A Message from Above

 

A Message from Above
by Dave Wright

I arrived at the door of my old apartment on Eustis Street in St. Paul wearing a paisley short sleeve shirt and a swede leather coat that was a size too small. (It was a snug fit when I bought it, but hey, the price was right.) It was early May, and I had seen my buddy’s Chrysler Cordoba in the parking lot. I was in my first year of veterinary practice in Blooming Prairie, had the weekend off, and was looking for college friends.

I had lived in this second-floor apartment the previous year during my senior year of veterinary school at the University of Minnesota with three other FarmHouse Fraternity brothers. After graduation we turned the apartment over to several women we knew who still had to complete another year at the U.

I knocked. A young woman I didn’t recognize answered the door wearing a raggedy faded blue bathrobe. She looked at me with a skeptical eye. Later, I found out she thought I was peddling religion.

“Hi,” I said. “Is Steve here?”

The young lady laughed. “Which Steve? All of the other girls living here are going with Steves.”

I chuckled and said, “I’m looking for SL. I see his car is parked in the lot.”

“Come in. I’ll get him.” She looked down at her bathrobe. “Sorry about the casual dress. We weren’t expecting company.”

My friend, Steve “SL” Johnsen, who was a fraternity brother and a high school classmate, came out of the back bedroom with his girlfriend, Sarah. They greeted me with shouts of welcome.

“Kink!” cried Sarah. “Sue. This is the guy I was telling you about.”

“Oh, so you’re Dave Wright,” she said. “I’m Sue Fuller. I’ve been answering your phone for the last eight months.”

We had saved the women $25 by leaving the same phone number in place.

Little did either of us know that she would be soon answering my phone for the rest of her life.

“I have to go to work in a few minutes,” she said. “I’m a waitress at Poppin’ Fresh Pies. Stop by later if you’re still around.”

I made it a point to stick around and visited the restaurant with a group of friends that afternoon. I ordered a piece of raspberry pie ala mode. Sue delivered it with a wink and a double-scoop of ice cream.

It took two weeks before I called Sue long distance from Blooming Prairie. “Would you like to go out next weekend?”

“I’d love that,” she replied quickly.

This was a different reply than what I was used to. There was no, “Where are we going?” or “What did you have in mind?” the trademark responses to past invitations. I discovered that those women were looking for a free ticket and would only put up with my company if it was a worthy event and I was paying.

How refreshing. Sue wanted to go out with me regardless of what I was planning. “I’ve got a coupon for the Guthrie Theater,” I suggested. “How about going out for dinner and then to the play? Something more exciting than a movie.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Sue. “I’ll call to see what’s playing and save you the cost of a long-distance phone call.”

Amazing. A frugal woman with initiative!

I called Sue again mid-week, and she said, “I hope it’s all right if  we go to the Chanhassen Dinner Theater instead. The Guthrie was dark next Saturday, so this looked like a good second option.”

“Great. What are we seeing?”

“Same time next year.”

Wow. Was this foreshadowing?

“I had to send them payment for the tickets ahead of time,” said Sue. “I didn’t think the payment would get there in time if I waited to talk to you.”

“No problem. I’ll pay you back. Thanks for making the arrangements. I’ll see you Saturday.”

Not only did she have initiative, but she was also willing to risk paying without reimbursement. Sue could be a keeper!

I shined up my tan Chrysler Cordoba for our first date. My parents had lent me their rusted-out Plymouth Fury II for my senior year. I had returned it to them and used my first paycheck to make a down payment on the “Doba.” (I had to keep up with SL, you know.) It had a hood the length of a football field, cruise control, electric windows, and velour seats so plush I nearly sank below the steering wheel.

On Saturday afternoon, I headed north to Eustis Apartments. I flipped the switch on the air conditioner. What the heck? No cold air. Must be low on coolant, but no time to get it checked. Bummer.

Sue was ready and waiting when I arrived. She was dressed up wearing a long colorful dress. I apologized for the lack of A/C but proudly cracked the electric windows.

After several wrong turns and a sweaty ride, we arrived at the dinner theater. From the moment we sat down until the end of the play, we didn’t stop talking. Conversation with this woman was effortless.

After having received a bachelor’s degree in biology from Bates College in Lewiston, Maine, Sue finished a year of postgraduate studies in forestry at the University of Minnesota. Shortly after our first date, she returned home to Duluth for the summer where she had gotten a job with the city as a “timber cruiser.” She and her supervisor wandered the wooded areas documenting the types and number of plants found within designated plots. She loved going to work playing with plants while wearing hiking boots.

