My wedding had to be an event of the year, created in my hope and love. I made a dress and designed it with the thoughts of my time in England. Focusing on love with every stitch, I was in love with an image, perhaps not the man. My dress, my art form, I loved this pretend story of a tale, a dream we were to make true in all those thoughts that went into my dress. Did he expect me to be the leader of this imagined story?
Somewhere in the history of the little girl still inside me, I wanted to be Pollyanna, playing the glad game she played to make the world bright. Everyone said I looked like Hayley Mills who played in the movie “Pollyanna”. I had a skewed sense of identity. I must have thought this image would help me fit in, so I would become her as Pollyanna. Those needs were met in every relationship ahead of me. No one could be cruel to me; that was impossible. I planted myself firmly into the love generation and saw beauty in every experience. Now an unspeakable event happened for me. I couldn’t turn to my mother’s cruel hand, although I tried. She acted as if she was the hurt one. There was no room for my needs. I had to find comfort.
Once again I turned to a gay man, unlike any of the other gay men I knew to that point. He didn’t go to bars much. I knew he would be a blessing amongst the blaming nature of my world. His home was beautiful and this is where I would go to find some sort of direction and warmth as well as beauty.
Ron Church lived on Arnold Park, a street that became my sanctuary of wishes sheltered. Ron always wrapped me in comforting words, helping me in a new truth. I had only begun my experiences at age 21. He emerged from the pool next door. A man whose slim elegant structure embraced me. He told me I would always be loved as I was pressed into a glorious hug, changing me forever. I needed to hear his words as truth. My dream was a strong fanciful race for a new life. Part of who I had always been was being affirmed again.
My storybook wedding ended in sorrow and I had needed love’s gifts to embrace me as a father figure. Ron had been married once himself; he liked men though he married a woman. A lot of men seemed at that time to be forced to marry women to be accepted. The culture of the time was shame. We shared regrets. I was such a wide-eyed girl and he welcomed me to share his grief. How is it possible he had so much love and I only wanted him to hold me. I became his child in my fantasy. Ron Church was a cultured man with elegance for his clients as an interior decorator. I had the pleasure of sharing his beautiful home and gardens. These elegant moments brought us close. He helped me learn how to live in my own sophistication.
