When Tim Holst heard that I was engaged to be married he sent me a wedding present -- a wooden rocking chair. I have often wondered just what he meant by that gift, what it was supposed to symbolize. I never did figure it out. But it was sure nice for rocking our eight children to sleep over the years. Steve Smith sent me a check, as did Chico and Roofus T. Goofus. Swede Johnson sent me a bottle of Geritol -- an archaic blood tonic that was supposed to pep up old men in the bedroom that is still in circulation today as a ‘dietary supplement.’
The last time I saw Amy six months ago, before she moved to Virginia to live with our oldest daughter, she gave a talk in church -- and at one point she looked directly at me to say “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the stories you needed to hear.”
I understood what she meant very well, but I’m not sure I can explain it to anyone else. When you’ve been married to a person for fifteen years you develop a private language that excludes everyone else, even your children.
Maybe the best way to explain what she meant is to tell some of the stories she was referring to.
Our reception in Williston bordered on farce of the ring gag variety when one of the flower girls became enraged at Amy for attaching cute little bumblebees to the silk flowers we used to decorate the LDS basement hall -- this loony thought it was a desecration of the holy rites of matrimony, so she ran around tearing off the bees and ripping holes in the flowers. I and some of Amy’s brothers finally got her in a half-Nelson and threw her out. And please remember -- there was absolutely NO alcohol served at this LDS reception. Next, the wedding cake that Amy’s mother Alice made began to tilt like the leaning tower of Pisa, finally collapsing on the basement floor before we could shore it up. We still served it -- but just the top portions. And finally the reception photographer, a former boyfriend of Amy’s, deliberately took all the photos out of focus and then made us pay in advance before we saw the album. When we got it I couldn’t help laughing uproariously at the calamitous start to our marriage -- until I realized Amy was quietly sobbing her heart out in a corner. She really thought our marriage was cursed by some wandering and malicious spirit that had settled over us like an invisible vampire -- sucking all the joy and satisfaction out of it. I did my best to cheer her up -- but clowns are no good at cheering up people without their seltzer bottle or trained baby pig.
The actual marriage took place in the Salt Lake Temple in Salt Lake City.
Amy was a gregarious and vivacious gal, always eager to please and ready to try anything new. When I broached the subject of working as a husband and wife clown team to her she was gung-ho for it. Until, that is, one of her sisters helpfully reminded her of a scripture verse from Section 88 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Verse 121, to be specific: “Therefore, cease from all your light speeches, from all laughter, from all your lustful desires, from all your pride and light-mindedness, and from all your wicked doings.”
This initially created a huge rift between us, for Amy was of Brigham Young’s persuasion when he declared “The Kingdom of God or nothing!” She suddenly realized that I was a damned soul for wanting to make people laugh, and she would follow me to Perdition if she encouraged me or participated in any kind of professional clowning. The same sister that had initially shown her that pernicious scripture recommended a quick divorce as the best solution. (And my children wonder why I hate their maternal aunts so much . . . )
This particular LDS scripture has been a thorn in the side of LDS comedians for many years. It seems to say cut out the funny business. But taken in context it simply means don’t make fun of sacred things -- or, as Ecclesiastes 3:4 puts it: “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
I came out of this marital crisis with my belief in the sanctity of a good laugh intact, and eventually Amy moderated her views so that she didn’t think I was an automatic customer for asbestos longjohns. But she refused to ever perform with me (although she did consent to be my assistant when I was Ronald McDonald down in Kansas.)
Let me ask all you married clowns and comedians out there: Does your spouse think you’re funny? Oddly enough, this is a question I never asked Amy -- did she think I was any good as a clown? And she never volunteered that information. As the years rolled by she stopped laughing when I was around -- or was it I stopped laughing when she was around? I can still remember her bubbling laugh early in our marriage when something would amuse her -- a passage from a James Herriot book or one of Hawkeye Pierce’s zingers from “MASH.” I loved that sparkling melody of hers And I miss it terribly, even today.
But I am not a clown with a broken heart. Far from it. I’m a comfortable old bachelor who fiddles with words and finds his self-worth outside the conventional bonds of matrimony. Not every fairy tale is meant to end happily ever after. And even when a fairy tales goes sour -- still, it was a fairy tale for all of that. And something to bring wonder into the world.
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