A long-distance relationship filled our summer of 1978. On the first Friday afternoon in June when I didn’t have to work the “long” weekend, I buckled up, plugged in the Doba’s cruise control, and settled in for the three-and-a-half-hour trip to London Road. I roused myself at the top of the hill overlooking Lake Superior and the Aerial Lift Bridge. Almost there. I arrived at her home and was introduced to her family. First impressions are not always accurate, but these were mine at the time:

Over breakfast, her brothers tag teamed interrogating me and delivering friendly insults to Sue. Her oldest brother, Nat, was obviously the golden boy and was a professional actor with Shakespeare credits to his name. George, talkative and outgoing, had been a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam. He introduced himself by telling me how Sue left a ring around Lake Superior whenever she took a dip at Park Point. Sue’s sister Jane, a Carlton alumnus who was in graduate school at Penn State, eagerly explained her research on the cremaster muscle of a rat. Sue’s bubbly younger sister, Patty, was preoccupied with horses and drawing.

Her other brother was not in attendance. Jim was in Pennsylvania pursuing degrees in architecture and landscape architecture while renovating a house he had purchased with his girlfriend, Deidre. Another brother, Little Joe, had died of polio in 1955, not quite in time to have received the vaccine. Sue had been his replacement.

Pearl, Sue’s mother was a prim woman with precise language who was thrilled that her daughter had brought home a doctor (never mind that I wasn’t an RD—a Real Doctor with an MD). Pearl dug out pictures of Sue and selected a college photo showing her wearing a helmet and shoulder pads while playing in a Bates College “powder puff” football game. Sue was carrying a football under one arm and was fending off a tackler with the other. Beware. She’s tough.

Josiah, a chest surgeon introduced himself as Sue’s fatha—dropping the r, like any respectable New Englander. He had grown up in Canton, Massachusetts until his mother died of tuberculosis when he was ten. Joe’s father, a dentist who was known for his crusty disposition and tobacco stains running down his chin, sent Josiah to private boarding schools and enrolled him at Dartmouth for his undergraduate degree. Joe was then admitted to Havaad, where he obtained his M.D. After serving in the Navy during WW II, he completed his surgical residency at the Mayo Clinic, which eventually led him to Duluth.

Interesting family.

Sue sprung me loose from the family to show me around Duluth. We drove Skyline Parkway to the overlook at Enger Tower before hiking through the forest that Sue had “cruised” earlier in the week. She guided me to a rock outcropping with a view of Lake Superior and the St. Louis River where we passed a bottle of wine back and forth until it was empty—my kind of date!

We spent every weekend together the rest of the summer. Either she drove Charles, her Volkswagen Beetle, to Blooming Prairie or I drove the Doba to Duluth. We biked the Sparta Trail in Wisconsin, one of the earliest railroad tracks to be converted to a bicycle path. We attended loads of weddings. We stargazed at midnight, huddled on the top of my veterinary box parked on a country road outside of town.

One Sunday afternoon in the middle of September, we had just spent a wonderful weekend together. She had parked Charles in a lot next to I-35 in Faribault, and we had ridden together to a wedding. That evening, when I had to drop her off so she could return to Duluth, I was nearly choked with tears.

Our relationship had become serious, but I had reservations. I had always been advised never to marry anyone with the expectation that the person would change. Sue had attended church with her family, but she always felt that attendance was mainly so that her mother could be seen publicly with her idyllic (and well-dressed) family. There was no talk of the importance of God or Jesus in her life. She had been introduced to a rather superficial relationship with God. I, on the other hand, had grown up in the Lutheran faith with support from family and community. My spiritual life was an important part of who I was.

I vividly remember driving south from Faribault and asking God, “What should I do?”

I was surprised to hear an immediate response: “Why don’t you marry her?” It was not a deep booming voice, but it was absolutely clear to me that it was a message from above. I mulled it over for the remainder of the trip home. Was this a suggestion or a command?

It turned out to be the best advice I had ever received. I spent the next two weeks plotting my marriage proposal.

I knew nothing about the proper procedure for a proposal aside from what I had seen in movies. Do I run out and buy an engagement ring? I had no idea about what kind of ring she expected or what I could afford. Can I propose without a ring?

As a self-professed nerd, I searched the Blooming Prairie Public Library for an answer. I found it in Emily Post’s “Book of Etiquette.” I hid the book under my bed so I wouldn’t get hassled by my roommate until I could turn to the chapter on engagements late that night. Ms. Post informed me that it was completely appropriate to propose first and shop for the ring together later.

Sue arrived in Blooming Prairie two weeks after my epiphany. I made a reservation at the Hubble House in Mantorville for Saturday evening. As we sat down, I ordered a bottle of champagne.

Sue, totally unaware of my plans for the evening, said, “I don’t like champagne.”

“Okay. What would you prefer?”

We looked through the wine list. “How about a bottle of Schwarze Katz?”

