In neither of their writings is there any description of their wedding. But there are plenty of stories from both before and after. The saga continues here in Mom’s words . . .

After the honeymoon Mother Moore wanted to get a family portrait made before any more of her kids got married. I went along to the studio and watched.” (That’s Hyatt Jr. second from right.)

Even after the honeymoon flat tire there were embarrassing moments. We very carefully removed the “Just Married” evidence from the car before we got to a motel and found a restaurant. We were both being very casual so no one would guess we were newlyweds, but at the dinner table Hy pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket (he was still wearing his wedding suit). With the handkerchief a lot of rice came flying out! The waitress didn’t laugh, but looked very amused.

Then the next day, which was Sunday, we found a little church to attend. After the service the people made us feel welcome and asked my my name. I said, from habit, “Betty Allison,” then immediately corrected myself to say,”Mrs. Moore,” again an embarrassing moment.

We arrived at Hy’s family home on the Saturday a week after our wedding and moved into the 12- or 14-foot trailer that Hy had bought for our first home. It was parked in their back yard. We used their bathroom and washing machine.

The Monday after we got back to Rawlins, Hy went to work at the service station where he had been working, earning $75 a month. When he got there he found that he had been laid off! The owner wasn’t having enough business to hire him any longer. He still owed Hy two months’ back pay, which he said he would pay him over time in gas. 

At least we had a free place to live, no utilities to pay, and $20 cash, the amount left from the $100 our honeymoon.

PS I remember once when I was very young saying to my dad that I would wait until I had a lot of money before I ever married. His response to me: “Then you’ll never get married.” It’s obvious he was speaking from his own experience. 

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FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF (In Mom’s words): At the end of that summer my parents moved to Yuma, Colorado so I took the bus from Denver to Yuma (140 miles) to finish high school. Because of frequent moves, and inadequate schooling while living on the homestead, I was two years late graduating.

A rare shot: The only photo I know of that was taken at their wedding.

Sometime that winter Hy came to see me, took the train, and stayed a day or two. Other times he drove down. At that time he was working for the railroad in Cheyenne. Every time he came he proposed marriage, but I always said, “No.”

Finally, on one of those trips in late spring he proposed again. We were driving home from church, in the back seat of my parents’ car. Two of my brothers were sitting right there next to us and my other brother in the front with my dad and mother. I was as surprised as he was when I said “Yes.”

When I graduated in May he mailed me an engagement ring. All my friends were surprised. That was in 1938. We set the date for May 6, 1939 and he visited me several more times during the year.

During the three years after I moved away from Saratoga we corresponded two or three times a week. We still have all those letters. One fine spring day I met the mailman on the front porch when he was delivering a letter from Hy. He had teased me several times about the letters from my “young man” because sometimes there was postage due on the letters. They were so long they were too heavy for the three cents postage!

That day the postman said, “I used to know man named Hyatt Moore right here in Yuma. We both worked for the local stables.” I wrote to Hy about that and he asked his dad, telling him the name of the postman. His dad remembered the name, and the fact that he had indeed worked with him. Small world.

And from Dad’s (briefer) perspective:

Betty and I were engaged for a year while I was still in college and we were married in Yuma, Colorado on May 6, 1939. I was the first of the family of seven to get married.

Note: To clear up an confusion, you must know there were two Hyatts before me (both mentioned above). There are also now two after me.
Next: A Money-saving Honeymoon. 

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We left off some time ago with Dad finishing his years at the CCC and deciding to go to college. He’d met Betty Allison as he was visiting a church. She’d wagered with a friend which would get him and won. They’d dated at the soda shop and though she was just 17 he’d brashly announced that he would marry her. (He was 19.) For a review and more embarrassing moments, see Dad’s Story, Part 8. She didn’t respond at the time and years were to go by before that would happen, including a long separation–and more embarrassing moments. Their words:

An undated photo, could be in Rawlins or even Laramie, either city still pretty sparse at the outskirts.

Dad: 

The next year, after 15 months with the CCC I left to go to the University of Wyoming in Laramie. The folks had saved the $25 per month I got from the CCC and with a scholarship I was able to go through two years of college.

