PART THREE – July 1977 to October 1982
Some of the youth in my church ward participated in a BYU wilderness trek. I’m not sure about the official name of the affair. The leaders or supervisors were employees of Brigham Young University. That’s the only tie-in to BYU, because none of the trek was spent anywhere near the Provo campus of BYU. It was not really a complete survival course, because we spent less than one weekend on the trek, learning only a few rudimentary skills.
Parents drove us to the rendezvous point, in some mountainous area. A few of them stayed to participate. We were strictly prohibited from bringing candy, snacks, radios, musical instruments, makeup, toys, bedding, shampoo, toothpaste, books, or flashlights. Some of the leaders may have had flashlights. Each of us carried a light jacket, and a few wore baseball caps.
I had the idea that the trek would be like a Boy Scout hike, with girls. For most of the guys, having girls around was the compelling feature. I looked forward to socializing with girls, away from my mother’s teasing.
During the first hour of the first hike, I had a pleasant chat with Pam, a beautiful girl I knew from school. She asked me about my ambitions in life, and I told her I was interested in learning about electronics. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure. It probably didn’t sound very interesting, compared to other guys who wanted to be airplane pilots, medical doctors, lawyers, or rocket scientists.
At the next rendezvous point, we were separated, or sorted, into smaller groups of about twelve to fifteen, equally divided between girls and boys, with one adult male leader, and one adult female leader. There were a few other adults, parents, but they were not acting in the role of leaders. The leaders took some time to ensure that none in our group had met each other before. The leaders suggested we not talk about details of our city activities, such as movies, restaurants, sports, jobs, and cars. They encouraged us to share our general likes and dislikes, and our testimony.
A testimony meeting, in an LDS religious setting, implies spiritual introspection, and public declaration of spiritual observations. I would speculate that most teenagers in my church do not have much of a testimony of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter-day Saints; that’s not to imply that they don’t love the church, or the Savior. I loved the church, and the Savior, but to me, that was not a real testimony. I would also speculate that most guys are a bit restrained about expressing their personal feelings. I was extremely shy about it, and used humor as a substitute. Not many shared my sense of humor.
I took note of a girl named Ruth, who happened to like a guarana-flavored soda called Trop. I also liked it. There was no soda pop allowed on our trek. We had only water to drink. For dinner, I think they gave us a banana, or orange. I don’t remember exactly, except that it was not a cooked meal. The heavier teenagers did not get any larger portions, and they probably struggled with the food limitation.
As the sun waned, we rested at a campsite, where we had a couple hours of free time. One leader advised us to get some sleep, hinting that we would be kept out late, or perhaps rousted out of bed early. One of the key features of this trek was not knowing where we would go, or how long we would walk. The adults may have been more informed, but the teenagers were not. There wasn’t any sleeping bag, or bunk, or tent to sleep in, so I reclined on the ground, and tried to sleep. I wasn’t really tired, so I gave up on that idea.
At sunset, our group began the main hike. At the time, I didn’t know it was the main hike, or that it would last all night. We just followed the leaders, with our various levels of faith. It gets very dark in the canyons at night, and I’m still amazed how we managed to stay on a path, without flashlights. It seemed that the ground around us had a faint glow, or luminescence. It wasn’t like sunlight, or lanterns. Sunlight and lanterns always cast shadows, but there were no shadows that night. Maybe it was starlight. I mentioned this a few times to some of the others, but they didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.
Before the night was fully set, Ruth developed a cramp in one leg. It’s possible the cramp was related to an injury, or to her menstrual cycle. I was concerned about her limp, so I took hold of her arm, and walked with her, to help her along. She leaned more heavily upon me, as our walk continued. At certain intervals, our group stopped to rest, but only for about five minutes. It seemed we would reach our next campsite soon, where we could get some sleep. The leaders implied this, each time I asked how much further we had to go. They didn’t tell me our trek would take all night.
After several hours of walking in the dark, my back ached, and my arm ached from holding onto Ruth. The trail was narrow, with lots of trees and bushes along the way; it was much more difficult for two people walking side-by-side. My patience and trust wore thin. It seemed nobody else cared about helping Ruth.
At a steep, narrow section of trail, the earth collapsed under the combined weight of Ruth and I. We slid down the mountainside, in what seemed to be a gravel slide. I found myself sitting on top of Ruth’s sore leg. When I tried to move, she cried out in pain. I called up to the others, asking for a rope. Nobody had a rope. I hated to hear Ruth’s cries of pain, but knew she would not get any better from me sitting on her leg. So I struggled back up to the trail, and took hold of somebody’s hand. Somebody else helped Ruth.
After this incident, I was mad about being kept in the dark. I avoided contact with Ruth, because my own back was in tremendous pain. Somehow, Ruth’s leg seemed to get better, and she could walk on her own. At each rest stop, I reclined and closed my eyes, trying to ease the pain in my back. Just at the threshold of me falling into sleep, the leaders would tell us to get up and move on.
Around sunrise, we arrived at the next camp. For all I know, it may have been the same camp from which we departed the prior evening. In any case, I was tired, hungry, disgusted, and mad. I also felt bad about abandoning Ruth on the trail, although she remained with our group. Some people took a nap. Sleeping was difficult for me that day, with sunlight on my face, pain in my back, and anger in my heart.
For breakfast, we had cracked wheat mush, with a little honey. It was boiled in a steel can, over a campfire. One adult was given charge of the cooking; and I heard him discuss it with another person. They suggested that cooking was as simple as soaking the cracked wheat in hot water.
I interjected, with a brusk tone, “If you leave it on the fire, it can cook for a while.”
The adult replied, “I know it, James. I’m not that stupid.”
I ate my mush quietly, alone. One of the girls wasn’t hungry enough to eat her mush, and she gave it to me. I accepted it gratefully.
Ruth talked to me a little bit, but I didn’t have much to say. My mind was numb, and I had no more enthusiasm. At one point she said that I was a good listener. I said, “Maybe so.”
One of the leaders commented, “James, she just paid you a compliment, and you didn’t even know it.”
Our group joined up with the other groups for most of the day. The sequence of events is now fuzzy in my mind. Someone with a guitar performed the song/story I’ll Build You A Rainbow. It was a popular seminary song, written in the Granger Seminary building, by R. Scott Strong. I heard it enough already, that I was tired of it. There were climbing activities, a rappeling activity, singing activities, and the slaughter of a lamb.
Yes, we witnessed the process of a live animal being prepared for food, for our own consumption. A man cut its throat, and butchered it with a hunting knife. Each group was given some of the mutton, to be pulverized with rocks, stuffed into the intestines, and cooked as sausages.
We also ate something called ash cakes. It was a dough of flour, salt, and water, baked directly on the campfire coals.
I left that trek activity with a troubled spirit.
Enrolled in a summer drivers education class prior to the start of my Sophomore year, at Granger High School. This class seemed like a great opportunity to learn motorcycle riding. The motorcycle instructors didn’t seem as interested in helping us learn to operate motorcycles as they were in keeping us from riding the clutch. They often yelled at us: “Don’t ride the clutch!”
The clutch engagements on those motorcycles were very tight. I could not make a smooth transition from stop to first gear without killing the engine. There were also problems getting the shift lever from first gear into neutral; if it wasn’t positioned right when I kicked the starter lever, the bike would lurch. I was the only dropout from that class. I wouldn’t complete a motorcycle course until several years later.
One of the families in our neighborhood owned a motorboat, and planned a waterskiing trip for the young men and young women in the church. I had never tried waterskiing, but was excited to try.
Our group of about 6 teenagers and 3 adults took turns at waterskiing. Some were good at it. I was not. It took me about three tries, to get from crouched in the water, to standing and gliding over the surface of the reservoir. Even when I managed to get up, I could stand for no more than 10 seconds on the skis, before I lost my balance, let go of the rope, and crashed into the water.
If the water skis slipped off, they floated, so they weren’t hard to recover. I rode in the motorboat for a while, watching others ski, but it had a flat bottom, which made for a jarring experience.
When I sat on the beach watching people, including girls from the church who were wearing swimsuits, I got an erection. My swimsuit was rather form-fitting, and anyone around me could see that I had an erection. Nobody said anything to me about it, but I was embarrassed for a while. Eventually I decided that the best thing for me to do was try to ignore it.
Worse thing for me was that I did not bring sunglasses or sunscreen. Someone probably offered sunscreen, but I declined. Only a few hours exposure to sunshine under blue skies was enough to give me a scarlet sunburn.
