The Raffle

THE RAFFLE

It was the Spring of 1967 and, except for the specter of the Viet Nam War, it was the best of times and it was the BEST of times. It was an era saturated in Doo Wop music (The Platters, the Temptations, etc. of like ilk), knee socks /penny loafers (mine were penniless), plaid skirts/white button down blouses. I didn’t feel worried, stressed or anxious about being single even though I was the only one of our group yet unengaged. Susan was in love with Keith, Anne, engaged to Clark, Brenda to Roger, Jane to Gary and Gretchen to Ken. But I had my life-plan. I had already spoken to Bishop Bankhead about a mission, had obtained my passport for my BYU Singers trip to Europe (where we won all kinds of gold ribbons and kudos for our rich choral sound), and had signed a teaching contract with the Jordan School District. Yep, I was pretty much booked for the next year. Also, I had lightened my social burden quite a bit, having taken on a new personal policy of “no more blind dates...no, not ever”. I was weary of spending time with college strangers and exhausted by trying to master the art of chit chat, for which I have never had a talent. It was in this frame of mind, frame of “being” that I answered a phone call from Ray Goodwin, the VP of Culture, BYU. He was a friend of mine from the halls of music and we shared that passion as well as lunch at the cafeteria. He, in his naiveté, was asking me to accept a blind date with one of his unattached friends. I took care of his request with heightened commitment: “absolutely NOT, Ray…sorry, very busy with end of term finals and VER Y NOT interested, but thanks for thinking of me”. Why wouldn’t he think of me? I was entirely unattached, and viewed as the blind date queen of byu: safe, polite, focused on my degree, having dated every Neanderthal available on campus.

Next day with the intention of diving into a research paper, I was on approach to the Education Department at the McKay Building (my home away from home) and was blindsided by a niggling feeling that I should change my mind about the blind date. I pushed it away since it wasn’t within the constraints of my newly established personal policy. It persisted and I went on with my research paper. After finishing the outline for my paper, I found my mind still battling the prompting to change my mind about the date with a certain Stephen Alley. I was so numbed by test preparation and my research paper, it didn’t occur to me that this was the same name as my college Dean, Dr. Stephen Alley. That would have piqued my interest but I was too sidetracked to make the connection. About 5:00 at end of day, I found myself dialing Ray. Crow, served up to the young, isn’t all that bad.

Meanwhile, at the Provo, Utah residence of 600 East Sumac Avenue, a great deal of emotional pressure was being brought to bear upon this aforementioned Stephen Alley. His parents, namely his mother, had grown sufficiently concerned regarding his unmarried status, that she had single-handedly decided upon a solution, intending to yield immediate, if not satisfactory results: a raffle, with Stephen Alley as the prize. A small basket was used, holding papers with the names of all women who had survived four years at BYU without becoming romantically encumbered. After cousin Dale had written the names of “any girl, half decent” on tiny paper fragments, they were tossed importantly into the basket. Stephen interrupted their merry-making with the tea leaves, saying, “As long as you’re all being silly and ridiculous, add the name of Marcie Conn; we have a blind date next week.” The blind date’s name was added. The papers with portent were then stirred around with Mom’s pointy finger and Steve, at the jovial urging of all, drew a name. Mom insisted that: “we don’t care what she looks like, or really anything else, only that we shall all be nice to her, court her and do whatever it takes to conclude in a marriage for our (implicitly, poor) son. ‘ My name was drawn to the sound of jeers, cheers, heckling and general chaos. The charge was to “go get her.”

Meanwhile, my reluctantly eaten dinner of crow devoured, the date was scheduled for 7:00 the following weekend. That night I began the pre-date ritual hair-washing /drying event by sitting under the plastic bonnet (see attached illus). The use of such a hair dryer with multiple parts and limited-length power cord, obviates any other activity, with the exception of reading. After nearly an hour of heavy whirring and light reading, my hair still wet, I heard the doorbell ring and realized I couldn’t possibly be ready on time. I sent a message to the door via Susan that my hair was still wet and that the plans had changed. My former roommate from my SLC student teaching days had the lead in the byu-produced opera, Aida. I wanted to hear her in that difficult role instead of just hanging out in the apartment, eating muesli, as Steve had planned. Susan instructed Steve to change into jacket and tie for the opera and meet back at the apartment to give me extra “drying time.” Steve demonstrated a great deal of flexibility, gentlemanliness and adaptability when he happily agreed.

We arrived at the opera just before the curtain went up. The entire opera was interwoven with very strong and unmistakable feelings that this man I was with, would figure very importantly in my life. I thoroughly reveled in the rich performance of Christine Politis as Aida, but more compelling was the thought that I had met the man I was to marry.

In the conversation on the way home, we were discussing contests, winning the lottery and other shallow topics, when I remarked off-handedly, that I had NEVER won anything. Steve nearly ran off the road. I was always struck that he experienced such a strong reaction to my unfertile luck, when all the while he was inwardly screaming: “….You’ve won me!!”

Marcie Alley, Christmas 2008

Bountiful, Utah