Today’s posts are going up in reverse order, to give me a little more time to write the fun one that will go up at noon (MDT).

From the Relief Society Magazine, October 1951 –

Perfect Sunday

By Elaine Swain

The mid-spring morning was cool and crisp. The blossom-scented air stung Margey’s face. Immediately after Sunday School she and Bill had begun this visit she had been both anticipating and dreading. She knew Bill was going to ask that important question – but how could she say yes when she had told him so little about herself and her family?

Now Bill turned the car off the main highway onto a narrow country road. “Only five more miles,” he said.

Margey shivered. Little fingers of cold pricked at her skin. “Oh, Bill,” she exclaimed, “I do hope they’ll like me.”

“Like you?” Bill laughed, “they’ll be crazy about you. Mom will probably send you home with an armload of roses, and she says roses belong in the air and sunshine. She only picks them for very special people.”

Margey visioned a large farmhouse with spacious gardens. Bill’s family must have background, culture. They’d never think her good enough for their only son, especially when they learned of that ramshackle house on the edge of town filled to overflowing with her brothers and sisters. And if she said yes, Bill would find out. She’d have to take him home. The very thought brought an uneasy sensation to the pit of her stomach.

Bill Larsen, back for his master’s degree, had become a legend at Lamont College. he had been outstanding in basketball, track, and scholarship. Ever since that day when he had stopped to chat with her – the pale, new girl at the information desk – Margey had felt like a different person, not like Margey O’Rielly from Centerville, whose folks were always struggling to make ends meet, but like someone interesting and attractive.

She looked up at Bill’s strong profile, love and admiration for him coursing through her body. She didn’t want him to know she was worried.

“You’ve been talking about your mother, Bill, now tell me what your father’s like,” she asked.

“I can’t explain Dad to you,” Bill answered. “You’ll just have to meet him. To me, he’s perfect. I have wonderful memories of the times we’ve had hunting in the hills back of the farm, fishing in the creek, building a tree house in the old elm. Dad’s been the kind of father every boy should have.”

Margey thought of her own father. Shiftless, some people called him, but he’d loan his last fie dollars to anyone who needed it. He was always putting money into crazy inventions, dreams of success that never came true, yet her mother went on, never complaining, looking after the seven children, with faith that one day he would be lucky. Margey could never take Bill home. Never, never, she silently decided.

The car bumped over a bridge, and Bill pointed across the creek. “Our place runs halfway up those hills,” he said, “I’ve always thought it would be a wonderful place to build a home.”

Margey’s heart quickened. She knew he meant their home, but she couldn’t answer. She sighed, an anxious, tremulous sigh.

Bill took her hand and pressed it gently against his cheek. The road curved to the left.

“Our place begins here,” he said.

It was an apple orchard. Margey filled her lungs with the sweet, warm perfume. Some of the trees were a bit crooked, but the gnarled old branches were in full bloom, blush-pink against the sky.

When they turned into the walnut-lined driveway all Margey could see was a barn, a huge red building with a Dutch roof. Her eyes had to search for the house. It was small and weather-beaten and in need of paint. On one side she could see about a dozen rose bushes. Bill led her toward the middle-aged couple who came out to meet them.

“So dis bane Marge.” Bill’s mother spoke with a heavy, guttural accent. A smile spread over her broad face. She wrapped her short, plump arms first around Margey, then around Bill.

Bill’s father extended a large calloused palm. “Es goot you’re here.”

He shook her hand. He slapped Bill on the shoulder. Bill slapped him back, and they followed Margey and Bill’s mother into the house.

The living room was small. Crocheted doilies covered the backs and arms of the worn chairs. As Bill’s mother let Margey into the front bedroom she pressed her hand against a bit of torn wallpaper.

“Year before last vas the barn. This year Bill’s school. Next year maybe ve get new paper. You like to freshen up, Margey? I go see to the chet boller – ve have chet boller, Norvegian meatballs, for dinner.”

Slowly Margey brushed back her hair. In the cracked mirror were reflected a frayed hooked rug, faded curtains, and an old, four-poster bed Everything was so different from what she had imagined, so plain and so frugal. But Bill’s people were friendly, kind people. How could she have judged him so differently? How could she have let the Bill Larsen legend tinge her thinking? Just because he was important at school she had imagined – oh, she had imagined so many things. And she had been so afraid. Now she felt a surge of happiness.

Bill’s mother called from the kitchen. “You like to come out here, Margey?”

But when she stepped out of the bedroom, Bill’s father stopped her in the living room. “Sit down, Margey. You like a little cider before dinner? Maybe you like to see the barn, or is but a little valk to the creek.”

Bill’s mother came to stand in the doorway. “Villiam, let the girl be. A long drive and she is tired.”

“How about the cider?” Bill asked. He grinned at Margey. “The cider’s extra special.”

“Ya,” his mother chimed in, “Villiam makes it.”

Bill’s father looked pleased. He said, “I bring in de cider.”

Mrs. Larsen clapped her hands. “Ve use stem glasses,” she said gaily. “Reach dem down, Bill.”

Margey sipped the cool amber liquid. Bill was telling his parents about school. His father leaned forward, nodding acquiescence, pride in his son reflected by each gesture.

His mother looked from one to the other, encompassing them both in her love. Something about this place reminded Margey of home. And she had been ashamed of home! Now, she was ashamed of herself. Bill had brought her here, knowing it was the love, the goodness, and the giving she would see.

Since this very morning so many things she had thought about him had changed, even her feeling for him had changed; it was deeper and more real. Now she knew that because she had doubted herself, she had been unsure of him, and what he was really like, but he had found the love to understand her. Thankfulness for this love filled her being.

Later, after dinner and a tour of the farm, Margey waved goodbye to Bill’s parents from behind an armful of roses. Bill turned out of the drive and drove slowly past the orchard.

“It was a good day at the Larsens’, wasn’t it” he asked.

Then he stopped the car and turned toward her. Softly, he said, “Margey – darling – let’s make this only the beginning of good days. when school’s out, will you marry me?”

Margey did not hesitate. “Yes, Bill, yes,” she whispered.

When, at length, she drew away, she said, “It’s really been a perfect day, Bill. And, Bill,” she went on, a new-found understanding shining from behind the tears in her eyes, “next Sunday let’s visit the O’Riellys.”