Finally, Aunt Rhea taught me the law of purity. It first entailed abstaining from most any physical contact with the opposite sex prior to marriage. Even kissing was disallowed. Once married, contact was allowed within strict limits. I discovered that sex had the same singular role within polygamous families that wives had—procreation. Aunt Rhea said each of us possessed a “divine procreative power” we were to use only for divine procreative purposes. If a husband and wife indulged in sex for any other purpose, they could even commit adultery with each other. Consequently, it was forbidden during pregnancy, lactation, and menses, as well as after menopause. I wondered even then if it was okay to enjoy sex whenever it had to be done in order to bring forth the requisite annual child. But I didn’t dare ask my pious aunt.
She told me the story of a wonderfully devout, polygamous woman who had sex only nine times in her whole life, and she had nine kids to show for it. “Isn’t that beautiful, Renski?” my aunt said at the end of that story. “She was such an obedient, spiritual soul. I just wish we all could be so righteous!” I suspected she meant me, and I wanted to be that good, too. But of course, I had yet to be tested.
TWO OF AUNT RHEA’S daughters, Donna and Myra, were already married—the second and third wives of the same man. I was very close to Donna even though she was seven years older. She and Myra, along with two of my aunt Ellen’s daughters, lived about twenty-eight miles south of Hurricane, all the way down on the Utah-Arizona border in a growing polygamist homesteading settlement called Short Creek.
Under the direction of a man claiming to be a prophet of God, at least forty fundamentalist men moved their polygamous families into this far-flung, out-of-the-way place to escape the gaze of observers and the law. Some built houses, while others lived temporarily in whatever shelter they could find, such as trailers with lean-tos or large army tents. Three of my sisters lived in cleaned-out chicken coops, the other in a half-finished house. The idea was for the settlement to become self-sufficient so that its members could live as independent of the outside world as possible. Nothing like Short Creek had been around in my younger years, but there was precedent for it. Joseph Smith called this sort of communal living the “United Order.” The people at Short Creek said they were making a concerted effort to live the United Order. To this end, every household displayed a photograph of their prophet in the way Catholics might display a picture of the pope. Each family also hung a plaque to remind them: THE KINGDOM OF GOD OR NOTHING.
I visited my sisters at “the Creek” often, which gave me a chance to get acquainted with almost everyone in town. Most of the colonists were related to one another, either by blood or by marriage. Contrary to the way Aunt Rhea told me it should work, older men in Short Creek often traded their young daughters to each other for wives. I knew of several instances in which a man married a widow or a divorcee with several children, and then he also married her young girls when they reached puberty (sometimes even before). Of course, those lusty men always claimed they never did a thing without a revelation from God.
Soon I became friendly with the Short Creek girls my own age. During the time I knew them, several disappeared from public view, only to reappear months later with new babies in their arms. Most of these girls were secretly married off to men old enough to be their fathers. It was done in secret just because that was the polygamous way; subsequent marriages were always kept quiet so members of the community could claim ignorance if anyone from the outside ever questioned them about specific relationships. None of these young wives and mothers ever mentioned the word love when they finally whispered the truth to me. Not once.
One fourteen-year-old girl who’d just had her first baby confided in me that she’d never even had a menstrual period until after the baby was born. Her husband had married her at that young age so she could bear as many children as possible. This was important to him because he wanted to become a god with his own kingdom in heaven, where he and his wives and children could be numberless and beget spirit children to populate other worlds.
Conveniently, the Short Creek elders sent most of the young, unmarried men away on what were called “work missions,” where they were to earn money for the colony while they learned trades, mostly in construction. During these two-year stints, the young men were advised to live with other fundamentalists who would give them free room and board. Their entire paychecks were then sent back to the leaders for the support of the giant polygamous families back home and to “advance the work of God.”
This seemed well and good in theory, but I couldn’t help noticing how God seemed biased against these young men. While they were away, he gave revelations to the older men to marry all the young, healthy, beautiful girls. Then when the young bachelors returned from their work missions, they were rewarded with the leftovers—girls who were obese, homely, handicapped, or ill. Understandably, many of these young men questioned God’s supposed will for them. Still, they mostly complied, assured that they could marry girls they desired later on.
As I took these things in, naughty little thoughts crept into my mind. I began to think of the brethrens’ so-called godly testimonies as testiphonies.
Every Friday, several of us would go to dances at the Creek. I danced the Scottish polka, the Virginia reel, the two-step, the waltz, and the John Paul Jones. I generally had the time of my life dancing with the married men, every one of whom was available. God must have gotten his wires crossed, however. Within a matter of months, he’d given twelve different men a revelation that I should be his next wife. I wondered why God didn’t spare us all the confusion by giving me the revelation. Meanwhile, Donna and Myra wanted me to marry their husband so we could all be together in eternity.
