Sometimes I exaggerate. Never on a grand scale, never making things up from thin air. More like an expansion of the truth, in order to show contrasts more clearly or to recreate an emotion that would otherwise be unappreciated in its original smallness.
For instance, I have often said that Wayne Sandberg would have been a dead ringer for Boris Karloff's Frankenstein if you just attached a couple of bolts to his neck. But Frankenstein didn't wear thick coke-bottle glasses with which to view the world, and his teeth were straighter than Wayne's. Wayne was much smaller vertically and a bit larger horizontally. He didn't shuffle along with arms stretched ahead, but rather trundled along with his back ramrod straight, and with one hand ensconced in the coat pocket of his old brown suit. Wayne did sport a high, squarish forehead and a slightly protruding brow like the monster, but otherwise the resemblance was slight at best. The point of the comparison, however, is simply to state that Wayne was not an attractive man.
Nor was his wife, Marge, a paragon of womanly beauty. She was a bit shorter than Wayne, but wider. Only once did I ever see her wearing anything other than a simple knee-length floral print dress and no-heel shoes. Her hair was grey and thin, making her appear older than she really was. As Wayne trundled, Marge waddled, all the while holding her husband's un-ensconced hand. When they walked together, you witnessed a delicate balancing act as you were never quite sure which one was supporting the other from toppling either backwards or to the side.
I knew them both for nearly 20 years. They were neighbors when I was growing up in the East Millcreek area of Salt Lake County. They lived far enough down the street that I rarely saw them outside of church. But on Sundays, they were always there. I first noticed Wayne not only for his strikingly strange looks, but because of that hand that was nearly always tucked away in his coat pocket. Whenever that hand emerged from hiding, it would be holding a wrapped piece of salt-water taffy which would be given to whatever child was standing closest. Needless to say, my brothers and I would jockey for position each week to make sure we were in proximity to Wayne when the hand would reveal its sweet treasure.
Somehow Wayne always made you feel like you were his special friend and that you were the only one with whom he shared his hoard of sweets. I couldn’t help but notice that his pocket would be bulging before church meetings began, and empty three hours later. I never bothered to connect the dots and realize he was sharing with others also. It was too nice feeling special.
Even when I grew older and lost my interest in the taffy, Wayne merely replaced the candy with a crooked smile and a handshake. I still felt special.
As for Marge, it took a little longer to come to appreciate her. She did not hand out candy like her husband, though she never seemed to discourage it. She was mostly invisible to begin with, despite her girth. But that would change.
As a pre-teen, I was one of a group of boys of similar age that a charitable Bishop would have to describe as “difficult.” I was certainly not the ringleader, but I laughed and goofed off with the rest of the rabble and showed little respect to the adults who were tasked with trying to teach us each Sunday. In fact, one year we made it our mutual goal to see how many Sunday School teachers we could run through by getting them to resign the position. Our short term goal was to see how fast we could bring our teacher to tears each Sunday. We were monsters.
After about 6 months of terror, we returned to church one Sunday a couple weeks after having run off our 4th teacher, only to find that a new victim had been procured by our Bishop. Was he inspired or merely desperate? We may never know for sure. What we do know is that more than one of us looked upon this new challenge with a confident and slavering delight. For there before us, manual in hand, was sweet little Marge Sandberg, still smiling. Fresh meat.
It didn’t take us long to get her tear ducts working. The combination of utter disregard for what she had to say, along with the rude noises and giggles soon drove her to distraction. But she stuck it out to the end of class. She didn’t turn tail in the middle of class and head for the Bishop’s office like our last teacher had. Still, I gave her about 2 weeks.
But two weeks passed, then four, then six. Week after week, Marge endured this cross she was called to bear. It soon became evident that she was in it for the duration. We would not be running her off. After a time, her tear ducts dried up, despite our horribleness. And little by little, she earned the respect, if not the cooperation, of the hooligans. She finished out the year with us. Then we moved up to the next class, while she began a new round with the kids just younger than us.
I don’t remember a thing she tried to teach. I just remember that she remained. She stuck it out. Where others had fled, she stood her ground. She took the heat and reflected back love. We were too young and stupid to recognize it at the time, but Marge Sandberg taught us the meaning of both commitment and perseverance.
I met Marge in the grocery store many years later. I was married and Wayne had passed on a few years previous. I still recognized her despite the fact that she was now wearing blue jeans and sneakers rather than the old floral print uniform. I stopped to say hello. She was delighted to see me, so after answering her questions about my family, I took the time to tell her one final recollection I had about her and her departed husband.
When I was about 18 years old, having grown out of the hooliganism of younger years, I started thinking about and worrying about big questions: meaning of life stuff. A couple of the smartest questions I asked myself was “Who would I like to end up like? Who are the happiest people I know?” As I sat in front of the congregation at the priest’s table where three of us would prepare the sacrament each week, I looked out over the congregation and asked myself these questions. And each time I did, my eyes would rest upon Wayne and Marge Sandberg. Of all the couples in the congregation, they had to be the least physically attractive. And yet, there was Wayne, week after week, with his arm around Marge, giving her the occasional squeeze and treating her like the most beautiful creature on the planet. And there was Marge, responding with a grand and loving smile of peace and contentment just to be there with him.
That’s what I wanted.
It’s what I’ve been striving for ever since.
And that’s what I told Marge in the grocery store, omitting only my shallow and ultimately false judgment of their attractiveness.
She gave me a big bear hug and started to cry. OK, I’m exaggerating again. She actually just gave me a peck on the cheek, said it was the nicest thing she had heard all day and we parted. But a slight moistness of the eyes made me think I may have gotten her tear ducts going...one last time. Yes!
One thing, however, is not an exaggeration. Though I'm sure they have both passed on by now, Wayne and Marge Sandberg are still my heroes.
