Chapter 8 Nepal

Chapter 8 Nepal

St. George was perfect for a new start on life. I didn’t want anything to be the same, and St. George was the exact opposite of Northern Utah. Northern Utah had long cold bitter winters often dipping below zero and hot short summers. Saint George, by contrast, had mild winters. Some winters it would snow, but it usually didn’t stay on the ground for more than half a day. The summers were extremely hot. A local told me they didn’t even consider it hot until it was over 105 degrees which is most of the summer.

Unlike Northern Utah which sits at the base of the Rocky Mountains, St. George is a desert. I’m always amazed at the short distance between two totally opposite climates. Just forty five minutes north of St. George is a small town called Cedar City. It sits at an elevation of nearly 6,000 feet. Heading south from northern Utah, the change comes quickly. Fifteen minutes south of Cedar City is the Black Ridge. This is where the nearly 3000 foot descent to St. George begins. Shortly after passing the Black Ridge, the temperature rises with every passing mile. In the winter, the contrast is quite amazing. Severe winter storms change to mild weather in a matter of minutes.

The landscape of cedar trees is replaced by incredible views of bright red sandstone hills. I always loved the beauty of the Rocky Mountains with the quaking aspen tress that glistened in the wind and the huge pine trees that stayed green all winter, but the desert had a different kind of a beauty I would come to love more and more each passing year.

We arrived in St. George on July 4, 2004. It was the perfect time of year to see if I was truly ready for St. George with its brutally hot summers. During the summer, business and most people’s homes are kept cool, a little too cool. In fact, it is usually so cold that the blast of heat felt when going outside is actually welcomed—especially when leaving the movie theaters where you almost need a parka. The summers can be unbearably hot in St. George, but I preferred it to the unbearable freezing cold weather in Northern Utah where the winters lasted six long months.

We found a house to rent in a small town adjacent to St. George called Washington. The area was called Washington Fields because the neighborhoods weaved in and out of alfalfa and corn fields, dairy farms, grazing land, and undeveloped property. The house was quite a bit smaller than where we came from in Heber which was good—less yard work, less house work, more time! And, compared to the fifth wheel, it was a mansion. It only took a day or two of, “We’re bored.” for me to join my kid’s efforts to find some new friends.

 Two houses up our street lived the Pugmire family. They had five kids. The mom, Esther, had long dark naturally curly hair and her smile was warm and welcoming. Her and her husband seemed like an odd couple to me at first because Lindsey was short and Esther was tall. She had lots of beautiful curly hair and he had none. He liked sports and she enjoyed reading. He was a physical therapist and she was a stay-at-home mom like me. Right off I knew I liked Esther. She was friendly and down to earth. She grew up in a small town like me. I felt so comfortable around her.

Two of her kids were the same age as my kids. Ashley who was Danielle’s age was shy. She had dark hair and long legs like her mother. She and Dani got along really well (Danielle became Dani shortly after we moved to St. George). Esther’s boy who was the same age as my Jared was also named Jared. We were astonished to find out that Jared Pugmire’s middle name was Ray—my Jared’s middle name was Raymond. Jared and Jared loved this commonality and believed it somehow connected them as if they were brothers or friends in a different dimension, time, or era. They were so different in appearance but so alike in so many other ways. They loved to analyze the world, play sports, and explore nature. They both loved biology, astrology, and bugs. It was great that our kids got along so well….most of the time. Pugmire, as we came to call him, was small compared to my Jared and the difference would only increase as they grew. Pugmire’s sandy blond hair, fare skin, and freckles were a definite contrast to my dark Samoan boy. They almost looked strange together.

 I often found myself at Esther’s home trying to reclaim my two children and remind them that I was their mom and they were not up for adoption. If Esther couldn’t find her children, she knew where they were. On a few occasions when the children were not at neither house, we would head off together to find them. They usually were not far, and they were oblivious to the stress they caused us.

The next neighbor I met was Mara. She lived right across the street from Esther. Mara was one of those girls who didn’t know how pretty she was. She was modest and conservative and seemed intimidated by women who were nowhere near the woman she was. She had long thick dark shiny hair that hung to the middle of her back and beautiful dark brown eyes. She had two young children of her own and three step children who lived with her every other weekend. Mara ran a daycare out of her home to make extra money to supplement their income. Her husband was a school teacher and football coach at the high school. Mara’s life was a little crazy at times. Kids can be really trying, and with five to eight extra kids in her home crying, fighting, and making messes… I couldn’t even imagine. Mara and Esther were already good friends and they let me into their circle of friendship.

Being in St. George was just what I needed. I was determined to be different—to be better. I didn’t want to fall back into the same old trap of doing everything the way I was supposed to. Who made the rules anyway? Who decided what the perfect wife was or the perfect mother, neighbor, Christian, and daughter were. Who were the Jones’s and why was everyone trying to keep up with them? But more importantly, who was Sally Thiriot? Or not even Sally Thiriot, because that identified me as someone’s wife. I prayed God would help change me—not into some mold but into the person I was meant to be, not perfect, but just me, whoever that was; the way God intended me to be with all my flaws and weaknesses.

