, I have become convinced through all that I have seen, that any man, and I mean any, could find a woman who would marry him, no matter what.

Tree Buds

"I bought a ring."

These words flashed up at me from my cell phone screen as I shut my phone off. I was in an airplane, coming home from my sister's funeral in another state. I had to shut my phone off--the plane was about to take off, so that's all I got to see and know for several hours.

But the significance of those four words was not lost on me. My heart, which had been through a lot lately, leaped with new emotions. A thrill went up my spine, and air left my lungs.

They meant that my oldest child, my firstborn son, the center of my heart since his birth, was about to take a life-altering step. One with significant ramifications, eternal consequences.

I sat huddled in my black clothes, hugging my black jacket to me, next to the dark window, imagining all sorts of new possibilities. In my mind, I could see the sparkle of the diamond, the light in my son's face as he had contemplated this move, my future daughter-in-law's luminous eyes.

It was the dead of winter.

On the first day of spring, exactly two months after my sister's tortured death by cancer, I watched one of my beloved nieces emerge from the temple in a lacy ivory dress with her cute new husband. Everything from her sunlit face to the long darkest-yet-brightest-yellow-possible (saffron, she called it) ribbon wrapped around her slim waist and trailing down the back of her dress said, "Spring is here." Here was the embodiment of new life and young love with endless possibilities.

On the way home from work today, I played a game with myself called, "What month does it look like?" Ahead of me were the gray granite mountains east of the city, frosted with ice and snow. Nearer by, lawns were partly green, partly brown. Trees, except for evergreens, were bare. At first glance, it wasn't clear. "Well," I reasoned, "it's definitely not July, June, or August." I then ruled out May and September. April? No. The green would be more pronounced. Pale leaves would be coming out in the trees. September? No, not with that much snow on the mountains. That left anything from October to March.

As I continued to drive, I peered furtively into gardens in the front of buildings, hoping for some sign that would tell me, definitively, the month. Two blocks went past, and then, just before turning into my driveway, I saw it--a tree puffing dark but full buds out along its branches. "March," I sighed with relief.

Not that I didn't already know that.

But, sometimes, in the midst of bleakness--of the season, or of life, or recession, or lost love or opportunity, it can be hard to see the buds coming out, promising newness and life.

Life Well Lived

I have just outlived my grandma.

She was a few days younger than I when she tragically died from an infection in the lining of her heart. Probably, a round of antibiotics would have cured her without a second thought. But this was before antibiotics. It was thirty years before I was even born. My mother was five. Instead, my grandmother spent a couple of years getting weaker and aging horrifically. In the last picture taken of her, she looks to be eighty--more than thirty years older than she really was.

Lying alone in a bedroom, she worsened and died, leaving eight children.

I realized a little while ago that she would have been surprised to be thought of as "Grandma." She wasn't anyone's grandma in her lifetime. (Neither am I yet.) None of her children was married. She had two grown daughters, ages 24 and 22, still living at home; a son, just turned 20, who was kicking around the idea of going on a church mission--mostly kicking it away, I think, until his mother actually died and he decided to do as she wished; another son who was almost 16; a daughter at the tricky age of thirteen-and-a-half; an eleven-year-old boy who would grow up to be tops in the field of endocrinology; and two little girls, eight and five.

She was just Lizzie, named Elizabeth for both of her pioneer grandmothers--one a black-silk-wearing elegant lady in a tragic marriage and the other a generous down-to-earth woman who had also been cut down early by poor health.

Really, given her short life span, I expected to outlive my grandmother, and I'm awfully glad that I have, given that I still have a passel of children to raise, as well.

I often wonder what she thought of as those months of illness encroached on and overcame her. I hope she was able to hang around, unseen, to continue to love and guide her young ones. I hope they could feel her love, sense her near, take comfort. But there is so little to know about that.

Only a two handfuls of photographs were taken of Lizzie in her lifetime. Her wedding portrait, 103 years old, hangs in my bedroom. In this, as in most of her other photographs, her gaze is steady, her expression somewhat serious. She does not look dour or stern. She is just being herself, not saying cheese for the camera. My mother always told me that I have her gray eyes, but when I look at the eyes in her photographs, I can't read them.

I wish I had known her. I wish I could read her expression, know what she thought, or thinks. Never knowing one's maternal grandmother is not usually any kind of a blessing (a near-curse that most of my own children share).

My own mother only knew her as a small child can know a parent--as a nurturer, a soft blankie, giver of food and hander-down of rules. My own five-year-old could hardly write an essay on my personality, thoughts, and experiences, I'm sure.

It seems that the things I know about my grandmother, Elizabeth, are things to admire--and traits I unfortunately do not share. She won prizes for her gardens, while plants coming under my care have been handed an undeserved death sentence. She shared such a close bond with her husband that the one time they mildly disagreed, my mother was shocked. I love my husband, but we have disagreed more than once. She was tall and trim. I am short and lost my waist the second I conceived my first child. Her children were unfailingly polite and loyal to each other. Mine boss and police each other. She wore long dresses every day of her life. I am in my nightgown by the time I've been home 90 seconds. She was an excellent seamstress and cook. I haven't had access to a sewing machine until my last birthday, and my husband likes to do almost all the cooking. Her small house was always clean. My children toss their empty cups onto the floor. At least, my baby does. She was ever industrious, raising her large family, tending her large yard, and helping with her small farm. I am often lazy and can't even imagine dealing with chickens.

My only hope is that I am comparing her best to my worst. I have heard that she was unfailingly faithful, and stuck to her beliefs and principles despite the worst trials. I try to be like that. She has also been described as "a progressive woman" who drove a car when most women didn't and would go around the neighborhood picking up other women to take them to meetings. I would like to think I got a little of that from her, too.

But I am painfully aware that outliving her is a small accomplishment--done by default, mainly. She easily "outlived" me in many areas. What is the length of a life compared to the depth and breadth of it? Though she left her children motherless at vulnerable ages, she achieved remarkable success with them. Each grew to be a great, good person, a hard worker, a valuable contributor to society. She left a legacy of faith, honor, diligence, and production that I cannot match.

So this is my work: to live for the time I have left as well and as importantly as she did. To cultivate the kind of work ethic, kindness, beauty, truth, family success, and grit that live on in her long absence from the world, because what I can hold over her is nothing compared to what she holds over me.

Finally, Mitchell Exposed

So. Today, after seven years, the authorities involved finally said what I (and many others) could have told them from day one.

Brian David Mitchell can stand trial.

What Mitchell can't stand is: getting caught. Not being in control. Not being right. Not having a precious little girl to abuse. Not being worshiped. Being normal.

To which I say, too bad, who cares?

If Mitchell really believed he was a prophet sent by God to gather up sweet things as plural wives, he would have knocked on the front door and talked to Ms. Smart's father.

If Mitchell were really not responsible for his actions, he wouldn't have covered them.

If Mitchell were really unable to help with his own defense, he wouldn't be trying to help with it by disrupting court, which is his best idea for getting himself off the hook.

Mitchell is transparent to me. Without meaning to, while trying to pull the wool over people's eyes, he has left clues to his real self all along.

Don't ask me how I got experience reading social misfits, but trust me. The biggest expert on what he did and who he is, what he wants, what he's pulling--even what he really believes, already testified before leaving on her mission.