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Irreantum, Volume 12, No. 1, 2010
Irreantum, Volume 12, No. 1, 2010
Irreantum Staff
Editor Jack Harrell
Managing Editor Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury
Fiction Editor Lisa Torcasso Downing
Poetry Editor Jim Richards
Creative Nonfiction Editor Brittney Carman
Critical Essay Editor Karen Marguerite Moloney
Book Review Editor David G. Pace
Lead Copyeditor Elizabeth Petty Bentley
Copyediting Staff Lotte Willian and Liz Jensen
Design Eric Lyman
Layout Marny K. Parkin
Essays
Poetry
Interview
Reviews
-r-ntum
And we beheld the sea, which we called Irreantum,
which, being interpreted, is many waters.
1 Nephi 17:5
Sometimes I get depressed. I might be getting dressed in the morning, listening to a story on NPR about one side versus another, when a
kind of darkness sneaks up on me. Suddenly I feel the whole worlds an
arena of unending contention. Whats the point? I want to say. No
ones ever going to be satisfied with anything. Whatever goals Ive had,
whatever little things Ive wanted to accomplish suddenly feel meaningless. That first notion of futility triggers a downward spiral that can
last for days. Its like that scripture about salt losing its savor. Its not
rational. I know that even when Im caught up in it. I can tell myself,
These dark thoughts ... they dont make any sense. But recognition
doesnt necessarily break me out of it. Often its just dumb routine that
saves me. I do the things I need to do out of habit, and in a few days I
feel better. Futility vanishes as inexplicably as it came. Maybe its just
chemicalsome ebb and flow in my brain that I dont understand.
For years I thought I could talk to my doctor about some kind of
medicationif things got that bad. Then last year things did get bad.
The dark days came more frequently, and they came darker than before.
My doctor put me on a popular antianxiety/depression medication. I
was pretty nave. I thought a pill would solve the problem. But the medicine itself involved a horrible ramping-up period that took days, and
even when my emotions did stabilize, I didnt feel like myself. Perhaps
the medicine accomplished what it was supposed toI felt sheathed,
as though a plastic layer existed between me and everyone else. I talked
to one person on the same medication who liked it. It coats my soul,
he said. But I felt disconnected and inauthentic as I encountered the
world. I stuck with it for a few months. In the end, I decided the cure
was worse than the disease. Once again I talked to my doctor. When I
went off the medication, I found the experience to be worse than going
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on it. Im not making any comment about these medications for others.
Im just saying that for me, at this point in my life, it didnt work out.
I guess Im lucky, right? I was given the choice to try it, and I had the
choice to get off. For some people these medications are indispensable.
They can mean the difference between living and dying. Thats why we
have these drugs. Thats why we have caring, responsible professionals
who develop and prescribe thembecause were choosing life rather than
death, striving rather than defeat. In the Book of Mormon, the prophet
Lehi says, Wherefore, men are free ... to choose liberty and eternal life,
through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death,
according to the captivity and power of the devil (2 Ne. 2: 27). I believe
this choice is made by each of us every day, perhaps a thousand times a
daythe choice between life and death. When I chose to try the medication, I was choosing life. When I chose to get off it, I was also choosing life.
I mention all this to give context to a particular philosophy I hold
about art and morality. The position Ive developed over the past ten
years grows from multiple readings of John Gardners 1978 publication On Moral Fiction. This is a book every literary devotee should
read. No other book more clearly delineates a case for what makes
a work of art moral. My summation of Gardners position is that all
fiction, all art, can be said to express one of three assertionstwo of
them immoral, and one moral:
1. Life is easy.
2. Life is hard and isnt worth the struggle.
3. Life is hard but its worth it.
The first statement, Life is easy, is immoral because its a lie. Yet
we see this lie expressed all around us. We see it in advertising: This
product will make you happy. We see it in political propaganda: Our
party is always right. We see it in pornography: Easy sex and no consequences. Sadly, we see it in religion when complicated problems are
addressed with easy answers: Just pray. The paradox is that in real
life things sometimes do come easily. But in art it doesnt work that
waynot in good art, at least.
The second statement, Life is hard and isnt worth the struggle,
is a half-truth because life is hard. The lie comes in the narrow and
6
nihilistic response that life isnt worth defending, isnt worth living.
This position is frequently expressed in teen poetry. I see it in my introductory creative writing class all the timeThe jagged, bloody edges
of my torn and blackened soul. This same message is expressed in a lot
of punk and heavy metal music, as well as in certain kinds of horror
movies. We can sometimes see this position on display in high school
art exhibits. Perhaps adolescents are attracted to this message because
theyre discovering for the first time that the world really can be an ugly
place. The art in this camp says, The worlds a toilet and were all going
down. But what makes it worse is that theyre not putting up a fight.
A natural relationship operates between these first two positions.
The sunny life is easy and the gloomy life isnt worth it are two sides
of the same nave coin. Gardner suggests this when he says, Cornball morality leads to rebellion and the loss of faith. The cynic might
boast of being more enlightened than the Pollyanna, but in his arrogance, he might be worse off.
Only one moral and viable position remains: Life is hard, but its
worth the fight. Moral art must affirm that life is hard, because life really
is hard. But it must also show that despite the ordeals, the antagonists,
the losses, life is worth every bit of the struggle. This is the position of
to hell and back. Its in the and back part where we find our redemption.
Thats why conflict is as important as resolution. I think redemption is
an essential characteristic of good art. But one cant redeem what hasnt
been lost. And one wouldnt choose to redeem a loss thats insignificant.
To draw an analogy with Mormon theology, the Atonement of Christ
would be meaningless if the Fall of Adam lacked significance. Thus,
moral art asserts the reality of lifes difficulty and lifes value.
The stories, essays, poems, and reviews in this issue of Irreantum are
good art by these standards. In Melissa Inouyes Mornings and Nights,
we find a sister missionary who loves the people and the country where
shes teaching even as shes jogging past the dead rats in the street. In
Lon Youngs short story The Man and his Wife, a good man struggles
toward a deeper sense of intimacy with those he loves, despite the risks
of misunderstanding and rejection. In Doug Talleys review of Mark
Bennions Psalm & Selah, we understand that poets can capture whole
lives in single lines, bringing us closer to the simple, poetic utterances
7
Dawn broke with a vengeance over the city of Tainan. The Taiwanese summer made us early wakers. The sun flared over the horizon around 5:00 a.m., and soon the city was a full-blown sauna.
When it got that hot, there was no solace in sleep. I said my prayers,
then unzipped my mosquito tent and spilled out sideways into the
room. My roommate, Sister Alton, rose from her bed. We exchanged
glances in silent greeting. Another morning.
Before my mission, as an undergraduate at Harvard, I had been a
lover of solitude. My favorite was the peopled kind: sitting invisibly at
the window of a caf as throngs of strangers streamed past. My mission, however, had begun the moment I opened the door to my dorm
room at the Missionary Training Center (MTC) and found myself
facing my first companion, Sarah Faulkner, a distracted-looking girl
with short brown hair and green eye makeup. Her eyes snapped up to
meet mine, both of us asking the same questions: Will you break down
into hysterics? Are you a zealot? Will you be a slacker? Do you have an
eating disorder? Will you exercise with me in the mornings? Will it be a
pleasant thing to be with you twenty-four hours a day or will it be hard?
Hi, I said, extending my hand. Are you Sister Faulkner? Im Sister
Inouye. We must be companions.
The MTC: a huge complex dedicated to the intake of nineteenyear-old boys and twenty-one-year-old women from all backgrounds,
and to the output of missionaries who would say the same sentences with the same pauses while wearing the same clothes, each
1st place, 2009 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest
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day brushing their teeth in the same half-hour of the morning and
switching off the light at the same half-hour at night. Together Sister
Faulkner and I poked fun at the Orwellian aspects of the MTC, and
together we knelt on the floor at night to pray, struggling with the
desires of ourhearts.
We shared much in common. As college students, we had learned
to relentlessly apply critical reasoning to every argument. When we
scrutinized the tenets of our faith under this lens, they seemed absurd:
a man named Jesus was Gods son who came back from the dead, a
man named Joseph Smith was a prophet who saw God and Jesus,
every individual has the potential to attain Gods perfections and powers, God hears and answers prayers. There was no way to prove these
claims through experimentation or argumentation. Mormonism also
contained contradictions, such as the teachings that each individual
should rely on direct personal revelation from God but that members should also obey the directives of Church leaders. And yet on the
other hand, our experiences thus far had shown us that our religion
inspired us to be better people and that it had been the source of much
happiness. Both of us were still searching for a way in which the world
of objective rationality could exist separately from the world of subjective faith, a way in which, through some miracle, one could lay claim to
both of them and not be torn asunder.
You know what I think? asked Sister Faulkner one day between
classes.
Sister Faulkner, I responded, this is the MTC. We dont think.
I think that I came on a mission ready to make some sort of sacrifice, but I dont know exactly what it should be or how to make it.
Hm. Do you mean the intellectual sacrifice of not making snotty
comments, or the psychological sacrifice of following all the stupid rules, or the emotional sacrifice of being away from your family,
orwhat?
All of them, but especially something about faith. All the people I know who possess true spiritual maturity have very simple
faith. Icant figure out how to have simple faith without it seeming
mindless.
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but row. Like a live thing the boat leaps across the water, drawing
swiftly away into the distance.
People in America and Taiwan alike often asked why I had decided
to take time off from college to spend eighteen months in a foreign
country at my own expense, riding a bike in a dress, working sixteenhour days, for a church whose hierarchy and patriarchy seemed to
them to be at odds with the values of a Harvard woman. The answer
was simple: I believed that the things I taught were true, that they had
enriched my life, and that the world would be a better place for their
sharing.