I spent so much of my life trying to please everyone and to be what everyone wanted me to be and trying to fit in. I thought I knew who I was, but I didn’t even know what I wanted. I let everyone else tell me that. I had built a life around what others thought I should do or be. I got my self-esteem from giving and never taking. It made me feel important and accepted, but it left me empty. I thought I was being a good Christian, but I was doing no one a favor by giving in and giving up who I was.

Had I ever known who I really was, or had I gotten lost as a wife and a mother? Both of those roles require a lot of compromising, giving, and sacrificing. But, perhaps it was deeper. Even as a child, I always liked pleasing my parents, especially my dad who was very clear about his expectations. I knew he wanted me to be a “good kid”. I loved being his little girl and I never wanted to displease him. His death may also have something to do with it. His absence left me longing for him—for his love and his strength. I’m not really sure how or why I got where I was, but it was who I had become. I didn’t know any different and I really was not even aware of it.

I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even know what I wanted. I looked around my bedroom and decided I wanted to sleep on the other side of the bed. I had always slept on the right side of the bed because Chad wanted to sleep where the alarm clock was—on the left side. I threw my husband’s pillow on the other side of the bed and informed him I was now sleeping on the left side of the bed. He was a little baffled and mildly annoyed at my stern announcement, but he just shook his head and let it be.

The next opportunity came we went out on a date and the question came up, “Where do you want to eat?” My first thought was, I really didn’t care, but I resisted. “Where do I want to eat?” I mulled the simple question around in my mind. Mexican food sounded good to me. “Let’s go to Los Hermanos,” I replied. Then came Chad’s usual response when he didn’t agree with my choice, “Oh really?” he said calmly. “You want Mexican food?” He had said that so many times—almost weekly. Normally I would come up with suggestion after suggestion until we found where he wanted to eat, but this time was different. His response triggered something inside me and I just about jumped across the car and strangled him. Of course I wanted Mexican food. Isn’t that what I just said? I just looked at him and firmly said, “Yeah.”

I was in St. George trying to start over and do things differently—be different. Living in Utah for most of my life, I was well aware of the St. George marathon. You couldn’t live in Utah and not be somewhat familiar with it. Each year it became more and more popular eventually becoming one of the largest in the country. Not only did it attract first class athletes from around the world, it attracted all kinds of people from every walk of life—from the very young to the elderly, the Boston Marathon hopefuls to the one timers, the very large to the very tiniest, and people like me who wanted to find out who they were and what they are made of. The marathon had been here for almost thirty years, and I had never been tempted to run. But things were different now—I was different now.

I felt like I was in Nepal with the view of Mount Everest in my back yard—challenging me, daring me. I couldn’t explain it, but I just had to do it. I just had to. Although I would love to stand on the top of Mount Everest as Sir Edmund Hillary did nearly 50 years ago, I have no death wish, and I am kind of attached to my fingers and toes and plan on keeping them attached to me. So there it was on my list of things to do:     

1.     Go grocery shopping

2.     Do the laundry

3.     Pay the bills

4.     Call the bank

5.     Write in my journal

6.     Run the Marathon!

When I mentioned to Mara that I wanted to run the marathon, she was excited and immediately offered to help. I found out her outlet was 26.2. She had run the marathon the previous year—it was the one thing she did just for her. She thoroughly enjoyed it and it was now her thing. She told me about her experience—how there was just something about setting a goal and then achieving it. She said although the actual marathon was amazing, it was the months of training that were the best part. She had a training schedule she got off the internet and offered to train with me. As we talked, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt alive and powerful. I felt my heart beating with excitement. It didn’t make any sense to me and I couldn’t explain it but I just knew there was no turning back. Just thinking about it over the next several months was exhilarating and gave me renewed energy.

The deadline for us to register for the marathon was approaching. Registration began in April and the sign-up deadline was May 1^st. Entrants were put into a lottery as there were more people who wanted to run the marathon than were allowed. Luckily, Washington county residence were assured a spot if they registered by the May 1^st deadline. I didn’t want to miss that opportunity. I met Mara at her house and she grabbed her visa and we began to walk to my house to register on the internet. It was a beautiful day and the weather was perfect as it usually is in St. George this time of year. As we walked the hundred yards to my house we saw Esther in her front yard. On several occasions, Mara had tried to convince Esther to run the marathon. Even though Mara and Esther had been good friends for quite a while Mara had not been able to convince her to run the marathon—and it wasn’t from the lack of trying. When Esther saw us, she asked what we up to. “We are going to sign up for the Marathon,” I responded. “You should come.” I added just to be polite. “You guys go ahead.” She said as she turned back to her yard work. Mara pleaded, “Oh come on Esther, Please.” Esther didn’t even waiver, “No.” she responded in a matter of fact tone. “Why would I want to do that? That’s just ridiculous.” I chimed in, “Well, I’m doing it to lose 10 pounds. Mara assured me that would just happen.” Mara pleaded one more time, “Oh, come Esther. Do it with us.” This time Esther hesitated with her response. It wasn’t the firm “No” anymore. There was a little pause before the no as if something had weakened her resolve. It was ever so slight and almost unnoticed, but Mara and I both caught it. What was it; was it the weight? I looked at her. The expression on my face saying, “Well…..” I waited for her response. Esther admitted she had a 20 year reunion coming up. That was all it took. The foot was in the door. We pushed and pleaded until Esther relented. “Alright,” she said grudgingly as she went to get her visa, “but it’s just going to be a waste of fifty bucks because I probably won’t do it.” Mara and I took Esther’s credit card without any guilt.