I became increasingly concerned about God’s future plans for me. How could I know for myself what he wanted me to do? Was I even to take the polygamous path my mother took? If I did, I would somehow have to do it more successfully, more righteously. And if I took that path, would I let others, like these brethren at Short Creek, tell me who God meant to bind me to forever? My heart told me no—no to all of this. I recalled the day I’d cried alone for hours under the mesquite tree after Mother finally told me she’d married Horace. All I wanted that day was one person to love me, and love me well. That was still what I wanted in the depths of my soul. And when I pictured it—my future husband and me—there were no other wives in other bedrooms down the hall. But Aunt Rhea and dear Donna and all these brethren who I’d been taught to trust as the mouthpieces of God were telling me it should be otherwise. I so wanted to belong. If only God would testify to me personally that polygamy was his call for me.
One Sunday at the Creek, I heard a sermon by Brother Hammon that profoundly impacted my thinking on all this. “Mary, the mother of Christ, was only fourteen when he was born,” the brother told us. Now, he said, time is running out before Christ returns, so any girls who feel led to do so should “follow in the Virgin’s footsteps” immediately by marrying and having children before it’s too late.
However, from here on out, none of us were to do any more courting on our own. Instead, the leading brethren would seek special revelations from God so each girl would be sure to marry the partner God chose for her. It seemed all the revealing God had been doing to the individual brethren had gotten thoroughly out of hand; he’d been telling many of them to marry the very same attractive young girls, and this was clearly not the direction righteous polygamy was to take. The elders of the Short Creek colony felt they had to step in and referee as best they could, so they decided that all God’s divine revelations on the topic of marriage would henceforth be disseminated only through them.
One of these leading brethren, Uncle Rich, took me aside one evening to speak with me about his son, Bill, who had his eye on me. Uncle Rich preached to us both for over an hour. He felt I should be “sealed” (married) to Bill, and he insisted we go straight to his house so he could perform our marriage ceremony. I flatly refused. I told him I was too young
and that I was still under my mother’s jurisdiction. He pompously refuted that, saying because my mother left my father, she had no authority over me. For that matter, my father had no authority over me either, because he refused to follow the other brethren and move down to Short Creek. Consequently, I should be obedient to him, Uncle Rich, God’s true servant. When I remained defiant, he ordered Bill never to see me again.
I’d grown up believing the brethren, the men who held the priesthood, talked directly with God. After all, Joseph Smith talked with him. I’d thought fundamentalist elders, especially, were good men who consulted God’s will for everything they did. Now I’d begun to wonder. But of one thing I remained certain. Polygamy itself was God’s way. If sin happened to raise its head in the course of our trying to live out this gospel, it wasn’t the gospel’s fault. Any failure was merely the result of human weakness.
In the end, I determined that if I lived plural marriage, I was going to do it on my own and God’s terms, not those of some old man. Nobody would boss me around, except God. And even he had better tread lightly.
CLEVE LEBARON LIVED IN Hurricane, not far from Aunt Rhea. Years earlier, he helped my mother because she was an unmarried woman living on a small income. He may even have wanted to marry her, but she’d never been able to obtain that divorce from my father, so she was off-limits to the brethren. She probably wouldn’t have married him anyway, since everyone knew the LeBarons had insanity in their family. Still, Cleve brought us sacks of beans and potatoes and whatever fruit was in season. One day in late 1951, a friend and I stopped by his home in Hurricane to say hello.
When I walked into his parlor that afternoon, I found a tall, strikingly handsome stranger there already. His hair was blond and his eyes were a brilliant blue. Cleve asked if I knew him. I didn’t, but I found myself so irresistibly drawn to those eyes, I didn’t bother answering. We stared at each other far longer than was necessary when a bolt of knowing tingled down my spine, and an inner voice told me, “This is the man you are going to marry.” I couldn’t believe it. Could this finally be the revelation from God I’d been begging for? I wanted it to be so.
Cleve interrupted my reverie. “This is my nephew, Verlan LeBaron, from Mexico.”
A kaleidoscope of thoughts flashed through my mind in an instant. I recalled that some of the LeBarons lived in Mexico, colonizing there in order to escape America’s stricter enforcement of its anti-bigamy laws. I’d also heard about the “special priesthood” the LeBaron clan claimed to possess as direct spiritual descendents of Joseph Smith. They told people the prophet to be revealed through them would thereby be higher in rank than the president of the LDS Church. Then there was all the talk of the insanity running through the LeBaron bloodline. Why, I’d even seen crazy Ben LeBaron at a Salt Lake City polygamist meeting where the brethren had to bodily throw him out because he was yelling, “I’m greater than Jesus Christ!” On another occasion, rumor had it that Ben commenced doing one hundred push-ups in the middle of a busy street in downtown Salt Lake. When police officers came to arrest him, he’d challenged them boldly. “None of you can do that, so it proves I’m the One Mighty and Strong!” Now here was Ben’s brother smiling up at me.
Verlan stretched out his hand, and I took it. He held on tightly as he raised himself to his feet. A beautiful, broad grin showed his perfect white teeth. I was captivated.
