 So in July 1957, on a hot day, cinched into a fitted (but plain) wedding dress, surrounded by twittering bridesmaids, in a church I did not attend, I was married. It all made me so lightheaded that I had to carry a handkerchief soaked with ammonia in case I began to pass out on my way down the aisle. But a short time later, changed into a smart tailored dress with a big corsage and a small hat, I strode from the church with my new husband amid clouds of rice to begin our time together. Incredibly, I was a "sweet, rosebud, pure virgin bride," as we said in those days. After a very short honeymoon to Portland, a distance of only 100 miles, where all I remember was the wedding night, we returned to set up housekeeping in a small apartment above the garage of neighbors up the road from the farm where I grew up. We read Catcher in the Rye in bed together, and I baked cheese biscuits for our first invited guests, my in-laws.
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