With only one day left before the May 1^st deadline, all three of us were signed up for the marathon. Training would start on Monday.

I wondered what Esther’s husband, Lindsey, would think. He had never been able to convince Esther to run a 5k let alone a marathon. Lindsey had run the St. George Marathon seven times before—this year would be the eighth. He looked forward to becoming a part of the 10 year club (runners who run the St. George Marathon at least 10 times), and he hoped to qualify for the Boston Marathon. Lindsey hadn’t always liked running though. His love for running began at age 18 when a couple of his buddies convinced him to run a 10K. He didn’t like the training at all, but something happened at that race that changed everything. Lindsey passed both of his friends with ease. The fast pace he set turned many heads. He was in the zone. The endorphins released into his blood stream gave him a surge—he felt amazing. At the end of the race, one of the elite runners made it a point to let Lindsey know that he was impressed. He said Lindsey was a runner—built like one and ran like one.

Lindsey was hooked. One month after the 5K, Lindsey ran his first marathon in Salt Lake County with only three months of training. He immediately signed up for the Dixie State College track team his first year at college in 1981.  He finished last in the 5K at his first track meet—not 2^nd to last, but dead last. That didn’t discourage him though; it only gave him more determination. He set a goal to finish in the top five at the conference Championships at the end of the season. With the conference meet only two months away, Lindsey started running 100 miles a week sometimes running twice a day.  He was running at a 5 minute per mile pace in the 5K and the 10K. Lindsey won 3^rd place at the conference championship accomplishing his goal.

Shortly after Lindsey’s victory, everything changed.  The driver of the car in the other lane took her eyes off the road for just a second. Lindsey was riding his motorcycle in cut-offs and with no helmet when she swerved into his lane and hit him head on at 40 mph. Lindsey was lucky to be alive, but his leg was in bad shape. His tibia bone was protruding from his shin at an almost perfect 90 degree angle.  Lindsey underwent several surgeries. The specialist said his leg would never be straight and advised Lindsey to “pick another sport”. He doubted Lindsey would ever be able to run again. Lindsey told the doctor where he could stick his advice.

Lindsey was in a full leg cast for 7 months. During that time he couldn’t get running off his mind. In addition to therapy, he played basketball on one leg, hopping around and dribbling, and he thought about being the first person to run a 5K on crutches.

When Lindsey was finally able to run again, he suffered injuries every time he ran more than six miles. So, that was what he would have to settle for—six miles. 

It wasn’t until Lindsey finished college as a physical therapist that he learned what was going on with his leg and how to fix it. With the help of his colleagues, he designed a special orthotic to slip into his shoe. Sixteen years after his accident, Lindsey was finally able to run the St. George Marathon in 1998. He never returned to his level of skill, but that didn’t matter. He loved running.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

After weeks of trying to find a job in St. George with no luck, Chad expanded his search to Northern Utah.  He found a job working for a pool company in Lehi, UT. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something. Learning a new trade and earning about what Chad made 15 years ago was humbling, but at this point, we were extremely grateful.  We knew Chad’s employer was paying him top dollar for the work he was doing. After a few weeks, we were able to rent a place of our own. It was in a planned unit development.  The houses were almost identical and the yards were small.  Even after being there for months, I still had to count the streets and the houses to find mine—three streets down and four houses in on the right.  After living in a trailer for so long, this place seemed like the Taj Mahal.

     Laura called and said there was some mail for Chad and me at her house. I had our mail forwarded to her house after we came back to Utah. There was quite a pile. I suppose it took a while for the mail to catch up to us because of all the moving around. Most of it was junk. One letter was from an attorney. Thinking it was an advertisement, I threw it in the garbage unopened, but as I went through the mail, there were more letters from attorneys.  I opened the letters and they said the same thing—there was an arrest warrant for Chad and me.  Some letters even quoted a price to represent us--$2,000 per person. “This can’t be right. There must be some kind of mistake,” I thought as I picked up the phone to call one of the attorneys. 

The attorney assured me that this was no mistake. He confirmed all my personal information and informed me that the charges were for workers compensation insurance fraud—a 3^rd degree felony. When I denied knowing anything about what he was talking about, he said it was public information, and I could look it up myself. He said we should meet as soon as possible because if I were pulled over for any traffic violation, I would be taken directly to jail. I told him I’d have to get back to him. In a stupor of thought I hung up the phone and sat in silence. This was just not happening.

My mind was racing. I tried to think what on earth this was about. We had so many people work for us through the years, and unfortunately there were several injuries. Someone fell off a roof, someone nailed their foot to the floor, someone got a wood chip stuck in their eye… but which, if any, could be a fraudulent workers comp claim.  Then it came to me, I remembered exactly who this was about. “Jerry,” I muttered.  I was sick just thinking about it. Jerry was a neighbor who was out of work.  Chad paid him to do some odd jobs around the house to help him out. Then Chad had him help out on a few construction jobs. It was only meant to be until Jerry finished his training as a fireman.