How do you feel about God? I began almost every presentation.
Do you believe that God or gods exist? And what characteristics does
God have?
That question elicited a different reply every time: God is a spirit
God is a powerGod doesnt exist, but people use God as a heart crutch
If God exists, why do all these bad things happen?Your Western god is
different from our Eastern gods, but theyre all the same thingI cant
believe in something I cant seeI saw God the other day, it was really
amazing!
We would discuss broad concepts like the nature of deity, trying
to establish some common ground. I would assert that most people
believed in the existence of some Supreme Being, though they might
call this being by different names. I would tell the investigator that
God was our Father and that we were Gods children, created in Gods
own image, that God was not some impersonal spirit but a Father in
Heaven who loves us just as intimately and unconditionally as a parent loves a child.
The words used in the discussions were simple. At the right time
in a persons life, they had great power. They were most powerful
when it was not the missionary who spoke them. Missionaries talked
about the Spirit, meaning the Spirit of God, and prayed that God
would send this Spirit to descend upon the discussion and change
its tenor. Investigators, members, and missionaries alike described
it as a feeling of calm and clarity that, when present, spoke to the
heart and confirmed the missionarys message. It was the element of
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At the end of the canal road was a rice distributors shed, a great
high tin structure with a wide-mouthed entrance that opened onto
the street. Hundred-pound bags of white long grain rice were stacked
several layers high against the corrugated walls. Here Sister Alton
and I began to step with care. This was the part of the road splattered
withrats.
In the summer, the shed attracted droves of rats. They would gnaw
holes in the rice bags and eat to their hearts content. Unfortunately
for the rats, this road running between the canal and the distributors shed was heavily trafficked. Perhaps, too, after their nightly gorging they were less nimble. Almost every morning there would be a
new dead rat. As the days traffic increased, the rat would expand and
flatten. By the end of the day it would have grown cardboard thin,
though the body, paws, and tail still retained their basic shapes. Even
long coils of intestine would be flattened into perfect wiggly silhouettes. Finally, after a few days the dried-out rat would start to peel up
off the hot blacktop. After that, someone would usually scrape it off
the street and throw it away.
You would think that they would learn, I said, as we bounded over
a well-flattened silhouette. Why dont they post a crossing guard or
something?
This place is disgusting, said Sister Alton.
Well, I said, there are rats in America too.
She laughed, shortly. We said nothing for a while, legs and feet falling in a steady trot.
It is easier to be scornful of a place if the place is scornful of you.
How often had I been tempted to find solace in disgust when a person
or group of people mocked my offering of a set of truths that I had
found precious. How desperately had I fought to make my love for
others independent of the way they treated me. It was never easy.
At 5:51 Sister Alton and I arrived at the city government complex
and started laps around the grassy plaza. Many others were also out.
China is always at its best in the morning, alive and bustling. Middleaged women in sweats walked rapidly, slapping their palms against
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20
A Confession
Lisa Madsen Rubilar
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mother had inherited some additional land on which we raised vegetables, which many a year was the only thing that kept us fed through
the winter. While I was a child, she leased the eighty acres to Niels
Pattersen for a share of the wheat harvest. When I married, I began
farming half of the acreage and sold Niels the other half to raise some
cash to buy milk cows. What had been enough for my mother and me
wasnt enough for a family.
Each spring, Niels and I walked the fence line of our adjacent fields
carrying shovels over our shoulders and pliers and hammers in our
pockets, heaving upright any tilted posts, pulling the wire tight, hammering in the staples. That two-wire fence wasnt really much use,
except to keep us from pulling the plow or the harvester a little too
far on one side or the other. We trusted each other like our own selves.
At least, I trusted him. I cant speak for what he had in his heart the
whole time he was trudging along at my side.
After I sold half my land to Neils, we decided it didnt make sense
to apply for separate water shares since just one ditchparallel to the
town ditchran along the top of our fields. But the fenceline made
it so we couldnt treat the land like one big parcel. Instead, we put in
separate irrigation headgates at the intersection of the town ditch and
the fence. We built those gates in one long afternoon of horseflies and
sweat, setting the wood boxes snug in the town ditch about a foot
apart. Each box had two slide gates that you could lift like a window
sash. Most of the time we left the south slide gates on both boxes
open to permit unimpeded flow along the town ditch.
When it was our turn, one of us would close our boxs south slide
gate and raise the west one (which always took a little muscle if it
hadnt been opened for awhile). This directed the water into our ditch,
either on my side or Nielss.
Because Nielss headgate was upstream from mine, this feat of
engineering would only work for me if the west slide gate on his box
was shut good and tight, especially midsummer when the flow in the
town ditch diminished. Otherwise the waterd peter out before it got
to the bottom of my field. Of course, I didnt have a seconds worry
on this point as we hammered and sawed and slapped at flies that day.
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Rubilar: A Confession
We agreed that each of us would get half the time allotted for our
joint water share. What could be simpler? What could be more fair?
We always flipped a coin to see who got the first few hours of water.
Whoever lost got the second half of our allotted time. We were very
particular about timing things down to the minutewe even carried
alarm clocks with us to the fieldyet we were on such terms that
whoever had the first turn would, at the halfway point, close his own
slide gate and open the slide gate for the other.
In Jubilation, people considered water theft a grave offense,
although some folks thought nothing of breaching the ditch bank
here and there to siphon off a bit for their garden or cow pasture.
Afellow named Weaver had a reputation for shutting his water gate
at least an hour after his turn was up. It was always, My horses got
out, or My cow was calving. There were worse cases, but those folks
eventually gave up farming or left town. Their fences had a way of falling down or their barns catching fire. Waters no laughing matter in a
place where sagebrush and juniper get a toe in at the first sign of dust.
The summer I began to suspect Niels of a crime, the snow pack
was low on the mountain. Wed had a drought two summers running,
so things looked a little desperate. At the irrigation meeting in March,
the water master told us to be thrifty; to stop leaks quick and check
on our water turn at least every three hours day or night. Niels, in his
role as bishop, added his two cents. All right, boys, he said. Weve
got to work with what the Lord give us. Every man do right by his
neighbor, and well come through this fine. He himself looked half
starved alreadythe skin slack along his jaw, the seat of his trousers
saggingbut he always did.
One night I rode Old Sal out to the field around ten oclock. I had
the first hours of our turn. It was dark, hardly any moon. Now in
ripe old age, Sal stumbled along worse than usual till I finally got off
and walked the last piece. Id already made the cuts in my ditch to
direct the water evenly into the furrows, so all I had to do was lift
the west slide gate that opened into the ditch, then close my gate to
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the town ditch. I couldnt see much, but I could hear the water gurgle
through like it was happy to do its part. I did a little more shoveling at the mouth of some furrows. Then I walked to the bottom of
the field where it bordered the sagebrush slope and looked east. The
wheat was sprouting nice. I stood and gazed out over the dark field
toward the darker mountain which sat, as always, like a giant with his
back turned, head hung between his knees, shoulders taking up the
horizon. Ive always thought: watch out should he ever raise his head!
Iimagine him stomping through the valley, crushing barns and houses
with huge feet and fists, but innocent, like a toddler in a pen of chicks.
I rode home. Helene asked would I lie down with her awhile, but I
said Id rather sleep in a chair. Its easier to get up again that way. She
went to bed, and I threw the wool afghan over my knees and nodded
off in the sitting room. The alarm rang about twelve thirty. I wanted
to get back to the field early to check on the turn, like the water master
said we should, and to make the most of the last hour. Old Sal was
cranky when I went out, presenting me with her haunches. Id left her
saddle on but Id taken off the bridle, and she was ornery about getting it back between her teeth. That slowed me down. I thought about
saddling Hero instead, but that would have taken even longer. The
moon was gone and the road so dark I took a lantern so Sal wouldnt
break my neck. When you ride with a light, you cant see anything
outside the halo, which is maybe why I didnt catch sight of anyone
coming or going.
When I got to the field, my gate was up, but not all the way up
like Id left it. I thought maybe it was loose and had fallen a little, but
it was in there stiff and tight. I started walking along the ditch to
see how the water was moving. It seemed a little low, though nothing
unusual. I turned at the far fence line and walked toward the bottom.
About halfway down I stooped and felt the nearest furrow. Bone dry.
So was the next one in, and the next. I started back the way Id come,
feeling the soil every few yards until I struck mud. Then I walked
diagonal through the field to see if the water had veered off somehow
and spread out across the top of the field. But that wasnt the case.
The furrows were pretty evenly wet, down to a certain point where
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Rubilar: A Confession
the damp just dwindled away, like there hadnt been enough water to
reach that far. I went back to the headgate and checked the town ditch.
It was running good and deep.
I spent the last hour of my turn shoveling furiously along the furrows to help the water along, wishing to heaven I had a bucket to give
the bottom an extra dousing. At two, the alarm clock tied to Sals
saddle went off. I hurried back to the top of the field to shut my gate
and open Nielss. I lowered mine, and raised his without a tug. I didnt
think till later that maybe both gates had seen some action already,
and it never occurred to me to feel the soil on Nielss side of the fence.
Not once did such a thing cross my mind until I was back home in
bed with Helene. Then the idea that hed paid a visit to the field in my
absence and raised his gate awhile kept me awake a long time, tired
as I was.
Helene was the kind of woman whod milk the cows for me if I
stayed up late with a water turn or a calving or some such. Thats
probably what she did that next day because I remember sitting in the
kitchen while she cooked up some pancakes; otherwise, she wouldve
already had them on my plate.
The water didnt flow good last night, I said. When I went out,
the bottom of the field was dry.
