50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 10

  After that horrible episode, something inside of me became stronger. I turned into what I supposed back then, was a rebellious child. The next time Charlene or Mom wanted my help, I said, “No, I have other plans.” No matter what they did or said, no one could persuade or bribe me back into that sick and subservient situation.

  Never again would I stay overnight at Aunt Maryann’s, either. What, for heaven’s sake, took me so long to realize that Mom wouldn’t know where I slept—whether I was at home, at the neighbors, in a tent, or in a field? After Craig molested me, I slept back at our house, in Mom’s bed, unless Dad was sleeping with her instead of another wife. I knew no one could make me change my mind without a physical fight. No one ever tried.

  My deepest dreams during those years were to be able to survive in the mountains. I would live with the animals where no one could ever treat me badly. I wouldn’t have to go to school or feel stupid anymore. I fantasized a normal life—a dad, one mom, and one family—and I wished with all of my heart, that God could never hear me think wicked things like that.

  CHAPTER 10

  New Friends, Mother,

  and Siblings

  1963

  In Mom’s bedroom, I gazed at her long, old-fashioned underwear. Like most adult members of our fundamentalist church, she wore long garments, which were as sacrosanct as life itself. Mom and Dad had started wearing them when they were married in the Logan Temple forty-seven years earlier. All of the markings on their garments had a special purpose and meaning. The thin lace tie that held the front closed; the stitched markings over each nipple; the abnormally large collar; and the gaping, crescent-shaped opening in the pelvic and buttock area—all carried significance. For my parents, dressing and undressing were ceremonial events.

  Mother would ceremoniously slide her right foot in one leg, then the left foot in the other. She pulled the one-piece garment up over her body, put her right arm and then her left into the long sleeves and guided them over her shoulders, then pulled the garment around her chest and tied it shut. Before she could put her slip and dress on, she put her bra and underpants over the top of her garments. Then she would meticulously fold up the legs of the garment from her ankles to a few inches below her knees. To prevent the garment legs from sliding below the hem of her mid-calf-length dresses, she’d use tiny gold pins to hold them in place. Afterward, she’d repeat the same process with each sleeve, so they too would stay hidden under her three-quarter-sleeved dresses.

  “No one should ever divulge the meaning of these symbols,” Mother replied whenever I asked her to tell me what they were about. “But what I can tell you, Sophia, is garments are an extraordinary blessing to those of us who have been through the temple and have had our work done. The garments will protect us from harm and evil, and it makes me sad I can’t wear them down to my ankles and wrists the way I am supposed to. I hope God will forgive me for folding them up to hide them, but if I don’t, they’ll be seen by those who don’t understand and will criticize them. To let others ridicule or scoff at my garments would be like casting pearls before swine.”

  Mother sadly complained about the LDS Church doing away with most of the lengthy temple ceremonies and the long garments. “Originally, the temple ordinances took nearly two full days to complete,” she said. “Now, I hear the ceremonies take just a few hours. The modern-day garments have been reduced to a short-sleeved top and pants cut off below the knees. They’ve also discarded some of the significant markings. It’s just one more way the LDS Church keeps changing and deleting the sacred teachings of Joseph Smith.”

  “God’s laws don’t change,” Mom would say again and again. “Someday Jesus and Joseph Smith will come back to this earth and set things in order. They will perform plural marriages and all of the ordinances in the temples and reinstate other tenets the LDS Church authorities have forsaken. Meanwhile, we must never forget our responsibilities to carry on God’s work. Always keep in mind, Sophia, where much is given, much is expected.”

  I was sure I’d never be worthy to wear those garments. Even if I were worthy, I knew they would not protect me. Nothing or no one had thus far. And if, just if I ever qualified to wear those long, thick garments, I was sure I’d die from heat exhaustion.

  I could never tell Mom how I really felt about her garments, because it would hurt her feelings. And just like everything else I’d done in my life, I’d wear garments for her sake, Dad’s sake, even for God’s sake—if I really had to. It was already torturous to have to wear dresses to school every day and all day long on Sundays. All I ever wanted to wear was a blouse and a pair of Levi’s. Then, I could be physically free to soar.