“Perfect,” I replied. I remember that it had a picture of a black cat on the bottle and a little plastic cat that hung on a gold thread below the cork. I didn’t like cats, but I liked the wine. It was moderately sweet and tasted a lot better than a fizzy (probably very cheap) bottle of champagne.

We finished dinner and I told her my God story. She listened quietly and was about to take a sip of wine when I got down on one knee and said, “Will you marry me?”

She nearly dropped her glass into her tiramisu. A moment later she stuttered, “Of course I will. I thought you’d never ask.”

Remember, we had only known each other a little over four months.

We returned home to my little house in Blooming Prairie and called Sue’s parents. Josiah answered.

“Hello, Joe. This is Dave. Sue and I have some news.”

Joe wasn’t one to chat on the phone. “Oh, let me put Pearl on the line.”

“Actually, I’d prefer to speak to you,” I said. “I proposed to Sue this evening, and I want to ask for your blessing.”

“Of course I give it,” he said immediately. “Thank you for asking.” I heard him choke up a little before he called Pearl to take the phone.

Pearl requested all the details, and in the course of the conversation found out that I hadn’t purchased a ring yet.

“Oh, let me call Stew,” she said, the excitement obvious in her voice. “He’s a friend of mine and owns Security Jewelers.”

The next weekend that I was in Duluth, I picked up Sue at her parents’ home and drove to meet Stew at his shop on West Superior Street. The store was closed but Pearl had arranged a private, after-hours showing. We huddled in the doorway under a dark October sky waiting for Stew. He arrived a few minutes later wearing a big smile. “Welcome, Sue…and Dave, is it? Nice to meet you. I’ve known the Fuller family for years. Come on in.”

Stew didn’t bother to turn on the lights in the store but directed us to a small, felt-covered table—like a billiard table without pockets. He clicked on a chandelier that hung directly over the table designed to show off the sparkle of diamonds.

“Now then,” said Stew, “What kind of a budget did you have in mind?”

We had discussed what I could afford before we arrived. Fortunately, Sue was practical and didn’t (and still doesn’t) have an infatuation with baubles. I swallowed hard and whispered our paltry budget.

Without a pause, Stew said, “I have just the diamond for you!”

He proceeded to take a handful of diamonds from a cloth bag and flung them onto the felt table like he was throwing dice. “Now, I know you don’t know much about diamonds, so you’ll just have to trust me.”

He went on to point out the difference in quality and how a diamond was cut to show off its best features. His explanation was lost on me as I stood over the table staring at the glistening jewels, only hoping that the ordeal would soon be over. Stew plucked a diamond from the pile and held it up to the light. “Here it is!” he said. “I think this one will do perfectly. Now, let’s find a setting for your ring.”

We looked over the options and selected a ring that fit Sue’s taste—elegantly cut in a way that made the small diamond look bigger than it was.

It was one of the most stressful events of our short relationship. We made a hasty retreat to St. Benedict’s, a small pub at the west end of London Road, and toasted our accomplishment. “Cheers,” I said as we clinked our bottles of Moosehead. “I’m pretty sure Stew gave us a deal on that ring.”

“I think you’re right,” replied Sue with a smile. “And he threw in your wedding band for free. I expect he figured our purchase tonight was a lost leader.”

“How so?”

“Stew knows that Pearl will register us at Security Jewelers for our wedding. He’ll make a killing.”

She was right.

Sue had finished her summer job with the City of Duluth and after our engagement decided to move closer to Blooming Prairie. She found a tiny basement apartment in Austin and picked up a job at Johnson Floral where she worked in a greenhouse with a crew of older women. Her colleagues, fully informed about all the news that mattered from The National Enquirer, had a low opinion of college graduates, but they taught her a lot about bedding plants.

Over the Christmas break, Sue and her family invited me to ski with them at Vail, Colorado. I had only skied a few times on the mole hills of Minnesota having once been so out of control at the bottom of the run that I had to lay down on my back with my skies in the air to stop from crashing into a lift line.

But I wasn’t going to let my inexperience pass up this opportunity to ski at one of the premier resorts of the world. Besides, if Sue wanted to ski, I wanted to learn.

Josiah loved to ski and had strapped boards on his kids since they were two, so he invested in a Condo overlooking Vail Mountain.

Joe, Pearl, Nat, his girlfriend at the time, Betsy Hoene, Patty, Sue and I crowded into the mountain retreat. A loft above the kitchen held the master bedroom and a set of bunk beds. Down below, a hide-a-bed and a storage box for skis covered with a foam pad offered additional sleeping options.

It was a snowy year. If we measured four inches on the railing on the deck, we could be assured of six to eight on top of the mountain. Powder! A skier’s paradise.

I purchased a single piece of equipment—a pair of goggles that didn’t fog up when I tumbled and filled my face with snow. The rest I rented: skis, boots, and poles.