Did you find out how come?
No, I said. Then I added, But the bishops gate was awful easy
toopen.
She knew what I meant. I remember the batter dripping on the
floorboards as she waved the spatula in my face. Dont be a fool, she
said. He loves you like a son.
At that time our own sons, Rudolf and Harold, were just old
enough to be useful. Augusta and Leonora were rolling around underfoot, and Helene was pregnant again. Its hard now to remember what
that was likethe house full of ruckus and commotion every minute.
But we lived that way for years. Eight kids in all (plus the two that died
before drawing breath). When the hullabaloo of raising a family is over,
youre hardly aware, but comes the day you realize the worlds a quieter
place, and a sadder one. Then sadder still. Rudolf died in 1918 of the
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influenza, and our youngest, Eleanor, died in 1943 when she miscarried
and they couldnt stop the hemorrhage.
Knowing all that, it pains me to remember how, after Helene shook
the spatula at me and said Dont be a fool, he loves you like a son, I went
outside and shouted at the boys weeding in the garden to do it right or
not to expect food on their plates come December. I dont recall what
they were doingsome silliness or other. Rudolph started to cry, and
I told him not to go bawling to his mother or hed catch it.
I also clearly recall talking to Niels later, in the road by his house.
I wonder, did I head straight over there after breakfast? Did I happen to pass by on the way to my mothers? Memory comes in bright
patches surrounded by dark, like the lantern on the road. Niels had
his Wellingtons on, a big clot of grassy manure stuck to one heel. He
hadnt shaved. His eyes were bloodshot.
I said to him, The water wasnt flowing good last night. About a
third of the field didnt get any till I did some extra shoveling.
His eyebrows shot up. If that surprise wasnt real, he couldve done
Shakespeare. I looked in his eyes, but he looked right back. My side
did fine! he said. When I got there at five, it was soaked clear to
the bottom. You got a rabbit warren going, draining off your water?
Ihadnt thought of that. I began to doubt my doubt.
It mustve been that very next Sunday that he called me into the
bishops office. Niels always saved his admonitions for the Sabbath.
Hed put on his Sunday clothes, and a change would fall over him,
along with the suit that hung on him like elephant skin. It must have
belonged to his brother, who died on his second mission to Samoa
and left a wife and three kids. I can see that suit as clear as day, shiny
in all the usual placesthe elbows, the seat, under the armsbut
nowhere that Nielss own frame pressed. His sister-in-law had the
melancholy and bad teeth, and never remarried. Everyone knew that
he supported that family along with his own, which was one reason
he wanted everyone else to do their part when it came to the widows
of Jubilation. Thats what he called me in for.
Brother Townsend, he said (he called me Brother Townsend on
Sundays, Fred on the other days of the week), as I was on my knees
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Rubilar: A Confession
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Rubilar: A Confession
the stars like a wagonload of chicken feed spread in the sky. The smell
of sage and wild thyme filled the air, and the crickets were singing.
Looking east from the mouth of Thistle Canyon, I began to sense
something gathering just beyond the mountains at the end of the valley. The sky was growing lighter there. Of a sudden, I knew it was
an angel preparing to walk upon the earth to comfort me. Yet this
thought, instead of rousing me to greet him, as one would suppose,
had the effect of lulling me straight to sleep.
Not long after that, a visiting Apostle from Salt Lake gave Niels a
blessing and healed him of the wildness and drink. Niels always told
the story in testimony meeting, how the moment that mans hands
touched his head he felt something like ice water rise through his
veins and how those hands soaked up the cold until his whole body
glowed, and he wept in the Apostles arms. He never touched a drop
after that, although at times his eyes were so bloodshot and his face so
sweaty and red, it looked like hed been at the bottle. Maybe hed just
been up all night stealing water.
Shortly after Nielss cure, I married Helene and sold him half the
land hed been leasing, and we started farming side by side. Then he
was called to be bishop, and we all affirmed his call by raising our
righthands.
That didnt make him an angel, though. Niels could curse with the
best in his milk barn, though he took his responsibilities as bishop
serious, especially the collection of tithes. He admonished us every
Sunday on the subject, and Jubilations storehouse was usually full,
though I only used it once myself after I got bucked off a colt and
broke my tailbone. But for some folks, that sack of flour a month kept
them going in the winter. I contributed when I could.
That wasnt good enough for Niels. Most days of the week, he
never pestered, never got on his high horse or thought himself better
than anyone else. But once behind the pulpit, watch out. He could
preach with the best of them. Tithing means one tenth, hed shout in
the voice he used with his cows. Not whatever you have left over. Not
the wormiest apples or the flour thats got weevils in it. Tithing means
a tenth of all your increase. You separate it at the time of harvest, the
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juiciest apples, the purest flour. Bring it to the storehouse, and I say
(as he went to quoting Malachi he bellowed like a bull in a pen) that
the windows of heaven will open and pour out such a blessing that
you cannot contain it!
I believed him, but only so far. Like I said, by the spring of the
drought year Im telling about, I had four children with another
on the way, and I worried when I thought what would happen if I
couldnt raise better crops than the year before. Id sold off my calves
and a milk cow in the fall so I wouldnt have to feed them through the
winter. Wed used up our surplus grain, and everyone else in town was
pretty much in the same boat. I was more than worried. I was scared.
The next time I lost the coin toss and got the second half of the water
turn, I became convinced of Nielss thievery. It was a night turn again.
Niels was supposed to open my gate at two oclock, but I couldnt rest
easy, so I headed out there around three to check on things. Normally
I wouldnt have gone till four at the earliest. Dont ask me why I was
riding Old Sal again, or why I didnt blow out the lantern, tie her to
a post, and walk the last bit. Most likely I couldnt admit to myself
what I was up to. So here I came, lit up like a Christmas tree and
clopping along like a brass band. Even so, I heard a whinny from the
field. Ipulled up and looked hard but my eyes were dazzled. I blew
the lantern out quick and sat the horse. I heard some scraping, like
wood against wood, some scuffling in the brush, and hooves on the
road. Ijumped off Sal and ran.
Somewhere along the way I stepped in a rabbit hole and nearly
broke my leg. When I reached my gate, it was up and the water was
flowing smooth. First thing, though, I felt the soil on Nielss side. It
was like syrup; like hed just shut his own gate. Next I walked my field.
About a third of it sat high and dry even though the water had been
flowingsupposedlyfor an hour. I shoveled like crazy the rest of
the night to get it moving down the furrows. Cursed myself over and
over for having forgotten the bucket again. Cursed the bishop with
every word I knew and some I invented. For I was positive now that
Id surprised him at theft; hed shut his own gate fast and opened mine
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Rubilar: A Confession
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Cow stepped on my foot this morning and its hurting bad, I said.
My foot hadnt recovered from that rabbit hole.
Lets take a look, he said as I limped away. I lifted my hand and let
it drop. I was the one going to do some looking, that very night.
By nine thirty, Boris and I were holed up behind a juniper at the
bottom of the field. Id cut some brush and stacked it in front and on
either side to serve as a screen. The land was dark but the sky was
still blue, and the mountain hunched huge and black on the horizon,
waiting for its day. Wed barely got settled when Niels rode up. He and
the horse were solid patches of night against the sky. Boris started to
roll a cigarette. I knocked the paper out of his hand. He muttered an
oath, but I hadnt paid him yet, so he turned his back on me and spit
in the dirt. In the meantime Niels dismounted. He took a shovel off
the back of his horse and climbed through the fence. He walked along
the top of his field and shoveled here and there. He walked back and
took out his pocket watch and held it close to his nose. The only light
in the world rested on the mountains shoulders, so he couldnt have
seen the time. But he seemed satisfied. He moved the slide gates, and
from where I sat I could see the water froth white, then turn slick and
dark as it moved along the ditch like a tongue uncurling itself. Niels
walked with it down to the end of his field. Then he walked back and
rode away.
Boris started to whine about the tobacco Id spilled.
Im sorry about that, but your smokell give us right away, I said.
How can I stay awake if I dont smoke? he asked.
Well, thats what Im paying you for.
In fact, Id told him from the first, if he wanted the money, he had
to keep his eyes open all night. This turned out to be a mighty undertaking for both of us. Not that I was a stranger to sleepless nights. Id
often worked by a full moon scything a field or pitching hay. When
Augusta was born and Helene was a long time crossing the valley of
the shadow of death, I was awake two nights running. I was awake all
night when they brought Charlie in and laid him on my bed. Istood
in the corner crying, and Niels was kneeling on the floor next to him.
I thought he was going to pray, but then he started banging his head
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Rubilar: A Confession
against the footboard. Two men wrestled him away. As they dragged
him out of the room blood ran down his cheek, and his eyes fell on
me and they were wild and seemed to give off their own red light.
Get out of here, he screeched. Little devil. Why didnt you ride your
ownhorse?
It was Charlies mother let me sit by the body all night.
But anger isnt as good as pure terror or grief for keeping off sleep.
Hunkered behind the juniper, I sure found that out. I started counting
on my fingers, bending them backwards, hard, one by one. Id count to
a hundred, yank my beard with both hands, give Boris an elbow in the
ribs, and start over. First the moon rose into the sky so bright and glorious, I feared the juniper and sage would do little to hide our position.
Then a wind kicked up and clouds moved in to block the stars. By the
time Nielss lantern appeared on the road, the night was black as old
tar. I couldnt see my watch so I didnt know the exact time, but from
the great length of his absence, I guessed it was close on two oclock.
The lantern bobbed along the top of his field, then around the outside,
pausing here and there. It passed so close, I could have murmured
Nielss name and he would have looked my way. I kept silent.