We should have been suspicious when Jerry told us he was suing his former employer for wrongful discharge. He said his boss “had it in for him.”  Jerry seemed like such a nice guy—we believed him.  He offered to help when we started the snowmobile rental business. He was helpful and knowledgeable with computers and was willing to help with anything.  He ran the computers, helped with the rentals, and was comfortable in many situations at work; almost a little too comfortable. When Jerry started making decisions without consulting us, Chad set up passwords on the computer limiting Jerry’s access. Jerry was upset and resentful. He claimed it made his job difficult.   

Things became more stressful when Jerry claimed to be injured on the job. There was some controversy over the date of injury which Chad and Jerry disagreed on. This was crucial because Jerry was claiming that he was injured just days before our workers compensation policy went into effect on February 1st. There was about a one week period where our construction company policy lapsed and the new policy for the rental business started. Jerry did not officially report the injury until months after he claimed it happened, so the exact date was never recorded. Chad was positive Jerry mentioned something about hurting his wrist the end of December or the first of January. He said he knew it was not January 27^th as Jerry was claiming. It wasn’t until late March when Jerry said he wanted to see a doctor for his injury that the date became an issue.    

I had been handling Chad’s office work since he started his construction business a year after we were married.  I did the payroll, the accounts receivable and payable, the bank reconciliations, the quarterlies taxes and the insurance.  I was in the office finishing up some paperwork and getting ready to run out the door to take my daughter to her doctor’s appointment when Jerry approached me.  He pressed me to fill out the workers compensation form right then.  He said he would have to cancel his MRI appointment if the form was not filled out and faxed by 2:00. 

 Annoyed and feeling rushed, I asked Chad and Jerry what date to put on the form. After a little heated debate between the two of them, Chad relented and said in a flippant tone as he left the room, “Put whatever date Jerry feels good about.”  I looked at Jerry. He paused trying to decide what to do, and then in a frustrated tone he said, “February 2^nd.” I didn’t know when or even if Jerry was injured, but I knew he wasn’t injured in February. I told myself Jerry was perpetrating the lie as I signed the form and faxed it to the hospital.   

It had been almost a year ago since I signed that form.  Now I was still trying to recall the details because I desperately needed to resolve within my heart what I was guilty of. I knew that I was not blameless, but certainly, I did not recklessly and intentionally defraud the insurance company as the charges read. I should have never let Jerry, or anyone else for that matter, push me into something that I was uncomfortable with. I was always letting people push me. I should have refused to put my name on something I knew was not right.

Chad and I retrieved our old records from storage to try to piece together what was going on. Chad and I searched though the invoice dates and delivery schedules. If Jerry had injured himself while unloading a snowmobile as he claimed, there would be a paper trail. Each delivery was documented on a calendar and billed with an invoice. Sure enough, there was no record of any deliveries being made on January 27^th, nor were there any deliveries made that weekend at all. Jerry said he had it noted in his Franklin planner. He seemed so sure about that date, but Chad also seemed so sure that that was not the date. He was confident that it was much sooner than that. I didn’t know what to think. Why was Jerry so adamant about that date—the date before our insurance was in effect? The question gnawed at me because it just didn’t make sense. All of his bills would have been paid for through our other insurance policy, and he would have been compensated for any time off work or disability if he was injured when Chad claimed he was. What would Jerry have to gain?

It wasn’t until we met with an attorney that things started to fit into place. As we discussed with our attorney what had happened, he knew exactly what was going on.  He explained that Jerry would receive better compensation through a state funded agency which covered uninsured employees if the employer went bankrupt. Chad recalled how Jerry’s attitude was more positive when he mentioned the possibility of bankruptcy. Jerry seemed almost pleased with our declining financial situation.  It seemed so strange at the time because Jerry was supposedly our neighbor and friend. During the time Jerry was seeing the doctor, he was constantly on the internet researching his options. He mentioned that he would be O.K. if we claimed bankruptcy because of this state funded program he found out about. Ironically, he forgot to mention that it paid much better benefits than our insurance. Our loss was his gain and no one the wiser.

Even with this new insight, our attorney advised Chad to plead guilty to the charges. He explained that it could take years to resolve with no guarantee of a favorable outcome. He also guessed that because Jerry was not being charged, the insurance company had worked a deal with him to testify against us. Furthermore, a trial would be long and arduous because the insurance company had attorneys working for them with no concern of costs or time. He therefore suggested Chad do what is called a plea and abeyance—meaning Chad would plead guilty and they would let him go with the stipulation he would stay out of trouble for a year. Then after a year he could file an order for expungement which would clear his record completely. In exchange for the guilty plea, our attorney would stipulate the insurance company drop all charges on me. He assured us this was the best solution given our current emotional and financial state.

He then explained what we needed to do next.  We must voluntarily turn ourselves in and then be released through a bond agency that keeps track of individuals who are a low risk for fleeing before their court date. He gave us the phone number to a bond agency and suggested we begin there.  We decided to start the process early the next day.

We left the house at 9:00a.m. After dropping Danielle off at school, we took Jared to my sister’s house and headed straight to the bond agency in downtown Salt Lake City. I felt embarrassed when I approached the lady at the desk.  She has us fill out a few forms with our personal information.  A half an hour later we met with Robert who was to keep track of us. He told us to report to him every week and not to leave the area.  He was very cordial and treated us with respect.  They processed our forms, gave us some letters, and sent us to the court house to turn ourselves in. Robert said it would only take a few hours and we would be released to go home. It all sounded so easy.