  *****

  Guilt had been plaguing me for two long days and nights, ever since I tended our neighbors’ children. The parents had told me I could have all the chocolates I wanted, so I did. Those delicious morsels, right there in my face, kept begging and forcing me to eat them. “One more!” they’d call out to me. “Oh, come on, just one more. We’re so delicious! Have another one.” When the adults returned, the candy bowl was completely empty. Most were in my stomach, and the rest were in my coat pocket.

  “The kids and I ate them while we watched a movie,” I lied.

  I really didn’t steal them, I told myself. After all, they did say I could have all I wanted. But inside I knew such conduct wasn’t polite. I’d never been so embarrassed, and I hated myself. I’d been taught and drilled on how to lie. Dishonesty had become second nature to me. I felt guilty, but I wasn’t sure how to stop lying. Half the time, I couldn’t keep track of all the untruths I had to tell to protect the perpetrators in my life, versus the fibs that would just pop out of my mouth. Some lies were just plain wrong! So I forbade myself to ever lie again. But at my young age, my brain and heart were not strong enough to stop my perjuring mouth. It was a given, I would someday burn in hell.

  The following Friday afternoon, Carol took me to her house so she could teach me how to sew. Surely it was because she’d decided I needed a new dress. I packed my clothes, a peanut-butter sandwich, and the pocketful of candy—just in case.

  I wanted to look just like Carol. She was a short, brown-eyed, petite woman. Her husband wasn’t very large, but he looked huge next to her. This beautiful young couple, who were converts to the Allred Group, mesmerized me with their Southern drawl.

  Carol fixed one of the most fabulous meals I’d ever tasted. My stomach was totally satisfied when I settled on her couch bed in front of a large picture window.

  In my nightmare, I relived something that had happened a few weeks earlier on my way home from school. Rocks pelted my arms and back. “Plyg, plyg! Stupid little plyg girl!” the boys mocked as they chased me toward home. No matter how fast I ran my body felt as if it was barely moving across the ground. As the neighborhood bullies closed in on me, I could feel them grasp my back and neck. Just in the nick of time, I screamed myself awake.

  I wiped the tears and sweat from my face with my arm, and unwrapped my pink flannel nightgown that was twisted around my legs. My bladder felt like it would burst, but I couldn’t get up. It had crossed my mind earlier to ask Carol to leave a nightlight on, but my embarrassment and pride wouldn’t let me, and there was no way I dared go anywhere in the dark. I was pathetically afraid of everything. Again, I chastised myself for being a ten-year-old wimp. If Carol really knew what a pathetic little girl I was, she wouldn’t have invited me over in the first place, I thought.

  The rest of the chocolates were right next to me in my sack. I scarfed down every last piece and then hid the wrappers under my things. Then, gorged but feeling miserably consoled, I fell back to sleep.

  I dreamed the bathroom light was on, so I hurried in to relieve myself. I went several times, again and again, all night long. But as the sunlight started to creep through the curtains, I still had to go to the bathroom. I pulled up my nightgown and sat down on the toilet. Within seconds, I woke to a warm sensation on my thighs, around my buttocks, and drenching th
e sheets. I was mortified! Now what will I do or say? There was no lie on this earth that could protect me from this unpleasant disgrace. I had wet the bed too many times, for too many years.

  I promised myself I’d never sleep overnight anywhere until I stopped wetting the bed for good. But my vow didn’t help me feel a single bit better, and I had no choice but to confess my accident to Carol. Humiliated, I tried to explain my fears and about my dream. She promised me everything was just fine.

  At the fabric shop, Carol told me to choose any cotton material I wanted. The dark pink material with bright blue, green, yellow, and purple nickel-sized polka dots was beautiful. She picked out a spool of matching thread and a pattern for a size-12 A-line dress.

