It’s official. I am going to marry Keith Chandler on March 2, 2012. There has been a lot of hoop-jumping to get permission to be sealed. I got a letter from SL Friday and Keith got one today. I can finally allow myself to be excited about the whole thing!! Just a teensy bit. That’s all that’s allowed :) He is likely too nice for me. Those of you who know both of us know exactly what I’m talking about :) but I am going to marry him anyway. He still lives 2000 miles away give or take a few, and we talk several times a day, while I try to stay on top of my homework (22 more credit hours to a bachelor’s degree!) and he tries to wrap up his affairs in Missouri. We need to settle down and be normal, married people now. We will be married in the Mt. Timpanogos Temple at 2 pm and there will be an open house afterward at my house in Orem at 5 pm.
(I know the photo has nothing to do with the blog post but I like it. It's me with my granddaughter, Aurora.)
It’s been three years since my husband, JAC, pulled the rug out from under my world. Some of you don’t know anything about that so at the end of this blog, I will post Melody’s version of what happened the day he walked out the front door. Her version is always better reading than mine.
I despised being single but I was determined to stay that way if the right guy didn’t come along. I am still a little afraid to marry anyone because of my former spouse’s behavior. But I love Keith with all my heart and I know we will be happy together. He is not perfect but he is perfect for me. And he’ll make do, having me for a wife. ;) It could be worse. We are both thrilled to have found each other. Anyone who’s spent any time single can relate.
She wrote this in October for her writing class. I have hesitated to post it and I apologize if it's too much information. One reason I have not is because I don’t want to hurt JAC’s feelings. He would not like this. But it’s what happened from the viewpoint of our 15 year old daughter. This happened the first Sunday in June, 2009. Don’t be sad for me. It was wrenching and traumatic for a couple of years but we are okay. It changed me in a good way.
Written by Melody Compton Oct. 4, 2011. I remember the day my father walked out the door. I wasn’t all that surprised—I’d come to terms with the fact that my father’s crazy train had left the station long ago—but it still made a part of me feel hollow. My three younger siblings and I were sitting near the front door, all of us close together, Sam nestled in my lap. My mother was crying, something I’d never seen her do before. My eyes refused to meet either of their faces, so out of this moment, I recall in a sick clarity my father’s boots. They were large, brown things, with thick lacing, the leather worn down and frayed. They were loud as he marched towards the door, and dried mud was crumbling off them, leaving dusty trails across the blue tile of the living room floor.
Aside from the boots, I remember my mother’s desperate, unsteady voice. “I want you all to know that your father is leaving because he wants to marry another woman.” Her hand was entwined with the long sleeve of his thick, off-white shirt. It wasn’t a violent thing; it was a loose hold, her fingers barely grasping it. “I want you to understand that.”
Her voice was just as broken as the grungy mud now. Just as crushed and trodden on. This was a lost battle, and those words were her admitting that.
“No—No, that’s not it,” I looked at my father’s face now, because both of them were making noises I’d never heard before. Words filled with mixtures of agony and frustration, both trying to make the other understand and neither willing to give in. My dad was crying too. Expressions carved into their faces, ones I’d give my life to never see again. “Your mother—”
But that was the end of that, because my mom had the door open and my dad wasn’t really paying that much attention to us, and then he was outside the door and mom was closing it.
Sam, so little, barely five looked up at me, and I wrapped his little fingers in mine because there was still dirt on the floor and mom was retreating to her bedroom, making the most gentle, keening noises.
My eldest brother and his wife came. They made phone calls, soothed my broken mother, and began packing up the house. It was all in one unsettling lurch that the world began tumbling town. When people say that days feel longer than the twenty-four hours days are allotted—I always thought that was an exaggeration. But the first three days after my father walked out, they stretch and stretch and pulled until I lost track of the day.
We moved within the week. My mother, my two little brothers, my little sister and I all jammed ourselves into a three bedroom apartment that had bad lighting and a weird mold problem. It was nice enough though, and the four older boys all converged on us, taking care of the mold, helping my mother in any way possible, and confronting my father when necessary.
My mom enrolled herself in school that fall. The shock still cloaking us, but what were we to do? My mother was strong. She was going to get what needed to be done, done. She filed divorce papers, discussed selling the house with my dad, and the four youngest enrolled in their schools.
My father was never a very consistent man. He never interacted well with us when we were younger. He had two settings—lecturing and working. This might have been a good role model in our lives if there hadn’t been a few other drastic things playing out in our life. Though it’s not officially diagnosed, I believe my father is mentally unstable in certain aspects of his personality. He always leaned towards the obsessive end of the religion spectrum, and two and a half years ago that tendency careened out of control—my father, under ‘godly inspiration’, insisted my mother join him in his decision to marry another woman. My mother, a strong and stubborn person, refused and my father left his wife of twenty-seven years and eight children to marry another woman.