When we arrived at the courthouse, we gave them the papers from the bond agency and informed them that we were there to voluntarily turn ourselves in. They told us to have a seat and wait. The room was large and cold. There were long rows of chairs back to back like you would see in a train station. There were several officers in uniform on the other side of the check-in window.  I wasn’t sure, but I figured we were the only ones there to turn ourselves in. There were about twenty or so individuals who were waiting to visit someone in jail. The first half hour went by with ease. It was interesting watching people come and go. I browsed through an old magazine.  After an hour, I was restless and impatient. I approached the desk to see if they would help us soon.  The man behind the class window shuffled through some paperwork and assured me they hadn’t forgotten about us and would get to us when they could. Another half an hour passed and more people came and went, but we just sat there. I kept looking at the black clock on the wall. I was really beginning to get antsy.  Two hours passed since our arrival. Who knew it would be so difficult to turn yourself in?

Finally, they called my name, “Sally Stockner”. I was met by a female officer at the metal detector. I was expecting a quick interview and probably some forms to be filled out; however, I was not emotionally prepared for what was about to take place.  After passing through the metal detector which stood like a portal into another strange and alien world, the officer took me into a small room not much larger than a bathroom and closed the door behind her. The room was empty and there were no windows.  Her voice was business-like as she rattled off her commands, “Turn around and face the wall.  Put your hands on the wall, and spread your legs.” I was in shock.  I had only heard those words in the movies. I didn’t need to be searched; I wasn’t a criminal. Was I? What was going on here! Hesitantly and without saying a word I slowly turned and faced the wall and did as she ordered. My heart was no longer calm and fear surged through my veins as I put my hands on the cold wall and spread my legs. From behind me the officer started patting both her hands up each leg. I was panicked as she continued patting me in places that left me feeling violated and appalled. She knew her job well and did it professionally without any evidence of emotion. I could tell this wasn’t her first time. The metal handcuff clicked as she placed it on my right hand and tightened it to fit my small wrist.  She then guided my hand behind my back where she cuffed it to my other wrist. I was desperately trying control my emotions as I felt my throat tighten and my eyes began to burn. If she had any idea what I was going through, she didn’t show it. She just continued in a robotic fashion.  

The Officer took me by the left elbow and escorted me from the room.  As I left the room, I looked over my shoulder to see if I could see Chad.  His eyes widened and he leaned forward when he saw me.  He was surprised to see me handcuffed. He could see the confusion and panic in my face. The protector in him wanted to rescue me but he couldn’t. As I looked away, I was angry for a brief moment. I blamed him for what was happening. His work had always taken precedence over most everything in our lives. Our vacations were planned around his work, and most of our money was spent in the name of business--new trucks, tools and anything that Chad could excuse as a business expense. Trucks, trailers, and construction material cluttered our yard. Computers, office equipment, and paperwork were strewn throughout the house. My projects and aspirations always took a back seat to his work.

Fear and panic returned as the officer continued leading me down the narrow hallway.  The walls were pale grey and sterile. The floor was concrete. It already felt like prison.  Tears began welling in my eyes again as we reached a large heavy metal door with a small window laced with wires. I was terrified.  Where were we going, and what was happening?  As we passed through the door, I silently pleaded, “Heavenly Father, Please help me.” I didn’t know exactly I was looking for, but I needed Him.  I needed His love and His reassurance.  A calm feeling immediately permeated my entire body. The racing of my heart slowed and my throat relaxed. I no longer felt out of control and like crying hysterically. I took a deep breath and found myself wondering what I was to learn from this. “This is quite an experience,” I thought.  Not a pleasant one, but an interesting one. I was no longer concerned about me and what I was going through.  I wondered about the officer who was at my side. We chatted briefly as we headed down a cement walkway that appeared to the beading to the basement. 

We rounded a corner and arrived at a small concrete room. A concrete bench ran along three walls of the room.  The officer lowered me to the bench and handcuffed me to a metal pole that was attached six inches from the wall. I couldn’t sit up straight; it was extremely uncomfortable. The metal pole was cold and the cuffs began to dig into my wrists. The only sound was the slight hum of the florescent lights that dimly lit the room.    

The silence was broken as a young boy, not much older than 18, was escorted into the room. I felt very out of place in my tailored brown jacket, white shirt, jeans, and leather boots. It wasn’t so much my clothes that misplaced me but my naivety.  “Hi,” I said in a subdued voice. “Hi,” he nodded in reply. “What are you in for?”  He too noticed how out uncomfortable I felt.  He was casually dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans. His appearance was neat and his hair was short and well groomed. He looked like a kid who just made a few mistakes—not like someone who was hardened. I appreciated his kind attempt to ease the tension but was unsure how to answer. “Insurance fraud,” I responded hesitantly.  It sounded so awful coming out of my mouth. I wanted to explain, but as the words tumbled from my mouth I realized how incredulous it sounded like words from a “B” rated movie. “I’m innocent” It made me feel all the more like a criminal—they’re all innocent.  