  Carol smiled sweetly. “Sophia, you are a beautiful young girl! If you will eat better food and get more exercise, we’ll buy you a size 6 or 8 pattern next time.

  How could I get more exercise? I wanted to know. I already ran everywhere I went: to school, from school, up and down our stairs, and nearly every day after school.

  Still, Carol was right. Even my dad let me know in his well-meaning way, “If you weren’t so active, Sophia, you and our cows would be the same size by now!”

  My homemade dress turned out perfect and beautiful. I was extremely grateful to Carol. But even her goodness couldn’t erase my insecurities about my weight and bedwetting. Because I was so self-conscious and humiliated, I couldn’t even speak to Carol after the dress was finished and she took me home. Sometimes, before or after Sunday meetings, she would smile at me from across the room, and I hoped she understood why I avoided her. After all these years, I can still see her kind, smiling face. I’m sure I didn’t adequately appreciate her efforts back then, but a few years later I came to understand the importance of what she had done for me. From her, I learned how to sew. As years passed I sewed everything from denim jackets to wedding dresses.

  She and her husband didn’t stay in the Allred Group long; so many families came and went. Wherever Carol is in this vast, wide world, I wish I could give her a big hug and thank her for her wonderful gift to me, and for treating me with such kindness.

  *****

  Fourth- and fifth-grade students got to volunteer in the cafeteria. If we worked there, we could have free hot lunches. As always, I had the same old dry, whole-wheat sandwiches made with homemade cheese or peanut butter. Those lunches had become so revolting I always looked forward to my turn to help in the lunchroom.

  As in previous years, I watched my peers eat or waste their lunches. Sometimes they’d devour everything on their trays. Or they’d take only one or two bites before discarding the rest. To pretend I didn’t care was nearly impossible. Desperately, I wanted someone to be considerate enough to offer me his or her fruit, dessert, or yummy-looking white bread. If it were the other way around, I thought, I would have offered any extra food to them, or even shared what I had; but my peers were always in a predicament. They couldn’t pay attention to me, a plyg kid—an outcast—even if they wanted to. That would have required risking their relationships with their classmates. I understood. It was much too scary for them.

  The best part about “fall canning season,” as my family always called it, was we got to have fresh fruit or vegetables in our lunches. During this time, all of Dad’s kids, even the younger ones, became assembly-line workers for weeks on end. From the second we got home from school until late at night, we helped peel, core, and cut the produce. We’d stuff it into hundreds of pint or quart bottles. Aunt Eleanor, Maryann, or Mom would wipe the tops off, tighten the lids, and place the bottles in a huge vat of hot water on top of our coal stove. Once the food had boiled for an allotted time, the jars were removed. As the jars cooled down, each lid made loud popping sounds. To us, it was the satisfactory proof our food storage was sufficiently sealed before it would be placed on the shelves in the fruitroom space, I wanted to be mine.

  Almost every day, I daydreamed of having a space of my very own; even a tiny spot would be better than nothing. I’d meander down the long flight of steps and slip into the fruitroom under the staircase. There, I’d envision what wondrous things I could do with the tiny space under a shelf. Sometimes I’d stand outside on Mom’s six-by-eight-foot front porch and wish for that space. Even in our huge new garage, where meetings were now held, I longed for a corner, even a tent or a hut. If only I had a small space of my own, I would be in heaven.

  *****

  An older cousin, Kenneth, moved his family back to the Salt Lake City area from Pinesdale, Montana. His family had lived on the massive ranch the Allred Group had purchased in the early sixties.

  Luckily for me, he relocated his second wife and her two daughters in Murray, fairly close to us. Kenneth’s eldest daughter, Valerie, and I began to hang out together. She was the first true friend I’d ever had.

  To me, Valerie’s mother was perfect. On weekends, she took us swimming and shopping. Sometimes she’d play games and visit with us. Valerie and her little sister always had chores and piano lessons. It seemed they were the only girls with perfect mother-daughter relationships—at least until Aunt Amelia came along.