The light receded. I saw it wavering by the headgates. Then ... I saw
it cross onto my side. It moved slow along the ditch, swinging back
and forth like the eye of a great snake, weaving. At last the light came
to rest, and the shovel, as it rose and fell, seemed to me a great silver
mouth opening and closing upon the darkness.
So its true, I thought, and my heart went cold. The bishop was
stopping up my ditch to keep the water running stronger into his
own. I hadnt heard him close his gate, although I was pretty sure
hed opened mine. I clenched my teeth and was hard-pressed not to
curse aloud. A gust whipped a bit of dust in my eye. A spatter of rain
struck my cheek. Soon the lantern was in motion again. Soon it rose
above the horses head. The light went down the road and disappeared
fromview.
Boris, I said. Did you see that? He didnt answer, so I gave him a
push with the toe of my boot. Boris! I said.
He grunted. Im awake.
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If you were sleeping, youll not get a dime. The bishop was here.
Did you see him?
I saw him, Boris muttered. That was good enough for me. I could
remind him later what it was we both saw with our own eyes.
Stay here, I said. I made my way to the top of the field and put my
hand in my ditch. The water felt a little low. I walked along the edge
of it toward the headgates, putting my hand down every few feet. The
flow increased some, but not much. I couldnt find the place Niels
had shoveled closed, but then, I couldnt see my own hand in front of
my face. When I got to my gate it was, as I expected, only halfway up.
Iwrenched it all the way open. I already knew what Id find when I
got over to Nielss gate. It was half open, too. I gave the box a mighty
kick that brought me to my knees. I shook my fists at the sky. Then I
considered what to do.
It came to me I should leave things just the way they were. After
all, Niels would be back. He knew I would come check on my turn
in a couple of hours, and he wouldnt want me to find his gate still up.
Icould catch him red-handed. I stumbled back to my gate and lowered it like it was. Then I lay down next to the fence about ten yards
from the gate, trusting the dark to hide me. I laid there cursing under
my breath and grinding my teeth, just like Niels had when I stepped
on his shins in the chicken shed.
I woke to the rain. The sky rumbled loud and deep. My first
thought was: My children will have food this winter! Then I heard
a tramping of feet, not out in the road, but in the field, and I thought,
Its the bishop, damn him! I raised my head and looked out over the
rows of new wheat. I saw a light out there, but not from a lantern. The
glow was orange, like a low campfire, and was at least ten feet across.
Thunder cracked and I ducked my head. When I looked again the
light was rising from the earth. Not exactly the light, but a figure surrounded by light. The figures hair glowed silver and its robes shook
with brilliance, like a river under noon sun. One arm stretched in my
direction, the hand cupped as if offering or begging for something;
the other arm was raised as if to pull down the wrath of God from
heaven. A dreadful shiver wrung my body and I cast myself to the
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Rubilar: A Confession
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night. I told myself time and again it was something else out there in
the wheat, lit from behind by lightning. I told myself that, but I never
quite believed it. Sometimes it seemed like Helene knew what Id
seen. Shed say things like, Youve been called for something special,
Frederick Townsend. Even that night, as she picked the spines from
my back, she said, I think youve been shaken awake now, Frederick.
Ithink the times come to repent. But all the while I argued in my
head: Maybe the bishop came back early, like I thought he would,
and was out there destroying evidence of his crime. Maybe he dressed
up in a sheet so Id doubt what I saw with my own eyes: his gate
standing open and him shoveling dirt in my ditch.
That was the real reason I sold my land. I believed Niels Pattersen
Bishop Pattersen!would go right on stealing my water, but I didnt
have proof to bring the matter to the water master, or the heart to
accuse the man to his face. And my witnessI know full well he
slept through the whole thing. When I asked Boris what he saw that
night, before the storm hit, he muttered something about deer jumping the fence.
What about the bishop? I pressed.
Good thing he showed up when he did, he said, or youda been a
dead man.
I paid him his dollar, and wondered how much Niels gave him to
keep quiet.
As for Nielshe had explanations. After he and Boris unloaded
me onto the front room divan, he stood in the doorway and said to
Helene, Why on earth was he out in the field like that? Why was
he out there so early? He knows I always open the gate for him. He
knows Id do anything for him. I even gave him part of my water time
tonight. And I found the gopher holes thatve been sucking him dry
and filled them in for him. Whyd he go out so early? He knows Id do
anything for him!
I thought his words the rantings of a soul-sick man. Still, for
Helenes sake, I was civil to Niels all his days, though I asked to be
released as elders quorum president and declined further callings from
his hands. I tithed the money I got from the land, and over the years I
36
Rubilar: A Confession
37
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38
Papworth: Poems
39
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At Sacr-Coeur
Montmartre, Paris
August 2009
Worshippers fall in one at a time and file
towards the priest offering absolution
or at least communion.
A gold and blue Savior
hangs above the choir seats.
A woman leads her grown daughters
palsied body through the gate.
Her pink Izod shirt. Her skirt testifies
in blue polka-dot.
The priest invites his flock
to turn and shake hands with a neighbor;
they turn; they hug or kiss or shake hands.
The security guards walkie-talkie screeches.
The rose windows. The nuns singing rises
like a saint through the apse, the dome.
Hundreds in genuflection. Tourists circle
the aisles in their shorts and tank tops.
A man stooped over in a cracked back.
His green vest. The woman kneeling
at the prie-dieu; her hand bent and withered.
40
Papworth: Poems
41
Welder: Falling
. . . how everything turns away
Auden
When he steps back
from the red heat
and raises his face shield,
his wings melt
and he splashes into air, flailing,
seven stories up, the tip
of his fire swinging in a blue arc.
His helmet catches a wave of air;
he reaches for the rope
and saves his fall,
the lunge yanking him
spasmodically, again, and
against the new buildings brick.
His hat cracks the gravel below.
Thats a damn fine truck,
says a man near the fence.
Three guys sit on sawhorses,
eating lunch. A long-armed forklift
beeps backwards, its load
shifting on uneven ground.
42
There arent many people left who remember Castle Point from
before the Times of Desolation, as weve come to call this time between
the end of the world and the coming of our Lord in glory. Patriarch
Flowers always claimed he could, but most people stopped taking him
seriously after that testimony meeting when he said Joseph Smith
had appeared to him.
Sister Mattie Fletcher is certainly old enough to have been alive B.D.,
but she hasnt spoken one intelligible word since her only son was caught
and killed during the last Utah Holocaust. My dad, the bishop, tried for
a week to talk Sister Mattie into letting the elders bring Allans body
down from the inverted cross in her front yard. Every time he broached
the subject, shed scream, yell that she would kill herself if they took him,
and why did they have to? He was going to be resurrected next Sunday
anyway. On Saturday night somebody removed the bloated corpse. A
fresh grave appeared out at the end of Old Mine Road, but everyone
pretended not to notice. Sunday morning, rumor had it, Sister Mattie
just smiled, nodded her head, and cried, He made it. My father denied
knowing anything about the matter.
The only Castle Point I ever knew was the one where I grew up,
the former mining town about halfway down what used to be called
Highway 10, in the old county of Emery, located in the eastern section
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of the state known as Utah. Ive been told I was born on the exact
day fifty years after American civilization ceased to be. Dad had this
video recording of the presidents last speech and, every Monday night
for as long as we could still get electricity, he would gather us around
the television and make us rewatch it. Everyone grinned when the
video suddenly turned up missing one day. I denied knowing anything
about it.
I saw that video so many times I practically memorized it. The president spoke about the economy and loss of values and something
called the deficit. He mentioned losing sight of the mark and compared the country to an old grandfather clock that had been wound so
tightly it finally stopped working. I dont know how much of what he
said was factual and how much was politics, and Im not sure anyone
else knew either. It didnt matter what the reason was. To my father,
it was crystal clear why America was now little more than a memory.
Sin, he declared during one of our evening meals. Thats what
did the country in. R-rated movies, drugs, and homosexuals. I didnt
understand what he was talking about. Id never seen an R-rated
moviethe Fundies had taken care of that in the Great Book Burning. Drugs? We were too worried about finding food. And I was only
twelve. What people did in bed was too disturbing to think about.
But that all changed the year Ruby Daniels reached puberty.
I had known Ruby all my life. Being only a few months apart in age,
wed gone to Primary together. We sat next to each other in the oneroom schoolhouse that had once been the office of Castle Point Realty.
I had known her, all right, but I had never really noticed her until that
summer between sixth and seventh grades.
There was this special place where all us kids would go play. Had
the world gone on normally, a new stake center would have been built
there. A cornerstone and a partial foundation in an overgrown field
were all that remained of Strunkards Orchard. Our childhood imaginations made that cement cornerstone many things. Sometimes it was
a podium from which we would deliver satirical sermons to a congregation of snickering and fidgety five-year oldsat other times, a stage,
and the entire valley below our impassive audience as we sang Come,
44
Come, Ye Saints at the top of our lungs. But that summer between the
sixth and seventh grades, in the year that we began to put away childish things, the cornerstone became the place where two friends could
just sit and talk. And maybe do something else if the time was right.
I raced Ruby up the hill toward Strunkards Orchard, and by the
time we reached the cornerstone, we were breathless and laughing.
Ruby gathered her wind first.
Your mom had the Vision yet?
I didnt know what she meant, but she asked it in such a way that I
figured it must be important. I was thinking about other things. Shed
run ahead of me up the hill, and I found that sight very enjoyable,
fascinating even. The last thing in the world I wanted to do right then
was talk about church. Sudden strange forces boiled up inside me.
Ididnt know why, only that Ruby could assuage them.
The Vision? I answered, trying to sound interested. Whats that?
