[First Draft]
“Two hundred dollars for a week,” the hardware store clerk said as we walked towards the back where rentals were kept. “Of course, you could just use hot water and soak the paper off. Get it wet enough, and it peels off with a scrapper.”
I returned home with a bucket, a sponge contraption, a pair of gloves, and that scrapper. During the trial-and-error phase, I found seven layers of wallpaper, laid sequentially over each other, a living history of Utahns’ preference in interior design. Spare stripes of green and gold led back to increasingly ornate floral décor.
Once down to the original lath-and-plaster, I needed to decide on a new look. I was unable remove all of the original glue, leaving an uneven surface. A coat of paint would retain a lumpy look, which might go with the rugged brick wall in our bedroom.
“I don’t know. I’d feel better if it were smooth,” Cheryl opined.
“But I can’t get all that stuff off.”
“And I don’t want more wallpaper,” she added.
In the end we agreed on textured paint, leaving a speckled white surface. Even though I had carefully covered the floor with newspaper, some of the paint managed to stain the old carpet. Turpentine removed the paint splotches, but also left small circles of cleanliness in the otherwise dust-encrusted surface.
Thinking I might try to replace the carpet, I lifted one corner up to examine the under surface and found a smudged hardwood floor. My new plan: sand the wood smooth, then re-stain it!
When I shared my strategy with Cheryl, she asked, “Do you think you can get it done before the wedding? I mean, what if we have a reception here afterwards?”
The wedding! “Remind me again when we decided?”
“August 25th.” It was now early June.
“Shouldn’t we find a place, a church or something? Or do you just want to go to City Hall, sign papers there.”
Cheryl hesitated. “I went on a drive in the mountains one day after school. I think I found the perfect place. I want to show you this weekend, OK? It’s up the road to Alta.”
The next Saturday we drove the van all the way to the end of Little Cottonwood Canyon Road, and turned into a parking lot jammed with people hefting back packs, waxing touring skis, or sorting climbing ropes.
“Here?” I asked.
“No, I’ll show you.”
We walked about a quarter mile along a former Jeep road now overgrown with this year’s crop of dense mountain ground cover. Fir trees began to replace aspens as a stream emerged on our left. To the right, the upper reaches of Alta ski area glistened with the remaining snowfields in its north-facing gullies. Purple and pink wildflowers sprouted near our feet.
“See? We can do it outside,” Cheryl said as we approached several rocks rising to hip level in a small clearing. “We’ll just walk in, everybody can enjoy the sunshine. We’ll say our vows, and then…”
“And then?”
“I talked to my parents last week. They said they’d pay for it, for the reception, anyway.”
“The reception?”
“Yeah.” Cheryl stopped, then went on. “When I was here before, on the way back, I stopped in at the lodges at Alta. Well, one lodge, the only one open. Alta Lodge. They said they sometimes do weddings, we could rent the hall for the reception, and people could stay overnight in the rooms.”
“People? How many?” I’d envisioned a little private ceremony, a simple set of “I do’s”, then back home.
“Well, your family, and mine, that’s maybe 15 with the girls…”
“Girls?”
“Of course, my sister’s kids. My brother. Your parents, Leigh, and Aunt Gretchen. Friends like Dave and Carol, Catherine, Lynn and Paul, a few others. Probably thirty. That’s small for a wedding.”
This is getting to be a big deal, I thought. “A simple wedding. We’d plan it all ourselves, that’s what I thought we’re going to do,” I said.
“Well, this is planning it all ourselves. But still, a dress for me, shirt and pants for you, rings, flowers, invitations…This means something, this is important, Al.”