“Hi,” he said, pausing to look me over. “Are you Charlotte’s little sister?”
I nodded and answered, “Yes, I’m Irene. I live with her and my aunt Rhea.” I wondered how he knew Charlotte.
“Could you give me directions to your house then? I’ve come down from Provo to spend the weekend and see her.”
The very first twinge of jealousy panged my heart. Oh God, I thought, you just said he’d be my husband. Oh well, I’m only fourteen. Maybe I’ll still have him in my future. I was content enough thinking Verlan might be in my plans, but I seriously wondered if I could cope with nineteen-year-old Charlotte in them.
Weeks later, the newly engaged Charlotte and twenty-one-year-old Verlan were outside Aunt Rhea’s house in his gray Pontiac, about to leave for Short Creek. Three of my half brothers and sisters and I begged them to take us along. Charlotte gave us a most definite no and added hotly, “We’ve been invited as a couple, and we’re going alone.”
Charlotte was very serious and pious like her mother, and I loved to tease her. So I whispered to John and Sam, and then grabbed Karen’s hand, pulling the four of us into the backseat of the car. We acted as if we had every right to be there. “Well, let’s go then,” I said. “We’re all couples!”
Charlotte turned and gave me one of her icy stares. I got the message. Giggling, we all scampered out of the car. They drove off without so much as a wave or smile.
Because Verlan had no prior wives, their wedding three months later was a public celebration. I handled it well enough. But I cried when I went home that night. If I were ever to become a polygamist wife, there would be so many difficult things to bear. Even then, I resented Verlan making love to my half sister. I wondered how he could ever love me if he were busy making love to her.
I recalled what Brigham Young said—that plural marriage would damn more people than it would save. Then why even try it? I longed to have a man just for myself, but according to my religion, that was selfish and shortsighted. If I loved monogamy, I might be happy in this life, but not for the “eternities.”
In the scriptures, God warned that the “angels did not abide my law; therefore, they cannot be enlarged, but remain separately and singly, without exaltation, in their saved condition, to all eternity; and from henceforth are not gods, but are angels of God forever and ever.” (Doctrine and Covenants, 132:17). I’d been lonely enough in this life without having to spend all eternity “separately and singly.” I worried that if I didn’t follow God’s law of polygamy, I’d completely lose out.
I often wished I’d been born Catholic, like a friend of mine. She seemed so much at peace after each confession. I really didn’t know what sins I had that would amount to much, but I figured the main ones were swearing and being light-minded. If only that was all standing between me and glory. But I knew better. I was one of the special children of God.
I remembered the scripture: “For of him unto whom much is given much is required.” I wanted to become a goddess and receive the highest exaltation in heaven. Would I throw that away in order to satisfy my small, selfish desires in the present? The possibility that I might, quite terrified me.
The choice was mine. If Mother was any indication, I’d get no second chance to make the right one. Yes, here I was, in the very same place she’d been, with just the two options, both of them terrible: suffer now or suffer later, be loved today or be exalted tomorrow. How I wished God might have thought to forge us at least one other way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Toward the end of May, Mother met me in Salt Lake City. She was still married to Horace, and the two of them drove me back to the Trout Creek homestead. I was now fifteen. When we got home, Mother mentioned that Horace had a twenty-eight-year-old nephew named Glen Spencer, who was a shy, available bachelor. I’d actually seen him before because he was the local postmaster. Glen also worked on the Nielson ranch, which meant he had limited time for a social life. Out near Trout Creek, there weren’t many girls for him to socialize with anyway.
Mother didn’t seem at all concerned that Glen was so much older than me, that he was Horace’s relative, or even that he wasn’t a polygamist. Like his uncle, Glen was a jack Mormon. His family was once devout, perhaps, but he didn’t practice Mormonism. He was certainly no fundamentalist, no holder of the priesthood. Mother knew this meant he wasn’t marriage material for any girl wishing to live the Principle. But she wanted me to have some company, and she thought he was nice, so she encouraged me to give him a chance.
Since I had nothing better to do, I moseyed on over to Nielson’s ranch not long after I got home. I met up w
ith Glen, and he invited me to go with him to work in the hay field. The day passed quickly in spite of the summer heat. I acted completely myself, being silly and cutting up most of the day.
That night, Glen and I lay on the lawn beneath a big oak tree in front of the ranch house. We talked until almost midnight. He was kind and attentive to me in a way no man had ever been before—my father and Horace most especially. I was able to explain my dilemma to him, and he understood and commiserated. In his view, he said, God gave us free agency as a gift, not as a tool with which to taunt and confuse us. Why would he give us desires he wanted us to deny? After all, isn’t God love? I recall these things making perfect sense to me at the time.
What drew me to Glen even more, though, was the familiar loneliness I sensed in him. It seemed a loneliness perfectly matching my own. All at once, in a single day, I’d found another soul who might give my life meaning, someone I thought would completely understand me. We were so compatible, we spent the rest of the summer together.
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