Each morning, we caught the first bus and headed up the chairlift to Mid-Vail and from there took the Express lift to an overlook of the back bowls. It was thrilling to make the first trail in fresh snow. I watched the family pros and attempted to follow their example. To ski powder, I had to sit back on the skis with the tips up and bounce one way and then the next. When I tumbled, I hurriedly dug my skis out of the snow, set them perpendicular to the slope, and snapped the boots in place. Sue usually followed me down to assist, and the rest of the family rooted for me from the lift line at the bottom.

After the snow was carved up on the steeper slopes, it left moguls (deep bumps). Nat explained how I could either poke my pole into the mogul and go around it, or if I was really brave, I could go over the top. To go over the top is for racers. That’s not me. I soon learned to bend my legs like shock absorbers and ski around each bump.

When I returned to the condo after the first day, Josiah shook my hand and said, “Sue skied the legs off her other boyfriends, and they returned bleeding. Looks like you passed the Fuller Family Initiation.” Pearl, not being a skier, happily mixed Manhattans to cheer my success.

We planned our wedding for March 24, 1979, just a day before Sue’s parents’ anniversary. Pearl was ecstatic. It was her first daughter to be married, and she wanted to put on a show worthy of Duluth society. Sue was not into “a show” but knew it was pointless to argue with her mother. We only demanded that we were given responsibility for the service and that the wedding be held at 5 o’clock p.m. We had been to too many early afternoon weddings where all the guests killed time at the local bars between the wedding and dinner.

We processed in to “Trumpet Voluntary” played by a trumpet soloist with organ accompaniment. Les Howard, a FarmHouse friend and Sue’s sister, Jane, sang. Nat memorized and delivered a reading we had selected, and Dr. Shephard, the minister at Pilgrim Congregational Church, officiated. At the end of the service, the organ filled the church with Handel’s “Halleluiah Chorus”—but not before Sue had to grab my arm to remind me to kiss the bride before we left the altar.

Pearl managed the dinner, reception, and dance for our 300-plus guests, which was held in St. Scholastica’s ballroom. Nat pounded on a grand piano while everyone gathered, but the conversations were so animated, I doubt anyone heard him. Champagne was served as people arrived, but when Josiah, the host of this soiree, asked the waitress for a glass, she told him sharply, “Sir, the champagne is gone!”

About forty of my fraternity brothers helped us celebrate. One of our traditions was to sing “A FarmHouse Girl” at the wedding reception. It’s a corny song, but the brides still got goose bumps—from embarrassment or pride—when they were surrounded by forty guys singing at the top of their lungs:

“A FarmHouse girl is like a golden melody,
A golden melody in heavenly harmony.
A FarmHouse girl will always keep your heart aglow
For somehow you will know she loves you so.
She has the class and style with all the added charm
She’ll steel your heart away forever to stay.
A FarmHouse girl is like a golden melody
A golden melody in heavenly harmony.
A Farmhouse girl will always keep your heart aglow
For somehow you will know she loves you so.”

We had hoped to spend our first honeymoon night in Mahtowa, a little town south of Duluth. Why? Whenever we drove past on our many trips from Duluth to Blooming Prairie, we always recited, “Ma-Toe-Wah” in unison. Unfortunately, Mahtowa did not have a motel, so we settled for one in Cloquet. We knew we’d be getting in late so we didn’t want to waste our money on a fancy hotel that we would only be using for a few hours.

A couple weeks before the wedding, we stopped at the motel in Cloquet and told the young clerk behind the desk, “We’d like to reserve the bridal suite.”

The girl squirmed in embarrassment. “Uh…We’ve got a room with two double queens,” she said.

We broke out laughing. “A single room with one queen will do.”

We arrived to check in at 2 a.m. It had been a grand party, and none of my friends knew where we were staying—so there was no risk of short-sheeting our bed or other shenanigans. A semi-truck idled outside our room the entire night. Its deep rumble disguised the short ruckus that took place on the other side of the paper-thin walls.

My parents lent us their Ford LTD and tiny camper trailer for the week. The first night we camped in the parking lot of a state park in the middle of Wisconsin. I brushed my teeth under a cold, moonlit sky and spit into a snowbank. From there, we continued south until we found dogwoods in bloom. We splurged on a hotel in Nashville with a room that overlooked a swimming pool the shape of a guitar. Classy!

As was customary for newlyweds, when we returned to my little two-bedroom house in Blooming Prairie, I lifted Sue in my arms and hefted her across the threshold. Sue is ten pounds lighter now than she was at that time. Contrary to conventional wisdom, she advises new brides to bulk up for their wedding. “Every time you step on the scale, you’ll compare it to what you weighed on your wedding day.”

Sue and I are going on forty-seven years of marriage, and I thank God I listened to the voice I heard driving south on 35-W that eventful day in September of 1978.