The next morning, as I dressed for church, the pain of clothes touching my skin was torture.
At the age of 16, my friends Mike and Brad got their own cars, and thus had more opportunity to court the girls. Brad once suggested I join them for a triple date; he would invite a girl named Pam, Mike would invite a girl named Julia, and I could invite a girl of my choice. The problem here was that they already took my first two choices: Pam and Julia. I discreetly declined.
A few times, I went to youth dances in other stakes. Somewhere in Kearns, Jerry Howe challenged me to dance with a certain blonde girl, named Templ. We got along splendidly, and she asked me to escort her to a girls preference dance. That was the only time I was ever invited to a girls preference dance. The date did not materialize, because Templ’s father said she didn’t know me well enough. That was his way of saying he didn’t know me well enough to trust me with his daughter.
Some of the parents in my neighborhood formed a car-pool, to carry four children to high school. My father often drove us in his Chevrolet Impala. One time, a parent drove us in his pickup truck. He had three of us, packed tightly together, with me sitting against the passenger door. The fourth and last person, an attractive girl, had to sit on my lap. I happened to get an erection, and I’m sure that girl felt it. We were all friends, and I liked this girl, but that truck ride was an awkward experience.
One of the Granger Seminary teachers taught us, superficially, about the Old Testament practice of circumcision. After posing several questions, he formed an explanation from the scriptures: It was a token of God’s covenant with his people, and a way of distinguishing his people from others.
That explanation did not satisfy me, but I was too modest to question it further. Also, the teacher did not attempt to discuss the New Testament change of attitude toward circumcision.
Men could obviously survive without foreskins, but routine infant circumcision seemed to be an odd form of child abuse. I couldn’t understand why God would command such a thing.
One of my friends in the seminary class, a girl, leaned across the aisle and softly asked me, “¿What is circumcision?” I said I’d tell her after class. She never asked me about it again.
In my sophomore algebra class, I often helped a girl named Charlotte with the math problems. When I got tickets to a Salt Palace concert event, I invited her to come with me. Charlotte excused herself for some reason, but my friend Julia steered me to one of her friends, Linda, who accepted. Linda and I rode with Julia and her date to the concert.
In my French class, there was a girl who was friends with a boy in the school’s orchestra, John. He would periodically associate with Granite High School orchestra students, including a girl named Karen, who played cello. Karen was also a French student, and wanted to practice writing French with a boy in Granger High School. Through this odd connection, I began corresponding with Karen, on a weekly basis. John was our courier. It may have been faster to use the U.S. Post Office to send our letters, but it was more exciting to do it our way. Karen and I thus became good friends, before we ever saw each other.
For our first date, my father drove us to Cyprus High School for ice skating. My father grumbled about driving me that day.
“Why doesn’t the kid get a bus?”
After he saw that my friend was a girl, he kept quiet. Karen made a gingerbread house for me in December. When I was cast in Kismet, a musical theater production, Karen tried out for the orchestra, so she could see me more often. She had to drop out of that gig, due to an illness which kept her home for a month.
Worked at a fast-food business, during the summer prior to my Junior Year in High School. The place was called Buddy’s, and we served burgers and tacos. The men wore brown pants, a white shirt, and some variation on a brown necktie. I was not comfortable with the cash register, and nobody at Buddy’s had the patience to teach me, so I was always stationed at the grill. Sometimes I’d prepare a burger for myself, wrap it, and have it ready for my break, when I could properly eat and rest.
Closing Buddy’s every night, when there were no more customers, was laborious all by itself. I followed the cleanup rules strictly. It was tedious, scrubbing the surface of the grill until I saw shiny steel, emptying the liquid grease drawer, straining crumbs from the oil in the deep fryer, cleaning the filters from the exhaust vent, wiping the grease from around the openings of the exhaust vent, mopping the floors, wiping all food preparation surfaces with bleach, emptying and washing out the soft-serve ice cream machines, sealing and storing the unsold foods, emptying the garbage containers.
Some employees didn’t bother to complete every task when they worked the closing shift. I noticed that the liquid grease collection drawer was dripping one morning. When I pulled it open to investigate, a large quantity of liquid grease splashed out onto the floor. The stuff was horrible to clean off the floor, and it posed a risk for others to slip on and get injured. Nobody else bothered to help me with that cleanup.
One of my associates, Scott, who attended Cyprus High School, brought his high school rivalry to work with him. He also played a trick on me. When I was busy at the grill, he opened the burger I had prepared and wrapped, loaded it with salt, then re-wrapped it. I was so hungry when I took my break, I took two bites of the burger before I figured out something was wrong. Scott was watching me intently as I ate, and laughed at the look on my face.
I was always in a cautious hurry to do my job, especially when customers were waiting. However, the manager, who had many years of food-service experience from working at Arctic Circle, didn’t seem to like my work manners. To him, it didn’t look like I was moving fast enough. He said, “I wanna see you fly.”
During the lunch rush. I picked up the pace, to a reasonable level, but my manager mocked me, as if I was dawdling. He wanted to see me fly. So I put on a show, in an attempt to give him satisfaction. I leapt at the refrigerator handle, risking falls if I lost my grip. I ran to the walk-in cooler to procure more meat and cheese, risking knocking others over, if they stood in my path. The pressure to fly made me toss caution into the wind. When I grabbed a bag of meat in the cooler, and started back toward the grill with it, I didn’t notice that it wasn’t sealed. The meat slipped out onto the floor, leaving the empty bag in my hands. At that moment, I suddenly looked much worse in the eyes of my managers.
My English teacher, Joyce Baskin, was pleased with my work in her Sophomore English class and suggested I try out for her yearbook staff. This required a two-year commitment, and participation in a summer yearbook conference at Brigham Young University.
The yearbook staff was a different kind of school club, with authority to bestow honors on students for academic, social, and athletic abilities. They also established recognition for certain students based on their opinion polls.
The interview process for the yearbook staff, as well as other groups or clubs in Granger High School, contained a fair amount of subjectivity. Some students went through school with hurt feelings when they were passed over in the staff selection voting.
Students who were accepted by sufficient votes were initiated by means of a surprise party, which included some odd activities.
I didn’t know that I was accepted to yearbook staff until some students arrived at my house, put a paper bag over my head, and took me for a joyride. My mother was aware of this initiation beforehand, and gave her consent.
With the bag over my head, I was taken through a grocery store, and told to ask people for directions to certain products, and sing a song. I was put on the side of a road and told to hold my thumb out while traffic passed by, as if hitch-hiking. At last, all the yearbook staff inductees met for refreshments and a stupid recitation they called, “My Aunt Emma”.
Our yearbook work at Granger High School was done before the birth of the personal computer. There was no digital photography, no page-layout software, and no ready-made clip-art. Artwork was created to order, usually by the designated art editor. Photo cropping was done with yellow cropping pencils, typing was done with electric typewriters, and page-layouts were done on special carbon-copied grid paper.
The yearbook class was probably the best thing to happen to me in my Junior year. There were several cute girls on staff, and ample time for socializing. Some days the class felt like a party.
I was fond of the chief editor, and asked her to accompany me to the homecoming dance. She had to decline for personal reasons.
Liz, one of the senior girls on yearbook staff, took an interest in my unattached situation. She also happened to be president of the French club. When I had no other prospects for a date to the homecoming dance, Liz came to my aid and arranged most of my homecoming date. Liz suggested that I ask one of her friends named Susan. She also convinced her father to loan his car to another friend, Rocky, who would drive us to the dance.
Susan was a quiet senior girl, who had completely eluded my attention prior to that day. She accepted my invitation, and when I arrived at Susan’s house, she presented me with a boutonniere. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a corsage to give her. Had not even considered flowers beforehand. Was pleased to see some of my friends at the dance. Social inexperience caused me to not properly introduce my date. Susan was probably nervous; she did not know me well; I should have made her feel more comfortable around my friends.
Had an interest in theater, which led to my involvement in two stage shows during my junior year. These shows were not promoted as much as the year’s major musical theater event, so they were not done on the school’s main stage. Instead, we used the spacious choir room. I posted advertisements at two major grocery stores, which helped to fill the choir room to its capacity with paying spectators.
The rehearsals for Oscar Wilde’s The Importance Of Being Earnest were fun and productive. We had good camaraderie in the cast from start to finish. I especially enjoyed practicing the Welsh accent for my butler character.