  Several years earlier, Amelia and her three children had moved from the LeBaron Group in Mexico to California, and then to Salt Lake City. Prior to that, she had corresponded with my parents and planned to join our group. Before long, Amelia’s oldest daughter, Amy, and I became almost inseparable.

  The first time Amy came into our house, my mom was wearing her nurse’s uniform and making her bed. When I first went to Amy’s house, her grandmother was wearing a white pinafore apron, and dusting the living room. A short time later, we discovered each of us had assumed the other’s family was wealthy enough to have a maid. We laughed and laughed at our mistake, since both of our families were poor as paupers.

  One of the best days of my adolescent years was when Amy’s mom brought my little sister Jolene with her, and called Amy and me down from the massive Weeping Willow tree in Aunt Maryann’s front yard.

  “Hey, girls, I have a great big surprise for you. I want to tell you girls; you have a new sister!” Aunt Amelia gathered her arms around Jolie and me. With a soft, kind voice she whispered, “I married your dad.” Then she hugged Amy tightly. “I married my good friend, Owen. Now you have a whole bunch of sisters and brothers.”

  We jumped up and down and screamed in delight. I was ecstatic and crazy with joy. My new friend, Amy, who was only six months older than me, had suddenly become my sister. And I had a new mother who had already begun to treat me like gold.

  CHAPTER 11

  Modesty and Vanity

  on “The Outside”

  1964–1965

  There were two reasons I seldom looked in the mirror. Other than to make sure my long blond hair looked all right and my face was clean, Mom said looking in the mirror—and taking extra time to primp—was vain and wicked. Mom’s reasoning allowed me to sleep in a few minutes longer every morning.

  Mom warned me at least a hundred times, “Never look at yourself and think you are pretty. God cannot abide vanity in any sense of the word. A servant of God should be totally humble with a contrite spirit. If you think of yourself first, or that you’re better than you are or better than someone else, you are not serving the Lord in the proper manner. Now, hurry up, Sophia! Comb your hair, brush your teeth, and move away from the mirror.”

  *****

  We never used the term “rite of passage,” but I think most of us girls thought turning twelve meant we’d be miraculously transformed from an awkward, even homely, little girl into an attractive young woman. The highlight of turning twelve was the privilege of attending The Group’s monthly dances. The closer it got to my twelfth birthday, the farther away it seemed. Between babysitting kids for free and crushing on boys, the dances were all I dreamed about. Though my twelfth birthday was only months away, it seemed like ten years.

  *****

  Whenever there were special adult meetings or gatherings at our
house, Dad, Mom, or Aunt Eleanor offered my services as the babysitter— particularly for new converts. I loved kids, was good at babysitting, and felt confident and appreciated by the children, who loved me back. In this, I finally felt a purpose in serving God. But whenever I wasn’t needed to babysit, clean or do laundry, I’d take the bus to Aunt Amelia’s house.

  Her house was in Salt Lake City near everything. I loved to hang out with my new sister, Amy. To me, she had everything and was energetic and gorgeous. Her mom let us do nearly anything we wanted to do after we finished Amy’s chores.

  We got to listen to the “wicked” Beatles and the Beach Boys. We swung our hips and shook our bodies, dancing around the room like I’d never been allowed to dance before. Though I felt clumsy and like a total idiot, we had a wonderful time.

  Quite often, Amy and I would walk several city blocks north and then up several more steep half city blocks into the Avenues. At the LDS Hospital where Aunt Amelia worked as a nurse’s aide, she would buy us lunches from the cafeteria and the three of us would eat and visit on the veranda in the sunshine.

  On our way uptown, we noticed a Negro girl sitting on the lawn in front of the local high school. Once we got close to her, she jumped out in front of me. “What’s this white trash doing in my neighborhood?” she asked in an unfamiliar dialect. She placed her hands on my chest and shoved me backwards. “What’s the matter with you, bitch? You afraid of me?” she challenged.

  I was terrified. I couldn’t figure out why she was so angry at me since I hadn’t done anything to her.