Fortunately, the conversation was cut short as the female officer returned. She removed the handcuffs, and escorted me to another officer behind a window.  He instructed me to empty everything from my pockets and remove all my jewelry. I placed the few dollars I had in my pocket in the dish in front of me along with my necklace, earrings, and wedding ring. The female officer then searched me again. I was better prepared this time, but it was still unpleasant.  After the search, she opened a heavy metal door and instructed me to wait in the “holding room” until my name was called.

The room was large and open with two separate seating areas.  Both seating areas could accommodate 20 people.  They were in a rectangular shape facing a long counter. I immediately glanced around the crowded room in search of Chad hoping to find him amongst the sea of unfamiliar faces. My strength was waning and I desperately wanted to have him by my side, but he was not there. As my eyes studied my new surroundings, I noticed the clock on the wall.  It read 3:30 p.m. I needed to call my sister and let her know what was going on. Danielle would be getting out of school soon, and It had been 7 hours since I left Jared with her. I had no idea how much longer I would be detained.

I headed straight for the phone inside one of the seating areas. It was a pay phone, but for obvious reasons, no money was required to make a call. I felt very anxious as I dialed the number and waited for her to answer. When she answered, I briefly explained what was going on. The words coming out of my mouth sounded so foreign and the whole ordeal seemed like one bad nightmare that just kept getting worse with each passing hour. Hearing her voice almost made my cry, but she was calm and reassuring which brought me some relief and gave me new courage. She said she would take care of the kids and not to worry. We didn’t talk long as there was others waiting to use the phone. After hanging up, I found a place to sit where I could keep my eyes on the door where Chad would be entering.

I casually visited with a lady sitting next to me. I could hear the distress in her voice as she told me she was there for possession of narcotics—her boyfriend had left in her car. She was innocent, of course, even though this wasn’t her first time in jail for drug charges. After a bit, she got up to wonder around the room. I visited with a few other people who were near me. Ironically, the few people I did chat with were in there for drug related charges, and not their first time either. Was I the only rookie? I spotted an elderly man with a walker. Pedophile was my first thought. There were so many different people—young, old, male, and female. Some looked rough, but most looked like common people I saw every day at the store, the movie, or the park.  I felt sad for those around me. They were just a little lost. They had feelings and families and didn’t want to be here either. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t like them—that I wasn’t a criminal, but was I that much different?  

My heart lifted as Chad came through the door. I stood and headed in his direction. Any animosity I had felt toward him or his work had long since dispersed. I was just glad to see him and he was glad to see me. 

The clock on the wall seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Around 6:00 P.M. they fed us dinner on hard green plastic trays that resembled something you would imagine in a school cafeteria, and the barely edible food also reminded me of the school cafeteria. I could not imagine why they needed to keep us here this long. Patience is a virtue, but it’s not my virtue. I approached the front desk twice to see if they had somehow forgotten us, but the answer was the same both times, “No, we’ll get to you as soon as we can.” It was just before 9:00 pm when my name was finally called from the long desk that spanned the front of the room. I abruptly stood as if I had just won the lottery. I made myself walk and not run toward the counter. It wouldn’t be long now before I would be out of here and on my way home.

After checking in at the desk, I was taken into another room where I would at last be booked and released. It was just like in the movies. I stood against a plain wall facing forward. “Look at the camera,” came the order from the male officer standing behind the large black mounted camera. Out of habit, I smiled, “Click.” I was asked to turn sideways for another picture and then the other side.  Next, the officer took my finger and rolled it across a black ink pad and then onto the paper that was placed on the table in front of me. I was then escorted by a uniformed officer to a large door. He unlocked it and I passed through alone. Ahead of me was the door that led outside, but there was one more stop before I could leave. Off to the right was an officer behind a window. The officer asked for my name and then passed a large envelope under the window through a metal tray. The envelope contained my money and my jewelry. He then slipped me a form to sign for my belongings.  As I was passing the paper back to him, Chad entered.  I waited as he collected his stuff. I was surprised at the feeling I had when I saw the car keys fall from the envelope—we could leave. When we opened the door and the cool fresh air hit me, I felt something I had never felt before.  I felt freedom.

 The next step would be the trial. The thought of pleading guilty was unsettling to Chad. He did not believe he was guilty. Even though our attorney thought it was the best option, Chad struggled.  Pleading guilty would mark him as a convicted felon for at least a year, but fighting it wasn’t an option. We did not have the money or the strength. The attorney said it could easily run $50K or more and could take several years.

A month later, Chad stood before the judge. With his arms at his side, his hands tightened in a fist as the judge read the charges and requested his plea. Chad’s posture was stiff and his eyes looked downward for just a moment to gain the courage to say what he felt like was a lie. He lifted his head and solemnly replied, “Guilty.” At that moment he looked as if he had been defeated—as if he had lost the battle. My heart ached because I knew how hard this was for him, but at the same time, I saw him in a whole new light. I had renewed respect and admiration for him. He was never afraid to fight, but not fighting took more strength and courage. To me, he had won.

The next year passed by without any major mishaps. Chad’s criminal record was expunged. The kids made a lot of friends in the neighborhood. Our short little pit stop on our way to St. George lasted nearly 18 months—much longer than anticipated. But now, it was time to continue.  As much as I liked Lehi, it was not where I ultimately wanted to be. Chad found a framing job in St. George, and we loaded our stuff headed out of town.