On our opening night, I was at Murray High School with the track team, aggravated at the slow pace of events. The officials wasted as much as ten minutes between events. Our bus arrived back at Granger High School less than ten minutes before curtain time, although we didn’t really have a curtain in the choir room. I rushed into the dressing room so fast, without my eyeglasses, that I didn’t notice my friend Karen, standing with her sister.
The more difficult show was Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Because I already had a critical role in the Earnest show, I got only a minor part in the Shakespeare show. It was such a minor part, the rehearsals sometimes didn’t progress far enough to include my act. Maybe Shakespeare was harder to understand, or maybe the larger cast was more difficult to coordinate. There was not the same spirit of cooperation with these people. Progress was hindered by personality conflicts, and some students left rehearsals in anger. Even the drama director left a rehearsal in frustration when the stress set in. During this time, the cast bonded under the direction of a girl named Lindsey Hall. She called us together and helped us to mend our differences. Then she asked if anyone would be offended if we had a prayer. Only one person left the group while Lindsey prayed.
In December, the yearbook staff put together a Christmas tree in the classroom. As Christmas approached, we would put gifts for each other on the floor, underneath that tree. One of the first gifts that appeared was for me, from a secret admirer. The girls on the yearbook staff noticed it first, and became very excited. They wanted to know who it was, my secret admirer. I really didn’t know.
As Christmas approached, we opened all our gifts. Nobody else there had a secret admirer. The gift from my secret admirer was a twill jacket, or windbreaker. It was a great gift, and I wore it proudly. There was no card, no name to identify the secret admirer. My first suspicion was that Karen from Granite High School gave me the jacket. Karen denied it.
When I asked our teacher, Mrs. Baskin, what I should do about it, she told me to relax and enjoy it. The girl would make herself known when she was ready. The girl evidently wanted to keep her identity a secret, because nobody ever admitted to giving me the jacket. However, there was a girl I met in one of my seminary classes, who invited me to sit with her on the lawn in front of Granger High School. I felt strongly that she was the secret admirer.
The most challenging class I had in high school was Physics. I attended Physics during my Junior and Senior years. I enrolled because some of my friends were interested in the class, and the teacher was my former bishop and scoutmaster, Henry Bawden. He gave a quick review of trigonometry in preparation for the course, but it was not a review for me. I had never studied trigonometry, and felt utterly inadequate for many weeks. My electronic calculator, the association with my physics friends, plus the patience and extra help provided by Mr. Bawden got me through those classes. Electronic calculators were getting to be fairly reliable, but their lifespan was typically less than a year. I purchased at least three during my high school years.
My best grades were earned during a term when I was having problems getting to school on time. I liked walking to school alone, but my parents often pressured me to wait for my sister Bonnie. My father usually drove Bonnie to school in the Chevrolet Impala, and sometimes he stopped me along the way, insisting that I ride. Bonnie spent much more time in the bathroom than I did, and often got off to a late start.
My first period class was geometry, taught by a Mr. Anderson. He was a pharmacist who hated pharmacy work, and he hated tardiness. He warned his class that excessive tardiness would cut a student’s scholastic score. Some of my tardiness was definitely my own fault, yet some was because my parents insisted I wait for my sister. At the end of the term, Mr. Anderson reduced my class score from an A to a B.
Part of the geometry class involved students in using mathematical reasoning or *proofs* to prove a postulate. Students were sometimes invited to write their proofs on the chalkboard, copied from their homework. One day, I used two chalkboards to display one particularly difficult proof. The list of steps (including theorems and properties) was too long to fit on one. While I was still writing, Mr. Anderson began reviewing it with the class. He reviewed only a few of my steps, and jumped to an erroneous conclusion, which he said proved the theorem. The entire class laughed at what seemed to be my *wrongness* in carrying on to an extra chalkboard. I was embarrassed, but not convinced. After the bell rang, dismissing class, I discussed the proof with Mr. Anderson. He reconsidered where my proof diverged from his conclusion, and admitted he made an error. There was still not enough time to review the entire proof, however, or I would be tardy to my next class.
My involvement with the track team, the yearbook staff, the chess club, and theater began to interfere with my employment at Village Green Apartments. My boss, who was the apartment manager, was displeased with the time I spent in extra-curricular activities at school. He expected me to come to work immediately after school officially ended, and tend to the repair of sprinkler pipes, the trimming of shrubs, and other property maintenance. Portions of the lawn were brown from lack of water. He confronted me several times to discuss the problem. My problem was that I wanted it all; didn’t want to quit any of my after-school activities, until the pressure forced me. I explained to my track coach that I couldn’t devote the time he was expecting. Although I wasn’t putting in the effort, my coach still kept me on the team.
In the summer before my senior year, my boss at Village Green Apartments abruptly quit. With my job security in question, I considered other options. Dennis, a friend at church, invited me to work at his transmission shop. The inducements were an increase in pay, and an opportunity to drive a tow truck.
The transmission shop was on 3500 South, not far from Buddy’s. The job proved to be very different from the picture that Dennis painted in my mind. On my first day, the manager told Dennis and I that my salary was minimum wage, $3.65 per hour. This was a pay cut for me. I should have left immediately, but I wanted to please Dennis. Their tow truck was in bad shape, and difficult for even the manager to operate. He drove me in the truck to collect a couple of vehicles, without giving me much opportunity to learn to drive it. He expected me to avoid what he called the granny gear, which was actually first gear. The stick shift did not always slide into place easily, and it was not immediately clear which gear was engaged. This uncertainty, along with the challenge of a long stroke clutch pedal, made it easy to lug the engine. I learned that I had to crawl under the truck to fiddle with the winch control, or it did not engage properly. The manager was not patient with me. He claimed that my rough driving (jerking the truck) made his back hurt.
My friend Dennis was given the responsibility of teaching me how to drive the tow truck, after work. His idea of teaching me was to talk about it as he drove me home. I got no real driving practice.
All my fellow employees at the transmission shop used offensive language. Some of this was directed at me. The manager apologized to me in private, but let it fly in public.
There was a designated quitting time, after which I planned to be in other places. My plans were destroyed. The real quitting time was adjustable, because the guys were working on profitable jobs they wanted to deliver. They really didn’t need me there while they were installing transmissions, but since I was part of their crew, I was expected to stay.
When a mechanic removed or dropped a transmission from a car, there was usually a puddle of transmission fluid spilled onto the floor. It became my main task to clean the floor of this fluid. There was a non-toxic solvent called *Safety Kleen* which was used to wash transmission assemblies. I used a mop and bucket with the used, old Safety Clean to loosen the contaminants on the floor, then a water hose to spray the loosened residue, then a squeegee to direct the water to the drains. This didn’t take much time, and I found myself looking for other things to do. The manager was not amused. He wanted me to look busy cleaning the floors, even if they were already cleaned. Usually, the old Safety Kleen solvent had more transmission fluid in it than was already on the floor.
Nobody really trusted me with the tow truck, so by the third day I had spent most of my time washing floors, or pretending to do so. Dennis told the manager that I knew how to repair sprinklers, so I was sent out into the yard to see what I could do with the broken sprinkler heads. Armed only with snap ring pliers (suggested by the secretary), I tried to remove broken sprinkler stems. It was an exercise in futility. I had none of the tools I was accustomed to using at the Village Green Apartments, and insufficient replacement parts. The manager was disappointed when I couldn’t fix his sprinklers, and he put me to work pulling weeds. Before noon of the third day, Dennis sadly informed me that I had been fired, effective immediately. The manager didn’t inform me directly. Nobody offered me a ride home, so I walked.
When my father saw me walk into the house, he asked, “¿Did they fire ya?” I nodded. He was not surprised. I was not right for that job.
One evening I was walking home, along Mooregate Avenue, when a car slowly pulled up along the curb, to my right. It seemed to be slowly following me as I walked, so I assumed it was one of my school-mates driving. The windows were all rolled up. The car stopped in front of the Cluff house, engine still running. I immediately walked around to the right rear passenger door, and nonchalantly stepped inside, and shut the door. I was surprised to learn that this was not one of my school-mates. It was Marie Cluff and her boyfriend. She was even more surprised, or amazed.
Marie asked, “What are you doing?“
I replied, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were my friend.” I meant to say I thought it was someone else’s car. I opened the door, stepped out, returned to the sidewalk, and continued walking home.