Mom:

In March of the following year my family moved to Colorado and I didn’t see him for two years.

In the summer of 1937 I worked as a “mother’s helper” in a home in Denver for $3.00 a week plus room and board. Hy’s dad got railroad passes for him and his brother Muriel so they could come to Denver. They stayed at their Uncle Everett’s for a few days.

Sometimes Uncle Everett would loan Hy his car and he would pick me up to go someplace. My employer gave me extra afternoons off that week. One time Hy’s mother and his sister drove down to Denver. When they came over to where I was working so Hy could tell me goodbye his mother kissed me. That made me feel more at ease.

One evening Uncle Everett took Hy and me to an entertainment park, Elitches Gardens. It was my first experience and when we walked through a moving barrel at the entrance–where they had air flowing up–my dress flew up over my head. I was so embarrassed I wanted to go home.

It’s a wonder to me the romance lasted, so many embarrassing episodes.

Dad:

I was discouraged with college as my grades were not real good and I decided to quit and get married. I had several jobs on the railroad: plumber’s assistant, electrical assistant, tie gang, all at 43 cents an hour. I was also a service station attendant at $75 per month. I saved enough to get married and have a honeymoon.

Next: Engagement and Marriage 

Speaking of separations, Anne has been gone for a week. She was first in Kansas City visiting daughter Tamara and her family and now is in Chicago visiting daughter Acacia and hers. As you remember, we have five children, with all marriages thankfully in tact and prospering. For a beautiful tribute about such things, see daughter Allison’s most recent blog about Vernon, The Vows. Also, for some humor and how his thoughts are coming back but still rather jumbled (and a sampling of some of his marvelous fonts) see last week’s post, Strength and Letters.

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I share the Apple Textures 2 painting only because it’s a recent loan out–to a children’s art class, so they can see (and feel) an actual piece of art. Better with them than under the bed. (Click it for larger view.)

As creators, one of the things we need to get over is the inhibition to share what we’ve created. It can all be part of the psychological hangup from which, in fact, art making (of any kind) can help set us free.

Art is made to be viewed. Without that, the process isn’t complete.

Okay, there are practices, or failed attempts, or half-finished works that aren’t ready for walls, and maybe never will be.

And there can be a challenge for the prolific where there just aren’t enough walls available to hold the large production . . . at least not yet.

Where you put your art in the meantime can be a challenge.

For this I’ve sometimes thought of designing “Beds for Artists” with telescopic legs. The more paintings you put under the bed, the higher you can raise it. As accessories I’d offer a ladder, and a rail to keep from falling when sleeping near the ceiling.

But paintings are meant for walls, not for under beds.

At whatever level our development, we need to get used to sharing what we do. Inhibition only kills the spirit. We need feedback from our friends. We need the encouragement to keep the courage up to continue to improve. Most people will celebrate our progress. If nothing else we may be providing the example to others to also take seriously their God-given gift.

Remember what Jesus said, “Let them see your good works . . . and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Let them see your good works. Or at least your best works. Well then, your most recent works . . .

Don’ t hide them. That serves no one.

So, get over yourself. Eschew false humility. Do your work and share it. Until it’s viewed, the process is incomplete.

Don’t wait until your works are perfect. We could never make a bed that high.

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Couldn’t resist offering this link, from the blog a day or so earlier, featuring their daughter Justine.

Someday we may learn what’s been going though Vernon’s mind during these four and a half months. Then again, maybe not. The significant thing is as of yesterday, it seems he “woke up.”

Anyone that’s been following the blog, SansOxygen, mainly by his wife Allison, has had quite an adventure–in literature, perspective, and real-life drama. I, for one, have been quite impressed, and I’m not just saying it because she’s our daughter. There’s been an “overcoming” here, even with no guarantee that there would be an actual overcoming. But then yesterday’s blog, by her, brought us to tears.

Read and watch it here: sansoxygen.com: Hold Your Breath

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I’ve been grazing on wisdom again in the mornings. It’s easy to do, just open to the book of Proverbs and there it is, laying on the surface. And there’s more to be found for the digging. Then the reward is so inclusive it’s amazing that it’s all free, and the source so reliable.