I hardly heard her response. A rivulet of sweat made a path down
her chest. I dunno, she said. I heard Mom and Sister Carter talking
about it the other day. Its something that only the women get. They
stopped talking when they saw me listening.
I sneered. So what is it? Is it like the vision Patriarch Flowers had?
They seen Joseph Smith or somethin?
I told you, I dont know. Even if it was Joseph Smith, they wouldnt
be dumb and tell people about it.
I couldnt see the point of this conversation, so I said, My dad says
women cant have visions. Id learned that resorting to higher authority usually shut people up. And hes the bishop.
Then your dads dumb.
You cant say bad things about the bishop. It says so in the scriptures.
She brought her legs up, planting her heels on the edge of the cornerstone, hugging her knees and tossing her hair in a way I thought
was the most beautiful thing Id ever seen. Her words firmly planted
in conviction, she said, All I know is my mom had the Vision.
Lying back, she flung her arms to the side, closed her eyes to the sun.
When I saw those arms go wide and her blouse press down against
her budding breasts, it was all I could do to keep from touching them.
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She seemed oblivious to my growing lust, which was all to the good.
Iwould have been embarrassed if she knew what I was feeling.
I wonder how old Ill be when I get the Vision, she said.
I leaned on one arm and looked down into her face. Freckles danced
across it when she wrinkled her nose. Dont seem to be much of a
vision, if nobody knows about it. I couldve licked those freckles clean
off her.
You wouldnt understand, said Ruby, turning her face away from
mine. Its a woman thing.
I started to stammer. If ... if women started having visions, it
would ... it would just mess things up.
She turned to face me. Oh, would it?
I saw only her eyesdark and deep. I felt like I was falling into them.
At that moment, I didnt care about the Vision all the women
claimed to have, whether they saw Joseph Smith or Jesus Christ himself. My concentration honed onto the sumptuous banquet spread out
before me, the tantalizing treats presented seemingly for my delight.
Ireached out to make my selection.
My swift journey to the dirt beside the cornerstone left me numb,
confusedand speechless. Common sense quickly stumbled back
into place, and now she stood above me. Behind her, the sun ignited
her coppery hair with a flame that matched her anger.
Jason Whithers, you are ... so dumb! She whirled and bolted
down the hill, her hair a bright and burnished blaze.
Stunned and silent until she was out of sight, I slowly shuffled
toward home, wondering if Id ever understand girls.
I looked for Ruby the next day as Mom, Joseph, Cindy, and I
walked to the meetinghouse on the corner of First West and Second
North. The Danielses lived just two streets over and down a block,
and we often ran into them while walking to church.
Not today. My bruised but ever resilient twelve-year-old ego told
me it was because of what Id done yesterday. Ruby talked her mother
into leaving early so they could avoid seeing us. Or, worse yet, she felt
too embarrassed to even show up.
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Slowly, Father unfolded the papers hed been carrying and laid
them flat on the lectern. He opened his worn scriptures and began
to read. And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my
spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions.
His eyes seemed to take in the entire ward before he continued,
this time reading from his notes.
This passage from the book of Joel clearly shows us the Lords will
concerning revelation from Him to the Saints in the last days. His
voice stumbled and halted, forcing his usual informality to the strict
confines of a prepared speech. On first reading, it may seem that He
is talking about a time when revelation pours from the fountains of
heavenwhen everyone, with equal authority, speaks the will of God.
Rustling in the congregation. Mom reached out to take my arm
inhers.
But God is a god of order. All His prophecies will be carried out in
His own due time. And revelation to the Church, if it is true revelation, must follow a certain order.
A derisive snort (I think from the same woman) punctuated his
sentence. Dad continued unfazed.
Not only is revelation designed to be delivered to the Church
through the Lords chosen servants, but it must, as the Prophet Joseph
Smith taught, edify. Revelationsor visionsthat do not teach us
something in plain words, or worse yetvisions that remain unspokendo not have their source in the Almighty, but are visions from
the devil.
A voice from somewhere over my shoulder filled the room.So whats
the latest word from God, Bishop? Sister Arletta Daniels, Rubys
mom, had risen to her feet and was even now fighting off her husbands
attempts to quiet her. Ruby disappeared behind a hymn book.
Sister Daniels would not be deterred. If youre the chosen servant,
then what does God have to say for Himself lately?
Brother Daniels clutched at her sleeve. Arletta, sit down.
I wont! And whens the last time you heard from the Brethren, Bishop? Brother Daniels rose. His wife continued. I think
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everybody in Salt Lake got out a long time ago and just forgot to tell
us! Brother Daniels pushed his wife out into the aisle, and toward
the exit. Sister Daniels would not be easily shushed. Nels, quit pushing me! She pulled free of her husbands grasp. Ill leave on my own.
I dont want to be in a church where I hear lies preached from the pulpit, where leaders talk about things they dont know nothing about.
She walked toward the exit while Brother Daniels grabbed Ruby and
started to follow her out. Sister Daniels turned at the door and gestured to include the entire ward. And by the way, Bishop, a lot of men
have had the Vision too! As the door closed behind them, the silence
that remained felt tangible. The sister had thrown down the gauntlet.
It was up to the knightto my dadto pick it up, toss it back in her
face, or in some other way engage her in battle.
Dad turned a page and continued as though nothing had happened.
A voice coming from the front room woke me up. The more awake
I became, the more voices I heard. A sliver of light slicing through my
half-opened door beckoned me. I nudged the door ever so slightly
and put my ear in the open space.
Im sorry we came by so late, I heard Brother Daniels say. Arletta
has something to say.
The Sister Daniels I heard next was not the same woman who had
quit sacrament in a huff earlier. This was a changed woman, a subdued woman. I ... I want to apologize for my behavior this afternoon.
I realize that I ... spoke out of place. I ... thats all I can say. Her voice
sounded strained, unreal, as if she had said the words, but not meant
them.
Dad spoke next. I appreciate you coming by, Sister Daniels. I know
we both want to do whats right.
There were a few other exchanges, and then the Danielses left.
Did you see that bruise on her face, Leland? Mom said. I think he
beat her into apologizing.
We cant know that. All we know is that she now seems to understand her place in the Church. And thou shalt not command him who
is at thy head, and at the head of the church.
50
Youre not at the head of the Church. Youre just the bishop of a
little Podunk ward in eastern Utah.
I leaned back against the wall. I could hear just fine.
Dads voice rose in intensity. Dont try to change the subject. Its
the principle of obedience Im talking about. I saw the look that passed
between you two women. Whatevers going on among the sisters?
Nothings going on. You know, Arletta may be right. I think the
rest of the Church has gone off to Jackson County and forgotten
about us. If the Church still exists anymore.
Dont say that! A long pause. When Dad spoke again, his voice
had changed. Thats not possible. Anyway, well find all that out when
the elders get back.
They should have been back last month. What makes you think
This conversation is at an end! I heard Dads feet coming down
the hall. I crept back into the shadows of my room. Are you coming
to bed? he said, just on the other side of my door.
Moms voice sounded faint, almost a whisper, but I could still
understand her.
If I do, itll only be to sleep.
I climbed into bed. Sleep didnt come right away because I kept
thinking about the elders. Id forgotten about them. A couple summers ago, Dad had called two young men, Troy Miner and David
Hudspeth, to journey to the eastern lands, to the land of Missouri, on
the borders by the Lamanites. Their assignment? To find the Mormon settlement surely being built in Independence, and to return and
tell us of its progress. I remembered their setting apartquite the
ceremony, their departure even more so. But it wasnt long before we
all returned to our normal ways of life and, for the most part, forgot
about them. Occasionally, the mothers of the two missionaries got up
and talked about their sons in sacramentand wed be reminded of
them. Or some priest bemoaned his hard life, murmuring how the
missionaries were the lucky ones because at least they didnt have to
do choresand wed be reminded. But neither parent nor priest ever
mentioned the danger. Maybe because everybody already knew danger loomed Outside. All the adults remembered the holocausts, and
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all the children had the ramshackle buildings and Sister Mattie to
warn them of the world east of Desolation Canyon.
I had so many chores the week after Brother and Sister Daniels
had paid a midnight visit that I didnt have time to think about Ruby,
or much of anything else. Not that I would have been able to talk with
her. She seemed to go out of her way to ignore me. One day when
Sister Thatcher dismissed us early from school, Ruby rushed out and
I didnt catch up with her until she was quite a bit down the road.
So how come you wont talk to me? I asked, trying not to sound as
desperate as I felt. You still mad at me cause I tried to ... you know?
Im sorry. Ill never do it again, okay?
She turned fiery eyes and pursed lips in my direction, and then
veered off the road up toward Strunkards Orchard. I followed sheepishly. She dropped her books on the cornerstone and then paced back
and forth while I stood by, wordless.
You dont understand, do you?
I didnt.
Sometimes you make me so mad.
So tell me, Ruby, I pleaded, feeling tears well up in my eyes. Iwant
to understand.
Her whole attitude changed. She sat on the cornerstone and beckoned me with open arms. I dropped my own books, ran to her, buried
my face in her lap. She held me, saying nothing, until I stopped crying.
I turned away from her, suddenly embarrassed at my show of emotion, and started to gather up my books. Behind me, I heard her get
up and walk over to me. I stood up, back to her, but didnt leave.
Youre so silly. I wasnt mad at you because you touched me. Turning, I found her smiling and tucking a wayward strand of hair behind
her ear. She caressed my palm, which had suddenly become clammy,
and raised it toward her breast. I barely heard her whisper, I liked it.
She leaned forward, kissed me, and sent my hormones careening. We
fell to the grass at the base of the cornerstone, she freely giving what
she had denied me the week before, I hungrilybut awkwardly
accepting. When our fumbling hands spent their energies, we lay
apart, looking into the sky.