My senior year, I was cast in another drama, Spoon River Anthology. It was about dead people who stood around giving monologues about their life. We didn’t get enthused about that kind of show. The director sensed that this might turn out to be a dud, and canceled it. My drama teacher felt sorry for me, and allowed me to help with another drama as a technical assistant. I operated the music console, for the introductory music, which was an instrumental piece called Chocolate Fudge, from an album titled Fresh Aire. I really became attached to that music, and imagined myself playing it on the piano. It continued to haunt me for many years.
I was pleased with the drama director, and often spent time chatting with him after class. This made me late to my English class. His influence was such that I wanted to attend Ricks College in Idaho and study theater. I auditioned for the school musical, Kismet (mystery of fate), and was cast as the poet Omar Khayyam. There was no singing in this role, but I enjoyed the acting immensely. The stage and theater equipment at Granger High School were rebuilt, and our show was the first to make use of the new equipment.
My father’s health had deteriorated so that he required an oxygen tank with him, just to stay alive. He was staying at a special care facility, or hospital.
On October 6, 1979 the sound of the telephone awoke me, and I knew it was news about my father. Got dressed, and met my mother upstairs; she expected that I would stay in bed, so she was surprised to see me. My younger sisters were still in their bedrooms, probably asleep. My father was dead, due to congestive heart failure.
Not sure why we wanted to go to the hospital again. We had already visited the day before, and knew my father was dying. My Aunt Ann Brown came to our house to be our chauffeur; she didn’t want my mother to drive, in her emotional state.
We stood by my father’s bed for a few minues, while a nurse tried to get a pulse reading. My mother collected his wristwatch, then we left. I didn’t cry about any of this. While it seemed strange to see my father lying there dead, it was not painful to me.
At the Granger LDS Seminary, became fond of a girl from the Granger Swim Team. I was writing on an incredibly stupid novel, showed some of it to her, and asked her advice on it. I didn’t take her advice very well.
One afternoon, I went to the Granger Pool building, to the upstairs bleachers, and watched my friend swim. She came upstairs and thanked me for my interest, and asked me to leave. She liked having me around, but felt that my presence would distract her from having a good workout. I understood, and respected her wishes.
I happened to be assigned to work on the yearbook page for the girls swim team. We at the yearbook staff already had a photo of an early swim squad; the girls were standing in their swimsuits, soaking wet. When I visited with the swim coach about it, he requested that we get a new photo of the real swim team, with the girls in dry clothes and preferred hair-styles. I agreed. Others on the yearbook staff disagreed with me, but I thought the girls were more attractive in their regular clothes than in swimsuits.
The Granger Swim Team girl convinced me to dress in a Santa suit, and play the role at one of her family Christmas parties. Our friendship blossomed.
I was concerned about how I could ever pay for college, especially if I had to rent a dorm at Ricks College. One option was devoting four years to the U.S. Navy. Besides the college benefits, they would give me some valuable training in electronics, in which I had a keen interest. I sent for some literature, not wanting to make any hasty decisions.
The navy recruiters were not content to just send literature. One visited me at my house, and convinced me to complete a military test called ASVAB (armed services vocational aptitude battery). He scheduled an appointment for me to take the test at their facility in Salt Lake City, and promised a free lunch at one of the local restaurants. Depending on the results of this test, they could make more definite offers. I scored high in the ASVAB, and the recruiters enthusiastically made their offers. It would have been easy to enlist, if not for a different sense of commitment.
The church prophet, Spencer W. Kimball, said that every worthy young man should serve a mission for his church. I simply accepted this on faith. Although I regularly attended church and seminary, prayed, and read scriptures, I did not feel a burning-in-the-bosom style testimony of anything.
Of the thousands of people I heard speak in testimony meetings, not many mentioned a prompting from the Holy Spirit, a burning in the bosom, an epiphany, or a revelation. While people usually had interesting stories, many did not make mention of Jesus, Joseph Smith, The Book Of Mormon, or a witness from the Holy Spirit. This troubled me.
¿How could I honestly tell anyone that I had a testimony of this church, or the Book Of Mormon? I often prayed for such a testimony, waited on my knees, then fell asleep disappointed.
Had a Sunday School teacher who told me an interesting story about how he went astray from the church for a time. However, he never lost his testimony of the Book Of Mormon. Decided that if it was that important to him, then I’d make it a priority in my mind. Was sitting in my bedroom, reading a story about a man who had a dream about the Book Of Mormon. He dreamed that someone would bring him a book, which would lead him and his family to salvation in the gospel of Jesus Christ. At that instant, the Holy Ghost poured into me, and testified that The Book Of Mormon would lead me and my family to salvation in the gospel of Jesus Christ. The feeling was stronger, and more enduring than I’d ever felt before. It had nothing to do with indigestion, or fever, or hallucination. It was the Holy Ghost, testifying to me of the Book Of Mormon, and I could not deny it.
Another one of my concerns was about the Savior, Jesus Christ. It worried me greatly that if he was standing in front of me, I may not recognize him. This worry was laid to rest in a vivid dream I had one night, where I approached a group of about twelve men. Standing in the center of this group was my Lord, and without any introduction, I did recognize him. Also, he recognized me, and embraced me.
The first person who ever told me I looked like John Denver, was an LDS seminary teacher by the name of Sister Chalmers. It had more to do with the style of eyeglasses I wore than anything else. Since then, countless people have pointed out the resemblance.
The nickname Denver became strongly affixed to me at Mill Hollow in 1980. Mill Hollow is staffed with at least four administrators, a kitchen staff, and a maintenance supervisor. Problems with un-supervised children in the dorms at Mill Hollow led to the hiring of dormitory supervisors.
In the spring of 1980, four graduates of Granger High School were hired as male dormitory supervisors for Mill Hollow. Each knew the others from high school. Each was preparing to be a missionary for The Church Of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Their nicknames were Stretch, Korky, Tank, and Denver.
There were also four lady dorm supers, who were somewhat more diverse than the men. None were from Granger High School. Sprint was a tall spectacled blonde; a valedictorian; perhaps the only student in her middle school to maintain a 4.0 average for three years. Sprint had worked at Mill Hollow for the 1979 year, and was the only veteran, as such. George was something of a tomboy; full of energy, with wild brown hair. She loved games and teamwork. Sam was a diligent piano player. She often practiced the piano in the lodge; usually compositions of Dan Fogelburg or Mantovani. Mitch was a perpetual optimist, and was preparing to serve a mission for the church.
The managers suggested the nickname idea for dorm supers. They considered it prudent to not let the children know a super’s real name. Salary for dorm supers was four dollars and seven cents per hour, with a maximum 40 hours per week. Eating, sleeping, and the like did not count as work. Sometimes a male super was asked to stay over a weekend for security purposes.
The dormitory supervisors were child-sitters by night, and recreation supervisors by day. Four girls dorms, and four boys dorms would each have a supervisor assigned to sleep, eat, sing, and play games with the children. The children could shower together, but the supers showered alone. Additional daytime responsibilities for dorm supers included watering grass, escorting children through the kitchen, marking camp equipment, painting, picking up litter, providing evening entertainment (skits), selling craft supplies, gathering firewood, serving food, washing trays, cutting trails, preparing tree-cookies, and occasionally accompanying a class on a hike. Most of the nature hikes and other daytime activities were supervised by school teachers. Every child (and adult) was assigned a bunk (with a mattress) to sleep on; each was also required to bring their own sleeping bag.
Commuting to Mill Hollow was usually a pleasant experience. The supers often rode a school bus – sometimes with a load of children, sometimes empty – through some beautiful mountain roads. Passing through the small towns of Francis and Woodland, where pavement ended. From Woodland to Mill Hollow, the road was narrow, gravel paved. Sometimes, Stretch rode his motorcycle, George drove her Volkswagon Beetle, or perhaps a manager would drive a station wagon.
The staff of Mill Hollow took road trips to other places in the mountains. There was a forest fire somewhere in the direction of Hannah, and two managers were concerned that it may spread toward Mill Hollow. They loaded up and Denver two of the male supers in the back of an old pickup truck, amid an assortment of equipment, and went to investigate the fire. It was a very uncomfortable ride. The managers were businessmen most of the time, but personable when necessary. Two of them took turns driving Denver to Cold Springs. The first trip was a group outing, just for fun. The second trip was to recover Denver’s wallet and paycheck.
One weekend, Korky and Tank rode their bicycles from the Salt Lake Valley to Woodland, intending to reach Mill Hollow. Denver started the trip with them, but quit at the mouth of Cottonwood Canyon; his bicycle and his body were hopelessly out of shape. It was dark and late when the super manager drove down the dirt road from camp, looking for Korky and Tank. The guys were exhausted, and pushing their bicycles up the dirt road.
