Finding My Own Line

Newly married in the early 60s, I hoped to earn my acceptance into my new, extended family.  I met my mother-in-law, Lillian, quite a few times before the wedding, and I had her mostly figured out, so we had a friendly relationship.  Her daughter, Barb, and family also lived nearby in Toledo - she and I were on a congenial footing.  In fact, because my dear friend and sorority sister, Barb - yes, another one - was getting married on the same day, my future sister-in-law, stood up with me at the small wedding in 1963.

Wayne was five years older than my husband-to-be. My first knowledge of him was that he phoned his brother and advised him not to get married. Wayne and I had not yet met, so I assumed this advice was based on principle, not me.  Don’t marry too young. 

There were many interesting stories about Wayne, and through them, I formed a picture of a person who had most often taken the road less traveled and charted his own way.  For instance, he declined a full-ride athletic scholarship to Ohio State University based on his prowess on the battlefield of football.  Instead, he went to Dartmouth College and told his dad, “No, Dad, I’m going to get an education.”  Most likely this was difficult to do, since both his dad and uncle played for the early version of the Minnesota Vikings.

Wayne traveled throughout Mexico on a motorcycle after graduation. His motorcycle adventure ended when he became very sick. Someone brought him across the border and put him on a bus to Toledo where he took a long time to recover. Wayne knew for sure that he didn’t like the plains of the Midwest, so after recovery, he took off again on his motorcycle and headed west.

Wayne got married soon after his younger brother and me--but he was five years older - so, presumably he had already found himself.  He and his wife settled into Steamboat Springs, Colorado, where they bought a barn and turned it into a ski lodge, and this was where I met him.  

We drove from Edmonton, Alberta, straight though the oncoming March snow to visit Steamboat Springs. By then, my view of Wayne had grown from a garden variety myth to one of epic proportions. And, I viewed myself as ordinary. Would I be accepted by him? Despite knowing that my life was based on conventions, I resolved to push my boundaries in order to meet his approval.  That resolve was tricky though, because I didn’t know if I was up to the task.

The first challenge for me was the motorcycle.  I had never ridden one before and was terrified that I would fall off--lose my hold on the driver--pass out from terror-- scream and cry uncontrollably from the fright, etc.  The neurons in my brain were pinging inside my skull, but somehow I was able to get a grip and not succumb to my fright and flight response. 

I was not a picky eater like some I have known. When we came in from the chill of the evening, Wayne was proud of what he had fixed for dinner. It was here that I found myself in a pickle:   chili made with buffalo meat.  Now I knew it was lean and supposedly good for your diet, but live buffalos were in the landscape of my life in Edmonton.  Literally.  Just outside of the city was a park - to quote a song my dad sang:  “Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam.”  Such colossal, undomesticated animals in the park that were not to be messed with.  Then, there were the buffalo robes worn by Edmonton's city police directing traffic in the exhaust fog of the sub-zero winter.  And, buffalo rugs on some floors or thrown over furniture.  So, I was familiar with buffalos.  Just not eating them.  I don’t remember eating the chili - I just remember that I did without pushing myself away from the table, and I think I managed a polite “thank you for dinner.” When I went to bed that night,  I checked another “of course I can do that” box.

I thought I was doing quite well in competing for Wayne to embrace me into his wing of the family.  It’s funny what you’ll do to gain approval - twisting yourself into someone you think is more desirable than you are.

But, everyone has their limits, and mine was lutefisk.

Because his heritage was fifty percent Norwegian, Wayne was fascinated by lutefisk.

Lutefisk (pronounced LEWD-uh-fisk) is dried cod that has been soaked in a lye solution for several days and then rehydrated. It is rinsed with cold water to remove the lye, then boiled or baked, and usually served when it’s the consistency of Jello.  

I sat down to a large, low bowl of lutefisk swimming in butter with my fork and large spoon ready to lunge.  But, the line I could not cross stopped me and looked up from the plate to say, “Wayne, I’m sorry, but I just can’t eat this.”

It was a risk I took, and perhaps veering off the path Wayne had paved for me allowed me to set my own course at least with lutefisk. My announcement stuck and still remains for all to know: I will not eat lutefisk.