With the past behind us and the future before us, we headed south. Once devastated by the thought that things would never be the same again, I was now determined to never let things be the same again. I had spent so much time and money on things that were of little value, and which were so easily taken from me.   I had to lose it all, including my freedom, to learn what God wanted me to learn. I had to be brought to my knees—literally. He was tearing me down, taking everything, so that I could see—see what I couldn’t see in my comfortable little world. See what was really important in life.

Chapter 6 Lost

Chapter 6 Lost

By mid-August, there was a chill in the air—a hint that winter was on its way in the high Unitas.  By the end of August, came the first snow flurry.   Our stay at Wolf Creek had come to an end. It was hard to believe we had only been there two months. We did more in those two months than we usually do in several years. We hiked to the Granddaddy Lakes, caught 11 fish, saw a bear, went 4-wheeling, read books together, hiked, canoed on the lake almost daily, and I even got caught up on all my scrapbooking. Now it was time to leave. My little escape from reality had come to an end.

Even though I enjoyed my time at Wolf Creek more than I imagined, I was feeling pretty camped out. The short showers that once were just a minor inconvenience were starting to wear on me. I longed for a nice long hot shower without the fear of it turning cold in five minutes. I used to enjoy the trips to the Laundromat. I could get five loads of laundry done at once while I read a book. But lately, I was annoyed at having to haul the laundry in and out of the car and then sometimes having to wait for an available machine. I didn’t regret anything so far, but I just wished I could go home, but there was no home anymore. Our house was no longer ours. There was no going back now; only going forward. But forward to where?

Chad and I both agreed that we didn’t want to go back to Heber. We wanted a fresh start—a totally blank slate. Chad also needed a job. He had found jobs here and there framing, but it wasn’t enough.  When the campground management offered us a position at a campground near Strawberry Reservoir, we decided to take it. The position would last until late September and would give us a little more time to figure things out. The campground was bigger and busier than Wolf Creek and would require a lot more work.  It wasn’t ideal, but it was all we had.

As we left Wolf Creek, I didn’t feel free like I had felt when we left our home in Heber. I felt lost and insecure. The road to the campground wound around the back side of the reservoir.  I buried my apprehension and let my mind wander as I marveled at leaves that had just started to change colors. The scenery as it glistened off the reservoir was almost surreal.  Even though it was absolutely breathtaking, it wasn’t enough to chase away the melancholy feeling I had.

Nearing the campground, I was pleasantly surprised when I saw a small quaint store near the boat ramp. It wasn’t much of a store, but it was a sign of civilization. The store clerk told us stories of big fish being caught right of the dock.  Danielle’s excitement grew as she looked at the pictures posted on the bulletin board near the door. Some of the fish in the pictures were nearly as big as her. As my eyes scanned the board, I saw a sheet of paper posted up with a tack that read, “Solider Creek Marina will be closed for the season on September 2nd.”  That was tomorrow.

We tried fishing several times with no luck. The kids’ attention turned to crawdads. The really big ones were about five inches long with large crablike claws, long spindly antennas, and black beady eyes.  Their shell was a dark reddish brown color similar to that of a lobster. Some people referred to them as fresh water shrimp. I heard stories of campers who boiled them and ate them. I thought about it briefly, but I just couldn’t. They were too ugly.  Jared and Dani caught tons of them. They tied a hot dog to a string and lowered it into the water. The crawdad would grab onto the meat with their claws hold on to it until they were pulled on to the dock.

The kids spent their weekdays at school in Heber. Jared started preschool and Danielle was in fourth grade at a private school. Chad would take them to school on his way to work and I would pick them up. It was about a 45 minute drive and took nearly two hours out of my day. The rest of my time was spent taking care of the campground and the daily chores of life. It was a little chilly during the days so the kids didn’t like to go out as much. Danielle loved driving the golf cart around the campground while I collected fees and cleaned the campsites, and to my relief, this campground was equipped with flushing toilets. With each passing day, I became more and more anxious. 

Chad and I spent many nights discussing options of where to go. We talked about all the places we had visited over the years—Colorado, Washington, Oregon, Northern California, Idaho. We almost moved to Ouray, Colorado instead of Heber.  It was a small quaint town known for their natural hot springs with a population of about 400. It was on the other side of the mountain from Telluride, a small upscale ski resort. Then there was Washington. We spent our honeymoon in the Cascade Mountains. It was lush and green. Ferns, mosses, and vines grew wild. It was amazing. Then there was Northern California. We both really enjoyed the five months we spent in Eureka, a small coastal logging town near the border of Oregon.

When it came down to it, Chad made the decision—Bend, Oregon.  I really didn’t care where we went.  I just wanted to settle somewhere—anywhere.  Chad was always motivated by rock climbing. He didn’t go very often because of work, kids, and just life, but it was always on his mind—used to drive me crazy. He was pretty obsessed with it. His choice of friends, vacations, outings, and of course, places to live all had to do with rock climbing, so when Chad decided on Bend, Oregon, I wasn’t surprised to find out it was near Smith Rock, a famous rock climbing area.