The supers were required to supervise children during recreational activities. Three areas were designated for this purpose: 1) The parking lot was for ‘kick the can’ and basketball. 2) The lower level of dorm 8 was for ping pong. 3) The campfire area was for volleyball. Two supers were assigned to each recreational area. One was assigned to sell craft supplies in *the store*. All were on the alert to remind children to walk on the paths, and not on the grass. The grass was fragile; it could be destroyed by trampling under 200 childrens’ feet. The ground near dorms 7 and 8 did not yet have grass growing on it, so the managers recruited visiting children to help with the ground preparation. Some resented it. Occasionally, the supers would walk out onto the grass, sit down, and study scriptures.
Stretch liked to tease and joke with people. He seriously hurt his leg when he ran into a ping-pong table below dorm 8, while fleeing from another employee. He walked with a limp for several weeks following the accident.
Two different groups of children came to Mill Hollow each week. Each group stayed three days, two nights. It was common for all eight dorms to be occupied simultaneously. Not all the professional teachers appreciated being away from paved roads, concrete walks, theaters, houses, supermarkets, televisions, cigarette smoke, and percolating coffee. One visitor, after tasting a cup of instant coffee, decided it was the most excitement she’d had all day. Another visitor brought a phonograph, and boxes of phonograph records, to amuse herself in the dorm. One of the kitchen girls couldn’t fully enjoy the food after seeing it prepared for so many weeks, so she liked to drive into Kamas for franchise food.
Denver and Sprint had many talks together. Sometimes they spoke about the scriptures, the depletion of fossil fuels, solar energy, wildlife, or Sprint’s unusually protective father (who wouldn’t let her drive her new car until he had tested it for several days).
While walking in the woods, it was a joy to encounter animals. There were always the little tree squirrels called *pot guts* which delighted the children. Denver and Sprint also saw a doe, and a rabbit. After hearing Sprint tell how, in a previous year, a super was able to attract an animal with a lip-sucking sound, Denver decided to try it. The rabbit approached and nuzzled Sprint’s foot. When Sprint moved, the rabbit ran away.
The supers were warned about being alone with some of the older children. There was a story of a teenager who got pregnant and blamed it on one of the young men she spent time with at Mill Hollow. People were astounded to hear that such a fine young man would do such a thing. There was a paternity hearing, during which the judge determined that he’d wait and see when the girl gave birth; that would be evidence of when the child was conceived. Upon the baby’s birth, it was determined that the conception could not have occurred at Mill Hollow as the girl had claimed. By then, the alleged father had his reputation irreparably damaged.
Staff members regularly went on long walks to the reservoir, the beaver dams, or a short walk to *Split-Rock*. Split-Rock was rumored to be a place for romantic interludes. Denver and Sprint found it a great place to do stargazing. It was relaxing to get away from the camp and children’s voices for a while, but most supers were glad to get back and be with the children. On quiet nights, when a shepherd drove his animals through the area, the echoes of bleating could be heard clearly for miles.
Some of the most enjoyable times were performing skits in the lodge. Skits were often changed or embellished to accommodate the personalities of the supers involved. One of the memorable skits was called *SOME DEW*.
A nerdy couple (Sam and Tank), sitting on a park bench, maintains the audience’s attention by preening. The couple clearly has some attraction to each other, but each is too nervous to touch the other or talk about anything of substance. They use body language to indicate this nervous attraction. Sam bats her eyelashes at Tank, holds her legs tightly together, gazes nonchalantly around her, hugs her shoulders. When Tank speaks, she plays with her hands. Tank tries to sneak his arm around Sam’s shoulders, but never quite makes it. He also gazes nonchalantly around him. Tank fixates on an imaginary moon in the sky, and points. Hey. Some moon, huh? What? Oh yeah (Sam giggles). Some moon! Tank fixates on the stars in the sky, and excitedly points. Oooh. Some stars! Sam gazes up and replies, Wow. Some stars. Tank stretches his arms, fixates on an imaginary tree and points. Uh, Hey! Ahem. Some tree. Sam relies, Yep. Some tree. Tank looks toward the floor, and fixates on the imaginary grass. Some grass. Sam replies, Yeah. Some grass. Tank fixates on the imaginary dew collecting on the grass. Some dew. Sam gasps. ¡Well I don’t! She slaps him and walks away. Tank loses balance and falls onto the floor.
One of the least desirable foods at Mill Hollow was an orange-flavored drink, packed in half-pint cartons. When Corky, Stretch, Denver, and Tank were sent up to Skyline Trail to dig out a path connecting two sections of the trail, they didn’t have canteens. They brought a few cartons of that infamous orange-flavored drink. Denver brought his tape player, but the batteries didn’t last long. After several hours in the sun, the men were very thirsty. They spent some time searching for a stream to drink from. They found only a filthy swamp in a gully. When two of the kitchen girls arrived with more of the orange-flavored drink, they were the most endearing women Denver had ever seen. And that orange-flavored drink was just about the best thing he ever tasted.
George drove her Volkswagon, with Denver along for the ride, for their last weekend at Mill Hollow in 1980. There was a sudden snow, which necessitated leaving the Volkswagon at the ranger station. A manager came to the rescue, with chains on his car wheels. Workmen installed plywood over the windows, the kitchen cooler was emptied of food, the fryer was drained, the water pipes were closed off and drained, mattress covers were collected from all the bunks, the toilets were filled with antifreeze, the diesel generator was turned off, the dorms were locked. One of the workmen wanted access to the lodge, so he could sleep there and have a fire when he came up to hunt deer in the winter. That wasn’t the purpose of Mill Hollow, so he didn’t get permission.
In preparation for my missionary service, I was interviewed for two recommends. One was for my patriarchal blessing, and one was for receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood. My bishop performed the priesthood ordination. The patriarch gave a marvelous blessing. I especially took note of the phrase “taking the gospel to the utmost ends of the earth.” I wanted to go overseas on my mission, preferably to France. In a way, I was itching to get away from my mother. At one point, I dreamed that I was called to the Halifax mission. I was quietly disappointed when the actual mission call did not remotely resemble my hopes, wishes, or my dream.
When my mother asked what I’d like for a Christmas present, I asked for an orchestra flute. We went shopping early, and purchased an Armstrong flute at Summerhays music. Didn’t wait for Christmas, but started rehearsing immediately. It took me weeks of practice to simply get a smooth tone. The extra breathing also made me dizzy. The head joint was supposed to be a solid silver alloy, for superior tone. After several years, the silver plating began to wear off the head joint, exposing a brass tube.
In the fall of 1980, my mother suggested I try employment at L.A.R. Manufacturing. One of her friends at Mountain Fuel Supply had sons who had worked there. The supervisor at L.A.R. knew I was planning on serving a mission soon, and wanted to help me save some money.
The main product at L.A.R. was a tripod for army artillery. After a few weeks of running a drill press, then a blasting cabinet, I was offered the night shift, for slightly higher wages. They ran a certain molding machine around the clock, and wanted me present at night for safety and security. I would run the molding machine for about thirty minutes, in order to give the main operator a lunch break. The rest of my shift was spent on other machines. The molding machine operator had his trailer parked outside, next to the business, where he went for naps. He started taking longer and longer lunch breaks, sleeping in that trailer. I wasn’t getting my regular tasks completed, because I was stuck at the molding machine. The supervisor saw that my productivity fell, and figured out that the other man needed to be fired, or asked to leave. He put me in charge of the molding machine for my entire shift, with nobody else around. This was probably a mistake.
There were three clusters of molds on the machine. While one cluster was in the oven, one cluster was being fan-cooled, and one was being emptied and re-filled by the operator. I wanted to be productive, and tried my hardest to keep the machine rotating, with a minimum of delay. One night a roller mechanism failed, so the product didn’t form properly in the oven. Another night, the oven door didn’t close properly. Faulty parts were difficult to remove from the molds. A crisis developed when some new molds were installed on the machine. The lids did not release under normal manual pressure, and I had to stop the process in order to clean them. It seemed I was spending more time cleaning the new molds than filling them. The lids kept getting harder to open, until I tried a pry-bar to force them open. I thought I had solved the problem until the pry-bar punctured one of the lids. I stopped using it, and showed the damaged lid to a supervisor at the start of the day shift.