In the midst of this I got a letter in the mail offering promises beyond belief if I just sign up for their free offer. Actually it was addressed to my father, but as he is now gone, we’re receiving his mail. As we share the same name, his mail can at first appear to be mine. Moreover, his (my) personal name was sprinkled liberally throughout the ten pages of lavish promises and claims.

I know the anonymous senders meant it for Dad, not me, as their particular audience would be for those nearing, or well into, dementia.

But I may still qualify.

The contents were “For you only, Hyatt Moore.” The writer couldn’t reveal his name because of vows but assured me I hear his name regularly in the news and popular culture. In fact, I’d be surprised to learn who the fellow members of The League are and how they achieved their wealth and notoriety by knowing The Secrets.

The Secrets, in fact, is what I would receive, condensed to 55 pages, for just checking the box and responding.

I must say I was so incredulized that last night I read the entire ten pages. It was so repetitively glorious that I couldn’t help reading aloud to Anne (until she fell asleep). I was complimented that they chose me, of all people, but they say they’d been watching me and knew of my particular gullibility credibility and integrity. They were looking for people with high regard for honesty like themselves.

The Secrets, they avowed, would open up every avenue that I’d want, that I lacked, and that everyone would give everything to have. They promised I’d be among the “creme de la creme of society, famous sports and movie stars, musicians, billionaires, businessmen, intellectuals, and scientists.” Like all of them when they received this same offer, this was the luckiest day of my life.

Just in case the ten pages of this wasn’t convincing enough, toward the end it got more specific to:

— Discover the ONE simple method to transform all money and power from the uninformed to me, instantly

— Get the lover of my dreams, regardless of his or her situation

— Learn how to seduce anyone in any situation

— Control anyone, anytime, anywhere

— Lose all the weight I want, eliminate any addiction

— Heighten my powers and render all others completely helpless

— Beat the odds time and again in casino games like poker

— Boost my intelligence and attract people like a magnet to do my bidding

There were more, but this gives the idea.

Imagine my devastation when I got to the end, all ready to sign up and just hope against hope that they wouldn’t realize I was the wrong Hyatt Moore, that I found I’d missed the expiration date: September 5, 2014.

Drat, drat, and double drat ! ! !

What I could have done with The Secrets.

As it was, all I could do was go back to Proverbs.

Fair enough, they contain great promises, but not just to me. It talks about secrets . . . but everybody can know them. And the rewards are admittedly glorious, but lack the deliciously nefarious as those of The League.

In fact, Proverbs dampens things with warning of the seducer, the lying tongue, the divisor of schemes. Certainly The League would agree with these things if they’d thought of them, but just didn’t want to be negative.

But, as I said, I missed it.

Meantime, I’ve got Proverbs’ free offer. Nothing to send in. No expiration date. Fewer than 55 pages. And all the secrets are right there. Just have to dig a little.

I can dig it. Can you?

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A Wyoming-scape, the first of several coming. Of course in a month all this will be covered with white. But for now, it’s a land loving sun (the painting’s title). Click for larger view. 

We’re home from Wyoming. We loved it. One thing we noticed was the weather changes. We’re not used to such in southern California, being by the coast and more moderate and slower to change. In Wyoming, particularly at the altitude of Jackson Hole, there could be extremes within hours, like heavy wind and rain twice in an afternoon with balmy sun in between. Only once did we experience an early September morning that we considered “very” cold (again with shirt-sleeve warmth by noon) but it was enough to remind how it can get.

As it happens, I just came across a letter from my mother about her being caught unaware in a 40 degree night. That’s 40 degrees below!

It was the year that Dad graduated from college–1942. Companies were looking for young engineers as they were needed in the war effort. He was interviewed by several, like General Electric, etc. RCA was interested enough in him that they paid his way to be interviewed at the home office in Camden, New Jersey.