At the end of September, we packed up our fifth-wheel like a bunch of hillbillies (minus grandma in the rocking chair) and started the trip. The feeling of freedom was long gone.  We stopped at my sister’s house to say goodbye. It was harder than I expected. Our family did not express emotions well—especially tender ones. We had become very good over the years at avoiding any show of affection. The words “I love you” were never spoken in our home growing up. I was pretty sure my parents loved me, but sometimes I wondered. I always felt jealous of families where hugs and affection were given frequently and openly. I longed to tell Laura that I loved her and that I would miss her desperately, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t know how to make it not weird, so I did what I always did. I pushed it down, hugged my sister, and made a hasty exit before her, or anyone else, could see the tears that started flowing from my eyes. I felt so alone and so destitute. No money, no place to live, and now no family nearby to help. 

After more than six hundred miles and 11 hours of driving, we arrived. Located in central Oregon, Bend is in the high desert. The population at the time was about 55,000. The weather was much like that of Northern Utah where I had grown up. The summers were hot and the winters were cold and snowy. Huge pine trees spattered the landscape. Most of the architecture was that of mountain bungalow style homes and rustic looking but well maintained buildings.  It reminded me of an old mining town.  

It wasn’t long before we found a well-kept RV park—one of the nicest I had seen. There were mature trees, manicured lawns, and a new club house with showers and a Laundromat. Each RV space had its own storage shed. It was nice, but it wasn’t home. I was ready for this journey to end. The trailer seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with each passing day. The walls seemed to close in on me and I felt cramped and was easily agitated. The kids were bored and began to fight more often. Chad became stressed and worried about work, or more accurately, the lack of it. He became withdrawn and distant. I longed for his support and compassion, but it was not there.  I felt lonely, scared, discouraged, and just plain worn out. 

  It was hard getting up each day. The alarm would ring and I would push the snooze several times until I finally turned it off. When I was finally able to drag myself out of bed, it was a chore just to put my clothes on. I had lost all hope and ambition.  I didn’t know how I was going to face the day. Reality was creeping in. I could no longer ignore the fact that we were almost penniless and homeless with no hope in sight. I could no longer pretend this was an adventure.  I went about my daily routine like a blob--void of any emotions.  I avoided thinking about my predicament or anything at all. 

I didn’t know where to go or what to do. Chad didn’t have any answers, and he still hadn’t found work. My prayers seemed to go only as far the ceiling. I felt so alone. I couldn’t go on like this much longer. The words that Christ cried out from the cross to his father in his darkest hour came to my mind. I softly repeated the words, “Father, father, why hast thou forsaken me?” I longed for direction and for the comfort of the spirit, but I felt nothing. I felt abandoned. Everywhere I looked for validation there was none. I felt lost and worthless. 

A few days later my phone rang. It seemed strange as it broke the silence of my destructive thoughts.  No one had called me for weeks. As I looked at the phone, I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer. I really needed someone, but I wasn’t sure I wanted someone. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but that was where I was.  I hesitated not sure I was capable of talking to anyone. It was LeAnn, a friend from Heber. We weren’t close friends, but I knew her well.  She was my neighbor and we had attended church together. The warmth in her voice softened me. She said she had been thinking of me and was worried about me. The pain and hurt I had been ignoring and stuffing down began to well up inside of me which was what I longed for but was afraid of at the same time.  Her tenderness tore down the walls I was building to numb myself.  It was a short phone call, but I got the message. God did love me. He hadn’t left me alone. He knew me, and He knew exactly what I was going through. At that moment, I felt the Savior’s love for me. After I hung up the phone, I returned to my bed. Weak and exhausted, I curled up in a ball like a little child and cried. Without words, I released all control to Him and acknowledged that I could not do this on my own.  I felt the warmth and comfort of the Savior as if I were in His arms. I once again felt His spirit by my side.

Over the next few days, I realized I was not where I needed to be—for me or for my family. I was trying to make something work that just wasn’t working.  I was also looking for Chad to solve this problem. I decided I needed to figure it out for myself.  I fasted and prayed about where we should go.  I was alone driving in the car contemplating the question when a thought came to my mind, “Where do you want to go?’  The countryside was beautiful and I marveled at how green it was as in Oregon.  I watched the sun on the horizon and the countryside as it passed by my window.  I ran the question though my mind again and again, “Where do I want to go?” “Of all the places in the world, where would I want to go?” The world is so vast and there are so many places I haven’t seen and can’t even imagine. As I was pondering the question, the answer came, “St. George.” The moment it came to my mind, my heart burned and I felt a calm and peaceful reassurance. “Yes, St. George, Utah.” It just felt right.

          I was surprised it wasn’t hard to convince Chad about St. George. Climbing may have had something to do with it; there is some great climbing in St George as well. And, I suspect Chad had also come to realize that Bend, Oregon just wasn’t working for us. He hadn’t been able to find work, and we were living in a fifth-wheel trailer which bothered me far more than it did him—he would be content living in his truck.  I suggested we sell the fifth-wheel and find someplace not on wheels as soon as possible. I was done with camping. It had been four long months. Chad wasn’t convinced. He said we needed to wait until we found someplace to live first, but I really could not take it anymore, not even another week. Probably not many people looking for a trailer in November, but I didn’t care—I was done. Done, Done, Done and over done! 

I called my sister, Laura, and asked if we could stay with her for a week or two until we could figure something out. “Of course,” she replied.  I cleaned out the fifth-wheel and put it in the local classified ads. The first and only call came within a few days—they bought it!