While I was home in bed, I got a call from my boss. He explained that I had dented about half of the molds with my pry-bar idea, and they would cost around two thousand dollars each to replace. He didn’t expect me to pay for it, but didn’t want me working at L.A.R. Manufacturing anymore. He asked me to pick up my final paycheck. I was stunned. I picked up my final paycheck, for something less than two hundred dollars, and ripped it to shreds. It became painfully obvious to me that I could not possibly pay for all of my mission; I’d have to rely heavily on my mother’s money.
When my stake president first interviewed me for my missionary application, he sensed that my emotional state was not entirely healthy. I admitted that I often felt depressed. He told me those feelings were caused by Satan. He insisted that I plan each day carefully, to make sure I was always busy. He wanted to see an accounting of every minute of my daily plans, in writing. When I wasn’t busy enough for his liking, he sent me to help a ward custodian. He also sent me to see a psychiatrist.
I was not thrilled with the psychiatrist. He had a strange personality, and tried to connect the complexities of my depression to a few simple incidents in my life. He giggled a few times as I answered his questions, and explained that he enjoyed psychiatry because some patients would return to him after a year or two and thank him for his help.
After positive reports from the custodian and the psychiatrist reached my stake president, he endorsed my missionary application and sent it to my bishop.
In January of 1981, my bishop asked if I was in a hurry to go on a mission. I was certainly not in a hurry, and told him so. He held-off from submitting my missionary application for two months. If I suspected he would do that, I’d have told him that I was indeed in a hurry, and he should submit the application immediately. In my interview for a temple recommend, he asked me if I would wear the temple garments night and day. I didn’t know much about that, but I agreed.
Howard Manwaring was the ward custodian. For a few weeks, I helped him clean the wardhouse where we met for church. It did improve my mood to know I was helping somebody else. When the snows melted away in March, Howard began doing lawn and garden work, and hired me as his helper. Most of our work was in removing dead grass and thatch, using a power rake. In the time we spent together, Howard helped me to memorize about forty scriptures relevant to missionary work.
I received my mission call to the New York City Mission. It was fun shopping for clothes and luggage with my mother. We selected a nylon mesh material for my garments, and went to the Salt Lake Temple for my endowment. The ceremony was described as a great blessing, or perhaps a type of revelation; however, it was strange and troublesome. Didn’t like the ceremony, or the new underwear. My mother also took me to the Provo Temple for a slightly different presentation of the endowment session. I tried not to worry about it; people weren’t supposed to understand all the endowment after only two sessions. Many years later, parts of that ceremony would be removed from all temples. My old underwear soon disappeared in the laundry.
Entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo on the 30’th day of April, and stayed there over three weeks. Lived a rigorous schedule of study, exercise, and church meetings, in company with an assigned companion. It was designed to turn us into gospel teachers. My companion was from Roosevelt, Utah, where his family house had recently been destroyed by fire. On our wash day, he insisted that we put our temple garments together in the clothes dryer, then turned the heat to maximum. His garments were cotton, while mine were nylon mesh. The heat cooked my garments, just enough to melt hard edges around the mesh holes. From that day on, my mesh garments caused an itching sensation as I wore them.
There were six of us leaving the Missionary Training Center together, bound for the New York City Mission. It was my first airplane trip; we landed in the LaGuardia Airport in Queens. One of the mission assistants met us, and drove us into Manhattan. The mission offices, a wardhouse, and an LDS Visitors Center were all located on separate floors of a large building on Columbus Street, near Avery Fisher Hall. Access to the mission offices was through the main lobby of an adjacent building. The wardhouse occupied the third floor. In 2004, the upper floors of the building would be remodeled and dedicated as a temple, although the building exterior was virtually unchanged.
The mission president, Albert Choules Junior, gathered the new arrivals with some of the local missionaries at his apartment, for a dinner of lasagna. Each of us were expected to stand and give a personal testimony. I had trouble staying awake as the meeting dragged on, and was glad to get to bed.
Our first breakfast in New York was at a diner, a short walk from the mission offices. We were a bit mesmerized by the fast pace of people rushing in and out of the place.
I didn’t find President Choules to be a personable man, but I respected him, obeyed his rules, and looked to him for guidance. He imposed some strict rules on his missionaries in an effort to keep us disciplined, focused, and unspotted from the world.
In one of the large stair landings outside the mission offices was a collection of bicycles. Some were in storage, waiting for transportation to the owner in his (or her) new area. Some were abandoned by missionaries who were no longer in the mission. I was given an opportunity to purchase one of these abandoned bicycles; they were in bad shape, so I declined.
There are five sections or boros of New York City. Our mission area included all five boros, all of Long Island, some of upstate New York, large portions of Connecticut and New Jersey, and the island of Bermuda.
All missionaries involved in transfers converged at the mission offices, where their new companionships were formed. For my first area, I was assigned to work with in the Terryville Ward, In Suffolk County. Three other missionaries assigned to the Terryville Ward drove me east on the Long Island Expressway, to my first apartment.
My companion and I shared the car on alternate weeks, but mileage limitations would require us to do most of our traveling on bicycles. One of my first priorities in the Terryville Ward was to purchase a bicycle, and a lock.
We read from the mission manual every morning, along with the scriptures and our personal studies. We prayed with our companions at least three times daily. Each pair of missionaries were expected to report 70 hours of proselytizing time every week. We were expected in our apartments no later than nine o’clock in the evening; if this deadline was not met, we reported it to our zone leader immediately. We did not listen to radios, or watch televisions, or keep any such appliances in our apartments. We did not attend movie theaters or musical concerts. It was required to get explicit approval from the mission president prior to attending any Broadway musicals. Almost all musical instruments were forbidden in the hands of the missionaries, and I was not allowed to have my flute with me. It was acceptable for me to play the pianos at church buildings when I happened to be there. The only cassette music albums we kept around were from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. We wrote to our mothers once each week. Our preparation day (for washing, shopping, and writing letters) was only Saturday mornings, and ended at noon. In the afternoon, it was back to work as usual. Sunday was not particularly a day of rest, outside of the time we sat in church, or at dinner with someone.
To keep a clean-cut image, no facial hair was allowed, the sides were trimmed above the ears, and neck hair was tapered. In order to avoid being told to get a haircut, it was desirable to keep my hair shorter than I would have liked; close to a military haircut.
One of the rules I resented was the requirement to bear testimony to my companion every night. One of my more astute companions explained it this way: It worked upon the consciences of missionaries with weak testimonies (or none) to increase their desire to obtain and strengthen their testimony. It didn’t matter how many days or months I repeated my simple testimony to my companions; it did little good for me.
We carried our scriptures and a set of flip-charts with us wherever we went. We were expected to memorize the lessons (with all scripture references), and certify this to a zone leader. Some missionaries did this in the first month of their mission. It took about five months for me to complete my memorization and certify. Then I began studying a special set of discussions designed for Jewish people.
The cold calling approach of knocking on doors is the least successful way to perform missionary work. We called this tracting, and did it almost every day. Stupid name; it had almost nothing to do with tracts. People in my mission areas rarely accepted tracts from us. These people represented all major religions of the world, and all Christian denominations imaginable. I was more comfortable teaching people who already believed in Christ, and as it turned out, I never saw any non-Christian convert to Christianity on my mission. The few receptive listeners we encountered, or investigators were always devoted Christians before we met them.
There was a wave of anti-Mormon preachers visiting various churches on Long Island. This caused us to experience a more belligerent response on many doorsteps. It was common for people in the born-again sects to call our church a cult. Some told us to get off their property. Some called the police, who then demanded to see our permits for soliciting. Some slammed doors in our face. Some mistook us for visitors from other unpopular churches. Some deliberately drove their car through puddles on the street to splash water on us. Some saw the perspiration on our brows, and kindly offered us beverages. Most did not answer their door. If they were at home asleep, or away at work, we couldn’t be sure.
There were plenty of mean people in the New York City mission, but only once did I encounter someone clearly possessed of an evil spirit. The woman spoke with us on her porch, expressing how upset she was at everything we said. She promoted her own church, mentioning various spiritual experiences she already enjoyed, including speaking in tongues. My companion asked if she could do that. She anxiously demonstrated her ability, chattering strange and threatening noises, and emitting an evil feeling. My companion tried to exorcise the demon by commanding it to come out of her. The woman retorted, “I will not!”