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The whole town had come to a stop in the middle of the road, in
front of the cemetery at the south end of Main Street. Elbowing my
way to the front, I found myself flanked by Dads two counselors, their
hands clenched into balls, their jaws set in iron, their eyes squinting,
searching, waiting ...
For what? I saw nothing but the macadam road curving gently to the
left beyond the clump of cottonwood trees, the castle-shaped mountain of
sandstone standing against the sky. And then something moved our way,
playing peek-a-boo behind the tree trunks. A sound Id never heard before
accompanied the movement. I caught a flash of sunlight against metal,
suddenly hidden by foliage, now visible again. Then around the corner
came an ancient truck, moving slowly but steadily in our direction. Id seen
trucks beforeat least the rust-eaten skeletal carcasses of trucksbut
never one like the truck that came to a lurching stop just a few feet before
us. It moved under its own power for one thing. For another, its smooth
white surface shone with a radiance that made my eyes hurt.
Id seen Lamanites before, too, whenever they had wandered, bedraggled and weary, into town from the nearby reservation. But this one was
different. I knew the moment he opened the door and stamped a booted
foot on the broken asphalt. He seemed to unfold himself from the truck.
He towered a good head and a half over anyone else in Castle Point. His
waist-length coal black hair swung like a cape and came to rest against
his massive shoulders. Without looking at any of us, he took a single
step back around to the truck bed, leaned over, and fumbled something
into his arms.
When he came around the far side of the truck, I saw what he was
carrying. A body.
Someone in the crowd saw too. Its Troy!
I found him unconscious by the side of the road, said the Lamanite, just south of the Book Cliffs. He will live.
Didnt I tell you? Sister Mattie pushed her way through the crowd.
Didnt I tell you hed come back? None of you believed me, did you?
She stroked Troys cheek, held him close to her as if he were her own
son. Lets go home, now, Jimmy, she said, several brethren carrying
Troy, and several of the sisters (led by Mom) going along to help.
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really turned strange from that moment on. It wasnt too noticeable at
firsteveryone just seemed more outgoing, friendlier, happier.
Everyone except Dad. Meals had always been a timehowever
much we kids disliked itwhen we could depend on Dad launching
into a sermon on some subject or other in between mouthfuls. Now
he glumly downed his food and scarcely ever looked up from his plate.
As the weeks went by, he paid less and less attention to his appearance.
Sometimes he wouldnt shave for days. And when he did manage to
clean himself up enough to go to church, this formerly meticulous
dresser (We show we love the Lord by looking our best at all times)
would stand in front of the congregation with his tie askew or his hair
disheveled.
But it was when he began to ignore his church duties that I knew
something serious had happened. Slackening ones devotion to the gospel was a concept that had always been foreign to my father. Before this
time, he had been a rock of faith. Adversity that would threaten to tear
apart the lives of others had always seemed to fortify him. But since
the coming and going of the Lamanite, his pedestal of strength had
started to crumble. How far it would crumble, and whether it would
ultimately engulf him in its collapse, seemed only a matter of time.
And then there was this sudden interest in cars by everyone in town.
Not just cars but just about anything that might be made to move
under its own power. A few days after the Lamanite drove away in a
water-powered truck, people all over Castle Point started pulling the
weeds away from backyard sedans, smoothing out the dings in abandoned tractors, polishing the chrome of long-rusted bumpers. After
church, the men would congregate on the front steps and compare
notes, the women would talk about designs for quilting seat covers.
People whod never seen a moving vehicle before Troy Miner came
home seemed to know just what to do to resurrect their old clunkers.
Through it all, Dad remained silent. He gave no sermon condemning the vain pursuit of material goods. The only way I knew he was
even aware of what was happening to the town was when Heber Carmichael came over to the house and asked if he could fix up the old
van we had out behind the barn. Dad threatened to shoot him if he
58
didnt get off the property. The dust of Hebers departure hadnt settled
before Dad had peppered the van with the bullets hed intended for
Hebers backside.
As Dads hold on reality started to slowly slip away, and Brother
Daniels preoccupation with combustion engines increased, Ruby and
I found more time to be together. Wed steal away to the cornerstone
and talk about the goings on. We talked about the weird contraption
that Brother Chidester was putting together out in his shed, something he called a riding mower. We laughed when we thought of the
car that Brother Riley was building out of wood and an old refrigerator. We talked about everything except what was really on our minds:
What did all this mean? Why was everybody building cars, when cars
meant travel, and travel meant someplace other than here, and here
was all we had ever known?
Eventually, our conversation drifted around to our future lives
together. Id build a big house near a river, wed have lots of children,
wed be happy forever, and not at all like our parents. When conversation dwindled, wed lie on the grass in each others arms, approaching
intimacy but always stopping short.
Then a series of events happened one weekend that were to change
our lives forever. The day started much like any other Sunday in
Castle Point: families meandering to church, Sister Matties hymns
accompanying us while we entered the meetinghouse, the familiar
strains of the opening hymn filling the chapel. Dad seemed more his
old self in his crisp suit and tie.
But just as the music started for the sacrament hymn, I heard
voices behind me. I turned from my seat in Deacons Row to see Patriarch Flowers stand up from his seat in the congregation and shuffle
toward the podium. A tittering followed him, and I could imagine the
words: He thinks its testimony meeting. I hope the bishop doesnt
let him speak. Dad held up his hand and Sister McHenry stopped
torturing the piano.
As Patriarch Flowers passed me going up the steps, I smelled
something foul and saw a dark stain widening on the back of his pants.
Johnny saw it, too, and laughed until I punched him in the arm.
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The old mans bony fingers clutched the edges of the podium, as if
it was all that kept him from falling, and opened his mouth to speak.
Nothing came out at first, then a hoarse voice breathed the words:
How long, O Lord, how long? He looked around. He smiled and
started toward the steps.
He hit the first step and then began to fold inward, his knees buckling, his head lolling forward. He fell facedown onto the sacrament
table, shattering some plastic trays, sending others skidding off the
edge. I ducked to avoid a spray of water and bread, and then looked
up as Patriarch Flowers, entangled in the sacrament cloth, slid off the
table and crumpled lifeless to the floor not six inches from my feet.
Whatever plans anyone had for that afternoon were quickly set
aside as we all gathered in the chapel for funeral services and, afterwards, in the cultural hall for refreshments. Since Dr. Mulrony had
died a few years earlier, there wasnt the luxury of a week to prepare a
body and have a viewing. (Id often heard Dad refer to this whirlwind
system of dressing the body and burial as hat em n plant em.) The
eulogy was hurried, the burial rushed, and by late afternoon, I found
myself hovering over the refreshment table, trying to stuff as many of
Moms brownies into my pocket as I could.
You shouldnt take so many, said Ruby.
You been quiet all afternoon, I mumbled. Thought you forgot
how to talk.
Just havent felt like it, thats all.
Before I could ask why, I was interrupted by two loud voices. The
entire room quieted down, and I turned to see Dad and Brother Daniels over against a wall.
Theres not much you can do about it, Leland, is there? said
Brother Daniels.
I can forbid it!
Well, Im not listenin. Brother Daniels started toward the door,
Sister Daniels right behind him.
Dad called after him. Nels, when you gonna stop listenin to your
wife and start followin your leaders?
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I stayed around Castle Point until Dad died ten years later.
Ididnt hat im and plant im. I took my time digging the grave, up
on Strunkards Orchard. I put the tin box filled with letters on his
chest and, with Josephs help, lowered his body into the grave. I gavea
prayer, and Mom led us in some hymns. Then we stood by the grave
for along time, just remembering.
It didnt take me very long to fix up the van. I was able to patch up
most of the bullet holes, and it started up perfectly the first time we
poured pure mountain water into the gas tank. The morning after
Dads funeral, Mom, Joseph, Cindy, and I set off south on Old Highway10, turned onto 70, and headed east toward Zion.
62
63
Felucca at Maadi
Simon Peter Eggertsen
64
Eggertsen: Poem
65
Signature Books
Publisher of Western and Mormon-Related
Fiction, Essay, and Art
visit us at www.signaturebooks.com
The Nelson Whipple house, built in 1854 in Salt Lake City, is now the home
of Signature Books. Drawing by Keiko Jones, courtesy the artist.
And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis 2:25
When the phone rang next door in the clerks office, Paul Gundersen was sliding a fresh box of Kleenex across his desk to a sister whod
already sobbed through her travel pack. Hed once joked in a stake
meeting that remorse could be measured in tissues, but now, under
grief s burden, he couldnt summon that same lightness of spirit.
The woman sat across from him, swollen faced. When she first came
in, a few weeks earlier, shed told Bishop Gundersen she was drowning
and needed someone to haul her up. Seeing her now, her hands clasping the sides of her crimson chair as if she were adrift, a chunk of flotsam after a wreck, Paul knew the rescuing wasnt over. And it wouldnt
be until she told her husband what shed done.
The clerks phone stopped ringing, and a minute later Brother Jiminez knocked timidly on the door of the bishops office.
Excuse me, Claire. Its open. Bishop Gundersen rose and opened
the door a crack. Yes?
Very sorry, Brother Jiminez said, Your wife say you call right away.
Emergency. Your grandfather.
In his rush to get to the hospital, Paul Gundersen hadnt locked up
the meetinghouse. Hed have to swing by in the morning on the way
to the clinic. Once he got out of Poulsbo and crossed Liberty Bay at
the bridge, it was twenty minutes down the peninsula to Silverdale.
A mist fell. Just a blur, nothing the wiper blades could sweep away.
