could measure itself back farther than a hundred years. Adventure can die a sad death if the heart is not strong enough.
And I had risen from that ground propelled only by a longing to reach for the sun. Our family had died. Like the adobe soil we tried to tame, it had crumbled, frozen by too many harsh winters, baked every summer under a pitiless sun, chewed at by the wind, and beaten under the hooves of a hundred thousand witless animals driven to the slaughter for too few dollars.
I closed my eyes, my mind going empty from the cold blast of memory. How I longed to be part of a family, and not just a small collection of hard-bitten individuals who couldnât bear each othersâ pain. I wanted smiles on arrival, tears on farewell, laughter at the tales of my adventures, joy in my accomplishments, a man to embrace in the dark warmth of sleeping, and, if I could believe the tingling that had been set off by Fayeâs early morning surprise, I wanted children. I wanted to look into their eyes, stroke their hair, and teach them what they needed to know to find more love than hatred, just as soon as I learned it myself.
Six months earlier, Ray had asked me to marry him, thinking I would convert to Mormonism and become part of his life. Iâd said maybe to the marriage part of the idea, but made it pretty clear that I never had, and could see no reason I ever would have, any interest in joining his religion. It just wasnât me, and Iâm a person who doesnât do things for show. But thinking I could meet him halfway, I had moved to Salt Lake City a month later, right in the middle of the summer heat. We had managed to get through the frivolities of Labor Day weekend, the circus atmosphere of family birthdays, and the observance of perhaps half a dozen Family Home Evenings (the weekly Mormon home study and prayer gathering; Iâd gotten out of the rest because he was on shift for six others, and I was ⦠otherwise engaged). And I had finessed the secular holiday of Thanksgiving by thinking up a reason I needed to run up to Wyoming to see an uncle. But then came Christmas. Christmas is the ultimate in family holidays, a bucketful of joy if you have an ecstatically wonderful, supportive, loving family, stressful at best if youâre in the other
99 percent of reality. On Christmas, the rivets in our relationship had begun to pop.
On that date, it became clear that I was not only ignorant of the all-important family traditions but also congenitally bereft of any talent for adapting to them. I showed up in slacks, only to find Ava and all Rayâs sisters in floor-length dresses and tinselly hair ribbons. I presented a little prepackaged assortment of dried fruits and nuts as the sisters proffered artistic basketfuls of home-baked goodies dripping in chocolate, the Mormon cheat street into the pleasure of caffeine. I sat mute and unmusical as everyone crowded around the piano to sing carols. I was relegated to setting the table while the brothers-in-law played with the children and Ava and her daughters laughed in the kitchen. I lifted my fork before all the prayers were said at dinner, screwed up and asked for coffee with desert, and longed for a good old cowboy shot of schnapps to calm my nerves as we cleared the special Christmas dishes and I dropped one. And all eyes focused on Ray and me as we opened each otherâs gifts.
I had bought Ray a ski sweater in the exact shade of indigo that flashed from his wonderful eyes. He loved downhill skiing, so I thought this might be a suitable peace offering, since I had screwed up a month earlier by admitting that I much preferred the solitude of cross-country skiing, could barely stay upright on downhill skis, and detested the congestion and high-priced show of ski resorts.
Ray had smiled politely at the sweater and awarded me a chaste peck on the cheek. His mother had made a study of an object on the other side of the room. As he handed me his gift,
And I had risen from that ground propelled only by a longing to reach for the sun. Our family had died. Like the adobe soil we tried to tame, it had crumbled, frozen by too many harsh winters, baked every summer under a pitiless sun, chewed at by the wind, and beaten under the hooves of a hundred thousand witless animals driven to the slaughter for too few dollars.
I closed my eyes, my mind going empty from the cold blast of memory. How I longed to be part of a family, and not just a small collection of hard-bitten individuals who couldnât bear each othersâ pain. I wanted smiles on arrival, tears on farewell, laughter at the tales of my adventures, joy in my accomplishments, a man to embrace in the dark warmth of sleeping, and, if I could believe the tingling that had been set off by Fayeâs early morning surprise, I wanted children. I wanted to look into their eyes, stroke their hair, and teach them what they needed to know to find more love than hatred, just as soon as I learned it myself.
Six months earlier, Ray had asked me to marry him, thinking I would convert to Mormonism and become part of his life. Iâd said maybe to the marriage part of the idea, but made it pretty clear that I never had, and could see no reason I ever would have, any interest in joining his religion. It just wasnât me, and Iâm a person who doesnât do things for show. But thinking I could meet him halfway, I had moved to Salt Lake City a month later, right in the middle of the summer heat. We had managed to get through the frivolities of Labor Day weekend, the circus atmosphere of family birthdays, and the observance of perhaps half a dozen Family Home Evenings (the weekly Mormon home study and prayer gathering; Iâd gotten out of the rest because he was on shift for six others, and I was ⦠otherwise engaged). And I had finessed the secular holiday of Thanksgiving by thinking up a reason I needed to run up to Wyoming to see an uncle. But then came Christmas. Christmas is the ultimate in family holidays, a bucketful of joy if you have an ecstatically wonderful, supportive, loving family, stressful at best if youâre in the other
99 percent of reality. On Christmas, the rivets in our relationship had begun to pop.
On that date, it became clear that I was not only ignorant of the all-important family traditions but also congenitally bereft of any talent for adapting to them. I showed up in slacks, only to find Ava and all Rayâs sisters in floor-length dresses and tinselly hair ribbons. I presented a little prepackaged assortment of dried fruits and nuts as the sisters proffered artistic basketfuls of home-baked goodies dripping in chocolate, the Mormon cheat street into the pleasure of caffeine. I sat mute and unmusical as everyone crowded around the piano to sing carols. I was relegated to setting the table while the brothers-in-law played with the children and Ava and her daughters laughed in the kitchen. I lifted my fork before all the prayers were said at dinner, screwed up and asked for coffee with desert, and longed for a good old cowboy shot of schnapps to calm my nerves as we cleared the special Christmas dishes and I dropped one. And all eyes focused on Ray and me as we opened each otherâs gifts.
I had bought Ray a ski sweater in the exact shade of indigo that flashed from his wonderful eyes. He loved downhill skiing, so I thought this might be a suitable peace offering, since I had screwed up a month earlier by admitting that I much preferred the solitude of cross-country skiing, could barely stay upright on downhill skis, and detested the congestion and high-priced show of ski resorts.
Ray had smiled politely at the sweater and awarded me a chaste peck on the cheek. His mother had made a study of an object on the other side of the room. As he handed me his gift,
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