There were concerns with our bicycles. My tires were slashed, my bungie cords were stolen, and my right pants cuff would catch under the chain while riding. A pants clip helped to protect my pants cuff. Sitting at home in our apartment during proselytizing time was unthinkable. If it was raining and no ward members were available to give us a ride to our not-so-close teaching appointments, we had to ride our bicycles. There were no subway trains in my areas. After winter snow and rain arrived, my rear tire often slung a stripe of road muck down the back of my overcoat. This moved me to install a fender. We carried umbrellas, which were good in mild precipitation. They were not very useful in windy storms. Holding an umbrella while riding my bicycle in a windy rain was an exercise in futility. My hair and eyeglasses were frequently getting wet. The damp winter air of New York chilled me much faster than the dry air of Utah ever had. My neck was protected by a magnificent scarf my mother made, but my ears, fingers, and feet were prone to lose circulation. While riding my bicycle in a freezing wind, I’d lose all feeling in my toes. If there was no place warm to go, I found that walking forced some foot circulation, and helped me to regain feeling in my toes.
When noon (twelve o’clock) arrived, it was the traditional time for lunch, but we were normally far from our apartment. Fortunately, we were usually close to a pizzeria or deli, where we would purchase a quick lunch. Learned to love Sicilian pizza, bagels and cream cheese; I could eat fast, and appreciated having no dishes to wash.
My first missionary apartment in Selden was in a boarding house, where we had to share the kitchen with other people. The neighborhood was infested with gypsy moth caterpillars. These creatures destroyed many trees, and often latched onto us as we walked.
One of the women in the boarding house, a smoker, detested our presence. My companion tried to be polite to her, and she complained that his talking bothered her more than anything else. She had trouble paying the rent, so the owner came and tried to throw her out one night. The police came, and argued back and forth with them. I heard one officer say, “I got better things to do than play with you all night!”
This environment was so troubling, we went to live with the elders in Sayville for about two months. I walked every street in the Patchogue area during this time, and eventually taught and baptized a girl from Puerto Rico. We later moved to Rocky Point, near the north shore.
Those nylon mesh garments I wore tormented me. On a preparation day, I was wearing a garment over my t-shirt, to avoid the itching. My companion criticized me for this, so I asked my mother to send cotton garments.
There was a Spanish-speaking branch holding meetings in the Terryville Ward building. When they learned I could play piano, I was recruited to play piano for their sacrament meetings. Didn’t understand what the people were saying, and resented missing my priesthood meetings to be with them.
People in New York did not understand the word pop to mean a fizzy beverage. Most preferred a simple cheese pizza pie, to one with various toppings. I liked pizza in Utah, but I became addicted to it in New York. The quality of New York pizza was higher than any I had before.
According to my patriarchal blessing, “great will be your success” if I obeyed the mission rules. I did obey those rules and worked hard, expecting that the Holy Spirit would guide me in my missionary work.
In every mission conference, the scripture in Doctrine and Covenants 4:4 was stressed:
For behold the field is white already to harvest; and lo, he that thrusteth in his sickle ….
Some missionaries understood this to mean that we were not sent to sow (plant), but to harvest, and there was a bumper crop of souls waiting for us. For a few months, I assumed there were plenty of people in our mission ready for me to teach them; all I had to do was go looking and some would inevitably appear along my way. In this, I was sorely disappointed. It felt like I was wasting my time, knocking on doors that were never answered. I wondered if my failure to find any golden investigators meant that I didn’t have enough faith. Some folks in black neighborhoods seemed to enjoy talking to us, hearing our discussions (or sermons), but they rarely made any commitment to attend church or read the Book Of Mormon.
The psychological stress hurt me more than the heat and humidity, and my depression emerged again under this stress. I resented having to submit reports to the mission president with lackluster numbers on it. These numbers seemed to tell the mission president that I was a failure, and they made me feel more depressed. Nobody seemed to care about my honest efforts; it was results that mattered. I could not eloquently express what I was feeling at that time, so I simply complained to my companion, “I hate numbers.” ¿Why did I hate numbers? “They’re fake.”
He sensed there was something wrong, and railed against me for stifling his spirituality.
There was a sweet German lady in St. James, a Sister Lugo, who helped make life tolerable for me. She provided a marvelous dinner every Sunday for the four missionaries in our district. She also drove us to appointments, usually twice during the week, with her missionary-age son Bob. After we finished teaching appointments, Sister Lugo often took us to a Friendly Restaurant for ice cream. There weren’t many people like Sister Lugo, and it became easy for the missionaries to abuse her generosity.
Not long after her husband pleaded that we use Sister Lugo’s services no more than once per week, my second companion in-the-field told me to call her and violate this request. It was not for a teaching appointment, but rather for a companionship switch, and not a trivial distance. As my second companion was the district leader, I honored his authority and called Sister Lugo.
Sister Lugo liked me, and drove us as requested, but she was sad that I would ask this. Brother Lugo complained to me about it again on the telephone, and at church. I resented my companion, for putting me in this awkward position, knowing that it would cause trouble. I could have blamed him, when Mr. Lugo confronted me, but I didn’t. I took the heat. The Lugos were probably sad when my companion, the district leader, decided to cancel our standing dinner appointment with them, so we could dine with somebody else instead.
Someone in Utah was selling stationery (writing paper) with this popular saying:
The church must be true, or else the missionaries would have destroyed it a long time ago.
Some treated this as a joke, but I considered it absolutely right.
One of the most irksome things that I endured was the holiday schedule. The other missionaries in my district accepted as many dinner invitations as they thought they could get away with. They sensed that I wouldn’t agree to it, so they made the extra appointments without my knowledge. On Thanksgiving, I was taken to three dinners. My companions would argue that they were only trying to allow the members extra blessings for having the missionaries over at their houses. To me, it was an insult.
While riding our bicycles at dusk, along a busy road, a piece of metal flipped up into my front wheel. My companion was leading on his bicycle, peddling fast and furiously, when I felt my bicycle lunge forward. Several spokes broke, then the bicycle flipped. It flung me forward, onto the pavement. Caused some serious bruises and road rash. We walked our bicycles to a public phone. Someone threw a beer can at us. My companion called someone with a car for help. They took me to the hospital emergency room, where my body was x-rayed to check for internal damage. There were no broken bones, and no critical bleeding. I stayed home in bed for a couple days to recover.
That same bicycle was involved in a more critical accident, when I was following a different companion. He was peddling fast to get through a yellow traffic signal. Trying to keep up with him, I went through the signal after it was clearly red. A man driving a car didn’t see me coming, and drove into me. The impact bent my bicycle frame in two places, which effectively ruined it. I got up feeling very well, with only some minor scratches. The driver was much more shaken than I was; he offered to give us a ride, which we accepted. He also offered to pay for my bicycle, which I declined.
I kept a journal for the first part of my mission and wrote in it diligently. My second companion complained, many times, when he saw me writing in my journal each evening. “You spend an awful lot of time writing … ¿What are you writing in there?” My journal volume was nearly filled, so I decided it would be the first and only journal on my mission. Perhaps it was better having one less thing to worry about. This some companion complained about other things: my split pea soup, my moods, the phone bills, and locking us out of our apartment. As we stood outside the locked door, I restrained myself from reminding him he was also to blame for not carrying his key. Checked with a neighbor who did have a spare key, and we got into our apartment.
I complained to President Choules about this assigned companion, saying, “He’s hard to live with.”
President Choules replied, “So am I. Just ask my wife.”
President Choules asked me if I was excited about the work. I was not. He encouraged me to change my attitude, “because it is exciting.” He also encouraged all missionaries to learn why they were called to this particular mission. I had no idea why, then or now. New York was the place to park missionaries who got ill in other countries; the place where new missionaries waited for visas to travel to their real mission area; just a place where I agreed to go as a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ. After all my personal prayers, both morning and evening, I felt no clear direction from the Holy Spirit about any place we decided to go proselytizing. I was simply doing work that was already laid out, in the best way I knew.
My first golden investigator came from a referral. A retired schoolteacher responded to a media advertisement, with a request for a Book Of Mormon. We delivered it, and taught her all the discussions. She was my first baptism. She referred us to one of her friends in the neighborhood, who became one of our best investigators. She brought her daughter into the church with her, and our visits were always charged with the Holy Spirit. She put her heart into the missionary effort, even when my second companion, the district leader, abused her generosity.
Years later, after a difficult divorce, and finding little emotional support in the Terryville Ward, she left the church.