The red taillights of cars ahead seeped through the windshield like
wounds blossoming into fresh gauze.
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than have their nakedness known. Let them not fear to be known. In
the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Paul sat motionless. Grandfather mumbled an apology about the
blessing being so short, but to Paul it held inestimable worth, a precious pearl. That night he wrote it on a 3x5 index card and placed it
behind the front cover of his scriptures. In the first few weeks of his
calling hed referred to it often. Now, well over a year into his tenure as
bishop, the words still crept into his mind when his heart forgot mercy.
At 9:17 p.m., half an hour after receiving the phone call, Paul arrived
at Harrison Medical, found Summer and his grandmother outside
the E.R. He learned that his grandfather, Lars Gundersen, had just
been pronounced dead.
He and Summer stayed with his grandmother at the hospital for
a few hours, offering what strength they could. Summer helped the
most. She sat with Mildred Gundersen on one of the couches, drawing the old woman into her chest and letting her sob. Later, when
Pauls grandmother was ready, Summer led them both into the quiet
room where they had brought Grandfathers body.
It was a little past midnight when Paul and Summer escorted
Grandma out into the dark wet parking lot. Summer retrieved her
purse from her car, which they would leave down here until tomorrow, and the three of them all rode together in Pauls Accord. Summer
didnt want his grandmother to go back into the house alone and suggested she stay with them for the night. Or at least let Summer stay
the night at her place, in the guest room. Mildred Gundersen wouldnt
hear of it. In the end, they had to let her spend her first night all alone.
Friendships came as naturally to Summer as breathing. Paul
envied her for it. Early in their marriage he even put it into words.
What are you talking about? she sputtered. Youve got all kinds
of friends.
Nope.
She named names. Half a dozen members of the ward that hed
served with, husbands of Summers friends, a few guys from grad
school. And thats just off the top of my head.
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Paul stood to help his grandmother take a seat at the patio table
and then sat down again. Did you get any sleep last night?
Some. Theres so much to be done. Dorothy and Susan coming,
funeral arrangements...
None of that matters yet, Grams. The funerals not until Saturday.
Therell be plenty of time to take care of details later. Besides, Summer and I are handling all that. You can justPaul searched for the
wordjust grieve, just let it sink in. You can sit and cry and talk and
remember.
Therell be plenty of time for that later, too, his grandmother
replied. All the time in the world. Summer came out with a crocheted shawl, ivory colored. Besidesthank you, doll, thats better
besides, it helps to stay busy.
Summer took a place at the table, then popped up. I think I heard
the dryer buzzing. Let me get those beds ready.
Ill do that. Just dont you fuss.
But Summer had already ducked into the house.
So, have they had any luck reaching my father? Paul asked. He
was dubious.
Not so far. I dont suppose theyll be able to find him. She fingered
a button on her shawl. Susan dug up an old number. It rang some
woman hed shacked up with for a couple of months, but it sounds like
that was over ten years ago. This lady hasnt heard from him, either.
Says he owes her money. She gave a rueful sigh. Your fathers quite a
peach. She changed the subject. Paul, you havent touched your pickle.
What?
Your pickle. You havent touched it. I thought you liked them. She
started from her chair. Do want something else?
No, this is great. I like them. He lied.
Mildred settled back into her chair. You always did love pickles. Just
like your grandfather. When you were little, youd wrap your whole
pudgy little fist around a pickle and walk around licking it like a Popsicle. She leaned forward, drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders,
and then leaned back again.
Grams?
Yes?
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to them. There was pain, but there was also understanding. They
were together.
Sister Walker turned to Bishop Gundersen, not letting go of Joes
hand. I told him, Bishop. I told him everything.
I know. I know you did, Bishop Gundersen answered. Hed never
seen them look so in love.
Paul Gundersen swung by his grandparents place on his way
home from the church. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again,
louder, and rang the doorbell. He took a step back and leaned out to
check the carport. The Town & Country was thereof course it was,
she didnt drive at night; she must be home. He walked to the side of
the house, cut through the carport, sidestepped an unruly rhododendron, and rounded the back corner of the house.
There, on the back patio, stood Millie Gundersen, her nightdress
rippling in the mild night breeze. She stooped over the fire pit, fumbling with what appeared to be a box of kitchen matches.
Paul paused, intent. He watched his grandmother scrape a matchstick against the side of the box. It snapped. Two or three more matches
tumbled out of the box as her fingers scurried around for another. She
struck a new match. The red tip bloomed into a sputtering white
orchid of flame. Paul saw his grandmothers face now, seething coldly,
like discarded embers. The flame she held yellowed, shrank, and crept
fingerward.
The match seemed to leap from her hands into the fire pit. His
grandmother stood back. The flame didnt take hold. She leaned
in again, peering into the dark pit. She fumbled for another match,
scratched it into flame and plunged it into the pit. Then she struck
another, and another, dropping each into the flame. A few thin wisps
of smoke rose and dissipated into the night air. And then darkness.
His grandmother stooped and reached into the fire pit. When she
withdrew her hand, Paul saw what appeared to be a book. She held it
by a corner, as if she might be burned. Or bitten.
Paul strode toward the patio. Hey, Grams!
The book tumbled out of her hand.
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loneliness. She paused. Hes been gone two days, Paul, two days, and
Im already lonely. I miss him. You dont know. She tipped her head
toward the patio. I thought I could read a few pages and it would be
like having him here, sitting down together. Her voice broke, and the
rest came out in thin rasps. Like having him talking to me.
And you got more than you bargained for.
Oh, Paul, you never really know anyone. You think you do, but
you dont. She plucked up five or six spent tissues from the table and
placed them in a row on her lap. All those years.
Grams, Paul said, Im sure he felt there were things better left
unsaid.
No, thats not it. Its that you realize you only knew half a person.
But the other half has been living in your house all those years, too.
And that half s been kept a secret.
Pauls mind drifted back to Claire and Joes interview and the image
of them looking so openly into each other, nakedly. Hands clasped
tight. How often he himself broke away when Summer wanted too
close a look. Protecting her? Maybe it would be like this. He wondered how close a look his grandfather had ever permitted.
What do you feel, Grams? He searched for a word. Betrayed?
She moved her tongue under her top lip and swept it along her
teeth, as if tasting the word. Thats a terrible word, betrayed. No, not
betrayed. She shifted in her chair. I just cant let myself think about
it. The Lars I knew was ... uncomplicated. She picked up a tissue and
dabbed at her eyes. He was just good. He did good things and he
thought good thoughts and that was that.
So you want to burn the rest?
Lars would want to burn the rest. Those journals got no place
being left around.
But dont they show who he really was? You know, inside? Isnt it
better to know the good and the bad of a person?
The question hung unanswered in the silence between them.
Paul reflected back on that nights visit with the Walkers. He had
asked Claire why, after all these weeks, she had finally decided to tell
Joe the truth.
76
I dont know, she had said. Joe sat with his arm on the back of her
chair, stroking her hair. I felt I couldnt risk his rejection by telling
him the truth. But I couldnt keep on accepting his love either, knowing deep down he didnt really know what Id done.
She leaned into Joe. And nowher head sank into the warm
plane of his chest, under his chinnow, Ive never felt so loved. So
safe, so accepted. She straightened, turned to face Joe, and said, You
know the ugly parts but love me anyway.
Paul inched his grandfathers La-Z-Boy rearward a little, then
lifted his feet. The rocker slumped forward, hesitated, and then sighed
backward again. He nudged it back into motion, and nudged it again.
His thoughts tipped back and forth between his grandfathers journals and his stunned and perplexed grandmother. On the one hand,
the promise, at least posthumously, of true communion. On the other,
a widow wounded by the man whose life, she supposed, had been an
open book.
So Grandfather missed the chance to be fully known in life. So
Grandmother refuses the chance to fully know him in his death.
The next time the rocker came to a halt, Paul stood up. Grams, Ill
get rid of his journals for you. If thats what you want.
She continued looking straight ahead, at nothing.Youll burn them?
Ill burn them.
Summer didnt wake when Paul came home that night from his
grandmothers place. Hed bounded up the stairs of their split-level
with the stack of journals in his armsthought maybe they could
read through some of them togetherbut when he found her asleep,
he tiptoed back down to the kitchen.
He draped his suit jacket over a kitchen chair and poured himself
a glass of milk. He would read just one or two entries, thats all, he
told himself. After that he would store them somewhere safe. In a
year or two, when things had settled down, he would let his aunts
know about them. They had some claim on those journals, too, perhaps more than Grams did. Mildred Gundersen didnt have to know
they were still around.
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Irreantum
Paul carried the volumes down into the family room, set them in
a stack on the carpet, and switched on a small light next to his overstuffed chair. He thought of Summer sleeping above him in the master bedroom. He knelt in front of the pile of journals and considered
how often he and Summer were like this, like tonight. Just feet apart,
but on separate planes.
He smoothed his hands over his pants. After a deep breath, he
picked up a journal and let it fall open to a page. Cursive ribbons of
words sprawled across the pages. Here and there, where the nib of the
fountain pen had snagged across the paper, freckles of ink splattered.
The entry was dated August 13, 1953. He thumbed ahead. August 24th,
October 10th, October 12th, ending January 28th, 1954. Each date had
at least a full page entry; some entries sprawled across several pages.
He put the journal down and picked up another more handsomely
bound volume. The pages stuck together. Paul flexed them and they
fluttered open in his hands. This particular journal, he discovered,
spanned his grandfathers tenure as bishop of the Poulsbo 1st Ward.
Paul settled into his chair with Lars Gundersens journal, the yellow light from the lamp throwing a gold shawl over his body and
backlighting his hair so that to on observer in the room it might have
seemed aflame. Except for that pocket of light around Paul, the house
was dark.