He went on the train as planes weren’t used much in those days and I think he was gone about a week. We had been living in Laramie, Wyoming where the University was, but we went the 120 miles to Rawlins, where I stayed at his parents’ house. One night I got a job baby sitting for a family while they went out for a New Year’s eve party.

When they got home they offered to drive me home but I declined as I thought it was JUST TOO MUCH TROUBLE for them. I can’t believe how stupid I was. I walked home probably four or five blocks, maybe more.

I got so cold that I couldn’t warm the rest of the night, sleeping by myself. And his parents turned off their furnace at night, just as we do [in California]. I realize now that I could have turned up the thermostat but wouldn’t have done it without talking to them. His two younger sisters shared a double bed and I had a single bed in the same room. I could have crawled in with them, but didn’t think about it, as I always had the desire to please people.

Instead I just shivered all night. I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t sleep. It was one of the most miserable nights of my life.

The next morning I found out it had been 40 degrees below zero after mid-night, while I was out walking. It wasn’t snowing and the moon was bright but it was SO COLD. It is a wonder I didn’t die before I got home. People HAVE died that way. I can’t believe I did it.

The foolishness of youth!

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“The views were immensely wide. Everything that you saw made for greatness and freedom, and unequalled nobility.” A quote from Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen, but it works just as well here.

A recent Blank Slate brought a meaningful response from a friend I’ve met only once. It’s so well worded and gives such a love for this place, I asked (and received) permission to quote it.

For years I’ve had a secret petition to God that when He’s doling out dwellings for all eternity, that He reserve me a homestead near Grand Teton National Park. Both times when I was pregnant, whenever in Wyoming, I would pray that the well water and sediment would build in the inmost parts beautiful humans with deep connection to the West. Wilson, Wyoming on the west banks of the Snake River to Jackson has been my home on and off since 1998. I hope it will always be a touchstone in this life and beyond. Regretfully, I find myself in Minnesota with the children for the school year and won’t be back to Jackson, but briefly in November.

All of that to say, there are places we choose, and places that choose us. While reading Blank Slate, the past has been coming alive and beckoned to be seen again for what it was and what it is in you. In your writing/teaching/art, you’ve showed how the pioneering spirit thematically prevails throughout your life in work and play. Your blog about living–a weekly, gentle handed pastoring to others to take ownership of beautifying. Ownership of beautifying, isn’t that spiritual homesteading? Wyoming is in you. May you fully enjoy and release the blessings of being in Wyoming.

Thanks, Ashley. Certainly there are places we choose and places that choose us. Just like with our talents, our calling, and those things I’ve touched on of late. “Ownership of beautifying . . . spiritual homesteading” indeed.

We’ve just a few more days here. The painters workshop was well received. Since then I’ve rejoined Anne in art-making in the Peets’ studio. At Ashley’s recommendation, we toured majestic Grand Teton. And we’ve often ventured the half-hour drive into Jackson Hole. Besides other things, it’s a mecca for artists and art buyers—and this past week in particular, being their annual crescendo. I brought art to show, which received some favor, but not enough, there being so much here already.

It’s like with beauty, in certain areas there’s almost too much.

Yet, we keep making it. Art, that is. We don’t choose these things; they choose us.

Now, off to church with our hostess Marty Peet.

God’s another we thought we’d chosen, but in fact it’s we who’ve been.

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Here we are at the Peets’. The whole second floor of the building behind is our studio for the week. (A place like no other.)

It occurs to me that it’s in the year that my father died, and my mother just before that, that I am called back to Wyoming.

I’ve mentioned that I have this heritage, if only through my parents having grown up here, meeting and marrying and moving away before I was born. But it was to Wyoming we returned for family reunions on the Moore side. It was then that I saw the bigness of the land, the bigness of the people I was related to, and the setting for all their stories. I was claimed by Wyoming as my true earthen soul.

California, I love you, and to you will be true, but there’s something deep here; I’ve sensed it for a long time, though my adulthood visits have been next to nil. Until now.

It started when an acquaintance of mine, Marty Peet, someone I only knew because she’d seen my story on TV some years back, contacted me for more copies of the video, then DVD, to share with friends.* Once, as time went by, she offhandedly asked, “When are you going to come to Wyoming and put on one of your workshops?” I answered just as offhandedly, “When are you going to invite me?”