There was a single mother in the Terryville Ward, who was also very good to the missionaries. I was puzzled when she phoned one evening, to ask if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t think of anything. She felt prompted to call because she had been thinking about me, and started crying. I’ve often wondered what that was all about.
A young Catholic man, at college in Arizona, joined the church and sent missionaries to teach his parents. I was one of the first two missionaries to contact them. At first, they were only curious about their son’s new religion, but eventually they joined it.
While visiting a member family one day, their little girl, about two years old, became curious about me. She wanted me to hold her, which I did, as we stood near the front door. She reached into my pockets, took out my ministerial certificate, then focused on my wristwatch. I let her take it off, and hold it. My second companion, the district leader, was watching this, and said “drop it.”
The girl obediently dropped my wristwatch onto the hard floor, and my companion chuckled, as if she had done something cute. I did not blame the girl; I blamed my companion. That wristwatch never worked properly again.
After six months on Long Island, I was transferred to Rahway, New Jersey. I arrived in Manhattan early in the morning, ready to go. My new companion, took his sweet time getting to the mission offices. Actually, he used the transfer as an excuse to take a holiday in Manhattan. I had a nice bicycle with me, which I was obliged to leave at the mission offices.
The trip to Rahway required us to ride a Conrail train, on which it was impossible to carry my bicycle along with my luggage. There were no clean air laws regarding cigarette smoke. Many people loved to smoke on buses and trains, without regard for non-smoking passengers.
We lived in an apartment on Coach Street, next to the Old Rahway Theatre. A peculiar old maintenance man lived in the same building with us. He could be a pest when he stopped by to chat, but he kept the boiler running that winter. This ensured that the large steam radiators in our apartment stayed warm, or hot. Sometimes it got too hot, and we opened the windows to let some heat out.
Juggling money on my mission was not easy, but it was not painful, thanks to my mother. She kept my Utah account filled with enough funds. Many years later, I discovered that my mother contributed over $1500 to the general church missionary fund in 1982. This was above and beyond her tithing, fast offerings, and monies sent directly to me.
There was no standing bank account, in any of my areas, for missionary funds. One of the mission assistants in Manhattan had an arrangement with a branch of Chase-Manhattan Bank, whereby missionaries could cash their checks (if he signed them first). Had to open a new bank account in Rahway, because I could not expect to travel into Manhattan every time I needed money. Most banks had a policy of holding our out-of-state deposits for ten days, before clearing them for withdrawal. I tried to keep some money in the Rahway bank, because it served as security for me to cash subsequent checks. My companion was having difficulty getting funds from his sponsor, so I had to float him for quite a while.
We used bicycles almost exclusively for getting around our large area. Another missionary had left his bicycle in Rahway, for the same reason I could not bring my bicycle to Rahway. It wasn’t fair, that some zone leaders seemed to always use mission cars for trips to Manhattan, while non-leadership missionaries had to use buses and trains.
That left behind bicycle was the one I used for the next several months. It had a discontinued style of crankshaft, which failed under my peddling force. Had to spend over fifty dollars at the bike shop for a special order crank assembly, and wait over a week for it to be delivered. Was not reimbursed by the bicycle’s owner, and didn’t expect to be. Purchased several tools during this time, so I could make bicycle adjustments. Soon after my own bicycle was delivered, I dented both rims while going over a railroad crossing into Perth Amboy.
A certain mischievous Elder destroyed our filmstrip projector bulb by blocking the air vents, which caused it to overheat. I needed that projector for my filmstrip presentations, but the mischievous Elder and his zone leader companion each refused to pay for a replacement bulb. They suggested I ask the Scotch Plains Ward to pay for it. I didn’t like that idea, so I spent the money myself. I later learned that this mischievous Elder borrowed one of my audio tapes, and kept it.
While tracting with this mischievous Elder, he convinced a single woman to listen to our first discussion. When I made a return visit to this woman, she was pleased with our message and the pamphlet we gave her, and received the remaining discussions. She was baptized, and began attending church with her young daughter. As often happens in large metropolitan areas, new members don’t get the same warm hand of friendship from the local members that they felt from the missionaries who taught them. This woman stopped attending church after we left.
A black woman named Sister Levine gave us a standing invitation for dinner every Sunday. I was amazed at how she managed to fit four elders, two sisters and several other people into her small apartment. Her food was every bit as delicious as the food at the Lugos. I was the most quiet of the bunch. Sister Levine often shot me a stern glance and asked, “¿Are you eating?” She also insisted I use her phone to call my mother on Mothers Day.
We got very hungry after a day of walking and bicycling. It was slightly cheaper to order a whole pizza pie (eight slices) rather than individual slices, so we took advantage of this to consume a whole pie for lunch; four slices each. If we weren’t that hungry, I sometimes ate two slices of thick Sicilian style, with a soda. I also learned to love something called calzone; it was like a large pita pocket stuffed with spinach, mushrooms, ricotta cheese, and mozzarella cheese. Never saw it served with tomato sauce until years later, in Utah, where a novice spoiled my calzone by drowning it in tomato sauce. Didn’t do much cooking in Rahway, except for cornbread in my toaster oven. With a fabulous pizzeria close at hand, home cooking became a drag.
The LDS Visitors Center in Manhattan was a great tool to use when teaching people about the church. A certain young man, who was a roadie, enjoyed taking us there to see the exhibits. He drove a Volkswagon van, with a ruined clutch. It amazed me to see him float the gears in that van without using the clutch.
There were some missionaries who got mugged (robbed at the point of a knife, or barrel of a gun), notably in Chinatown and the Bronx. I didn’t have any such experience during my mission.
In Rahway, we encountered a man on the street who claimed to be God. He was probably strung-out on drugs. He supposed that we were giving away bibles, and said he needed one. I explained that we could order one for him, expecting that if he was really interested, he would pay for it.
“¿Can you order one?” he repeated.
I nodded.
“Then I can have this one.” He forcibly took my bible from me, and held it fast. This caught me by surprise. That bible had been baptized in a gutter during a rainstorm, making the pages very wrinkly. Decided to let the man have it. I had a spare bible, in much better shape, sitting back at our apartment.
My last missionary apartment was in Sayreville, New Jersey. The LDS Stake was established in East Brunswick. One of the young men’s leaders there friend-shipped a fine young man, and asked us to teach him the missionary discussions. We finished the discussions, and saw him baptized. During the time they were changing out of their wet clothes, I became restless. Didn’t wait to see the confirmation; I went to another room in the building and practiced the piano. Learned later that the other missionaries were exasperated, trying to locate me; they wanted me to stand in for the confirmation. My zone leader chastised me for missing that confirmation.
This ward had a certain family who believed in the church, had heard all the discussions, but were not baptized. We often practiced teaching them, singing songs with them, and dining with them, wondering why they were not ready. We enjoyed their friendship, and they had a special bond with my charismatic companion. My zone leader and I eventually got the mother to tell us why they were not ready; it was something beyond our control.
One of the most interesting men I worked with was an Elder Schroeder. He was assigned to me in Sayreville for only a few days. He had an uncanny ability of discerning what people were thinking; some would call this the gift of discernment.
His positive outlook and gospel knowledge was an inspiration to me. He had some fascinating stories of teaching people the gospel. He could also be disconcerting. At one point, he complained of my rigidity in following mission rules. I was aghast. My Patriarchal Blessing urged me to follow the mission rules. ¿How could a man who seemed so spiritual be so lax about following the mission president’s rules?
The First Presidency of the church announced a new policy on the duration of missionary service. All missionaries preparing to leave on their mission or those who had been in-the-field less than one year would get a mandatory release after completing eighteen months of service. Male missionaries who had been in-the-field at least one year could choose to be released anytime after eighteen months or before twenty-five months of service. Lady missionaries would serve for eighteen months, with no changes.
The reason given for this new policy was concern about the high costs of serving missions. For several weeks following this, I was upset. I had expected to be on my mission for two years, but would be forced to leave early. One of the general authorities, Hartman Rector Jr, spoke to us in Manhattan; he suggested that the Lord decided to stop discriminating against the lady missionaries, who were already limited to 18 months. It would bother me even more in a few years, when the two-year duration was reinstated.
During one of the last trips I made into Manhattan as a missionary, three other elders and I rode the Staten Island Ferry for fun. The fare then was 25 cents, round trip. A radio was playing Joe Jackson’s Steppin Out. While looking over the Manhattan skyline, I felt at peace. I gave the mission my best effort; now it felt good to leave it all behind. If I never saw this place again, it was all the same to me.
stuart james beall 