I love St. Patrick’s Day. I’m not Irish. I’ve never made corned beef and cabbage. And I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten it. Green is not my favorite color. I don’t believe in leprechauns. But just the same, March 17 is one of my favorite holidays – dating back to 1973.
Don was young – 23 years old, but I was younger – just 18. The Saturday afternoon sun was inviting, and we went for a walk. The end of the semester at BYU was approaching, and I was in a quandary about where to live the next year. Don was graduating, so he wasn’t bothered with those kind of details, but all of us in May Hall were discussing apartments and roommates and new living arrangements. Don listened as I rambled and ranted, wondering what to do about a place to live. Should I live in the dorm again? It was easy – no meals to prepare and no house to keep clean. Should I get an apartment? I wasn’t sure who I wanted to live with, but apartment contracts were going fast so I had to make a decision.
We walked as I talked, and although Don was very attentive to my disjointed conversation, he didn’t offer much in the way of advice. After a while we found ourselves at the football stadium and sat down on the curb at the edge of the parking lot. When I finally stopped to take a breath, in a very matter of fact manner, Don said, “Well, you could live with me next year.”
It took me a minute to process what I thought he had said, and then not wanting to appear too forward but still a little flirtatious (after all – this was 1973), I cautiously replied, “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”
He confidently responded, “I’m asking you to marry me.”
A lot of squealing, laughing and jumping ensued. I think I eventually remembered to say yes.