And here we are, some six months later, in the middle of a workshop for her and seven others in Jackson Hole. That’s for two days. More, we are week-long guests of the Peets in private quarters on their 70-acre spread straddling the Hoback River. More yet, we have the use of her personal and spacious studio above husband Charlie’s workshop. We’re doing what we love to do on these trips, get to know a new place, and concentrate on making art.

The results of all this will be featured on a future Blank Canvas, the monthly art blog. For now it’s just an update on yet another example of the abundant hospitality we’ve received this trip, and the special meaning of this particular destination.

As the tourist brochure claims, it’s “Wyoming: Like no place on earth.” Certainly it’s so for me.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. My roots are in your soil.

__________
*That was before I got permission to make it available right here on the website . . . see above under Videos.

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Two moose sparing, yet apparently friends, just like Anne and me.

It was an unusual sight for two Southern Californians to wake up to two moose just outside the window. But that’s not all of the new experiences that have greeted us as we’ve headed northeast to the West. Interesting how this part of the country is called “The West,” while where we live, farther west, is called something else (not sure what). Even the “Southwest” is far to the east of where we live.

We’re just a couple of days out on our trek, and not yet to our Wyoming destination. We thought we were headed to Yellowstone, and plans for getting there are not completely abandoned, but as we traveled, we encountered a turn in the road.

Just one view of the artist-transformed building in Pocatello.

We’d moved on from Lava Hot Springs and, having made better time than expected, decided to slow down. We explored Pocatello, Idaho. Not knowing where to start we looked for any art gallery. Not knowing where to find one of those, we asked a passing postal lady. She knew. What we found was not just a gallery, but a renown sculptor and his economist wife who had purchased an old multi-storied building and transformed it into an artist warren. They had also recently bought the old firehouse and were transforming that into a high-vaulted studio to do “really big work.” It was not just interesting, it was inspiring.

Mexican food is just about everywhere these days. And welcome.

Then, passing by but not entering the Eastern Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot, we stopped for a Mexican lunch at at place not even a Southern Californian could pronounce, El Jalisciense. “Jalisco,” I know, the state Guadalajara is in, but I wonder if they’d done their market research before using such a name in these parts. At least they thought to put a cowboy on the sign, and the Rockies. Incidentally, they didn’t serve fish tacos, and though our waitress was from Guadalajara, she had never had one.

Another moose, one of Theodore Waddell’s Hallowed Absurdities.

Then we tooled up to Idaho Falls, again checking out the art scene. To have any kind of goal like that, we’ve found, gives just enough focus that you don’t go through a new place without seeing anything.

We checked out the Art Museum of Eastern Idaho and the “Hallowed Absurdities” exhibit by Theodore Waddell. We were truly moving very slow which, in the end, we saw as part of the key.

Still at the museum, I pulled out my phone just to see if anything had come in and found an email from a friend who had mentioned earlier that they have a place in Idaho. He’d read my Blank Slate of that morning and realized we were already on the road. His note was not just an invitation to check it out, but a strong hope that we’d stay there.

He was writing from Southern California. How could he know that where we would pick up his message was just 45 minutes from his place, and right at the turnoff to get there?

When something like that happens all I can say is, “That’s God.”

The bed, with a log step up, which helps, as it’s very high. A luxurious nightly burial ground.

So we did it, and have been here since. Yellowstone is still waiting, and Jackson Hole is still on schedule. In the meantime we’ve set up shop in this log and stone mini-mansion by the Snake River. I won’t even show photos as I couldn’t show enough, and I have a feeling there will be another occaion. Okay, I’ll show the bed, where we spend almost a third of our time.

While here Anne’s been doing artwork, and I’ve been editing another book project I’ve been working on. It’s wonderfully quiet; we’re completely alone. We have our books, our tools, the occasional moose and, as I mentioned, God.

Such a tour guide.

Ok, one more picture. It’s the view out the back, with a private trout pond, and no one but moose for miles.

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