He dithered briefly. It was one thing, he considered, to read the
journals of an ancestor; the experience is dispassionate, like an archaeologist examining clay shards or a comb made from a tusk. It was quite
another to enter the private world of someone you knew and loved.
He skimmed to October, looking for an entry dated on Grandfathers birthday. He found it. October 27th.
Why have I never driven life into a corner and reduced it to its lowest
terms? Have I feared the answer? Or have I feared the implications of the
answer? Maybe Ive been a coward.
Paul looked up from the page. This would not be your typical
Rained today. Had lunch with Frank kind of entry. He pictured
Grandfather propped up in bed, writing this down while his grandmother dozed. Driven life into a corner ... wasnt that Thoreau?
78
Paul smiled. The Truman Show. Paul knew that final scene well.
Truman sails into the great unknown. Then, abruptly, the bow of his
vessel pierces through the horizon, which, it turns out, has been nothing more than a vast, airbrushed canvas. Truman, who has learned
the truth, now experiences the triumph of a world gained and the
heartache of a world lost.
Paul continued reading:
As for me, Ive seen a few cracks in the world around me. That is, the world
view comprised of a thousand gospel truth claims. Do I claw away at each
chink in the wall? Do I throw myself against them? No. Ive learned to live
with a few cracks. Besides, if I tear away at them, Im afraid my whole
world would collapse. I have preferred the safe (illusory?) perfection within.
Besides, what if I did manage to tear down this world? What if there
werent a truer one on the other side?
I thought about talking to Millie about this. Decided not to. Shes always
said she leans on my faith. Shed be scared if she knew how shaky my own
is at times! Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief.
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Paul turned to another entry. November 11th. Grandfather was venting after the high council excommunicated a man in his ward. The passage seethed with anger:
Jeds already cut off. He sinned against God and feels like hell. Why
make it worse? Hes already felt like Almathe thought of being around
God makes him squirmhed rather you bulldozed a mountain over him.
So whats this excommunication supposed to accomplish? Huh? Cut him
off even more??? I spend three months persuading him he could step back
into the chapel without God hurling a lightning boltthat God would welcome him, WELCOME him back, and now hes been Xd! Insane. President Johnson says its to help him come back. Thats like yanking away the
life preserver from a drowning man to see if hes determined enough to
swim back to the boat! Dumb Dumb Dumb, and I told President Johnson
that to his face!
The wards shepherd could roar like a lion. Paul skimmed through
more entries. More rants. Mostly ruminations. He closed the journal
and held it against his chest.
Paul looked at his watch. Almost 2:00 a.m. He had three root
canals scheduled to perform in the morning and should be asleep.
Instead he thought about his grandmother. How could she have given
up the chance to know her husband, really know him? What was it
shed said? He was just good. He did good things and he thought good
thoughts and that was that. Paul wondered what Summer would say
about her husband, and how incomplete her understanding would be
if she were in the same position. He wanted her to solve the puzzle,
and yet, he had to ask himself if hed ever show her all the pieces.
Why not give her all the pieces? Pauls answer had always been,
What if I give every piece and she cant solve the puzzle? Or doesnt
try? OrPaul surveyed the heap of journals at his feetwhat if she
takes one look at the missing pieces and decides to toss them into a
fire pit? At least, through these journals, Grandpa can still be known.
But what about me? Paul thought. Whos going to know me?
Summer struggled the most with their childlessness, but sometimes Paul ached too. A feeling in his chest. Time running out, almost.
80
Like when you suddenly realize your wallets not in your pocket, but
you wont allow yourself to panic, so you walkcalmly now, alls not
lostto find yesterdays pants. Theres still a chance. Theres still time.
Paul chose one more journal entry to read that night. He figured
his grandfather would have been serving as bishop for about eight
months at the time of this entry.
I cant write this. I must write this. Maybe Ill destroy it when Im
finished and its done its job.
Ive got to get it out.
Last weekend, at the Phoenix conference, they put me up at the Hilton.
The first night I kept the TV offsmart, given my weakness. The second night I turned it on to watch the local news. And during commercials
I found myself surfing channels. I found what I was looking for. Looking? Deep down I was looking. I changed channels, then changed back.
Ilapped it up, the very puddle of filth Id retched up years before. I thought
it couldnt get me. Im as weak as ever.
I cant take the sacrament tomorrow, but I dont know what to do.
Maybe Ill get sick so I dont have to go. Maybe Ill take it anywayheap a
little more damnation on my head. Ive tried to pray, but theres such a hot
shame. Cant confess to President Johnson, hed hold a court on this quicker
than breathing. I know he would. Bishops need bishopsones that have
felt this kind of slow fire. I feel so emptied out. My prayers are a mockery.
Ive cast myself out of paradise. Im cut off.
Im so alone.
Paul closed the journal and placed it among the others. He thought
about the funeral he would conduct later that week and the many tributes that would be made to Lars Gundersen, brother, husband, father,
grandfather, and bishop. He thought of his own father, who would
not be at that funeral because hed been hiding his own face in shame
for the last twenty-some years. He thought of Claire Walker clasped
in the strong grip of her husband after believing shed be swept away
like trash. He rose from his chair and stepped out of the pale island
of light cast by the reading lamp. He ascended the stairs and turned
180 degrees and ascended more stairs, leading him to Summer. Even
in the dark, he knew the way.
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When he reached their bedroom, Paul pulled the tie from his neck
and slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt. He slipped out of his trousers,
being careful to make sure the buckle of his dress belt made no sound.
He bent down and peeled off his socks. When hed stripped down to
his garments, he took them off too. He let everything lie where it fell.
He pulled back the comforter of their bed and slid in, naked, facing
her. He could feel the warmth of Summers body next to his.
Summer, he said softly. He could hear her slow, even breathing.
She slept with the side of her face planted in the pillow, facing him,
with one leg drawn up. He reached for her free arm, the one she wasnt
sleeping on, and followed it down to her hand. When he found her
hand, he drew it up carefully to his chest. He rested it there and then
cupped both of his hands over hers. She stirred and then was still
again. Her breathing remained steady.
Summer, he said again, and continued in a deliberate, measured
voice, I know youre asleep. Its better this way, at least for now. He
paused, breathing in the soft scent of her hair and her bodys warmth.
When I was a boy I once stuck my middle finger in the air at my
sleeping mother and silently formed each individual letter of the
F-word, as if it were an incantation. When I was thirteen I started
masturbating and didnt stop until a month before I turned nineteen.
Paul drew another breath. Im sorry, you dont need to hear this,
but I need to tell you. He had been trembling, but now his body
eased. When I was a missionary I looked up the skirt of the ward
mission leaders daughter. She was sixteen, a cheerleader. She sat on
the kitchen counter swinging her legs and talking on the phone while
her mother made our dinner, and I couldnt stop looking. The point is,
Im not good. I never have been.
His voice had become as soft as a lullaby.
And theres this: before I met you at college, I had stopped going to
church. It had been three months since Id attended. I started going
again because I met you. And you dont realize I drink Dr Pepper
more than you think, and I dont really believe its against the Word of
Wisdom and Ill probably keep on drinking it.
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83
Jerusalem Artichoke
Matthew James Babcock
Note: This poem was written after visiting The Religious Reflection Room
in the Detroit Metro Airport
In The Squatters Pub Brewery, two pilots
(I hope not mine) quaff beer
and devour Black and Bleu Rocket Wraps.
The label on the Odwallas bottle
from which I sip green puree says I have
swallowed Jerusalem artichoke,
a plant that, contrary to what its name
might suggest, is not an artichoke
and not from Jerusalem. This is
the equation of life: Nothing is what
it says it is. Despite the high price,
somehow this is healthy. The Italian,
girasole, means sunflower.
After Samuel de Champlain dispatched
shiploads of the bundled tubers
from Cape Cod to France, people
added sunroot and earth apple
to the legend. What is prayer but
a commerce of discoveries? When
is misunderstanding a pilgrimage?
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Babcock: Poems
85
Irreantum
86
I was ten when she was killed. Every day after that I peered into my
early morning routine hoping this crystal ball of the quotidian would
somehow prepare me for the coming day. To a closet omen-phile,
unexpected money in my pants or eking that last bit of toothpaste
out of an otherwise decrepit tube forecasted smooth high school seas.
For me, after the accident, an anticipated misfortune was always better than an unexpected one, and these little oracles of the ordinary,
like the mysteriously missing left shoe or the teetering glass of milk
that inexplicably stabilizes, helped me intuit the future of my day. But
gradually, my dependency on signs diminished as the Doppler effect
of time muffled the screams, the wresting steel, and the bursting glass
still drumming in my ears years after that night. When I could go
for days without sensing each breaths fragility, I worried less and less
about divining my burnt breakfasts meaning.
Years later when only the deep scars were still visible on my face, one
had to look carefully to see what remained of that night; new friends
were often surprised to hear I survived the wreckage of the accident
that entombed my mother. Most of these new friends expected to see
either some obvious psychological disfigurement or, at least, a glimmer
of grief in my daily life that would make my motherlessness visible. I
found my friends astonishment strangely gratifying: proof that I had
pieced back together everything that shattered that night like glass
across the pavement. I could forget my mother, the accident, and that
whole other life the way I could place my only picture of my mother
in our clean stacks of newlywed towels in the linen closet of our first
apartment. The premonition that came in a phonebook eleven years
later illustrated that memories are not as easy to arrange as photos.
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When I saw the yellow bag at the mud room door, I hurriedly carried
it to my customary seat at the kitchen table. Coming from the garage,
the six children all emptied out of the laundry room and, once in the
kitchen, scattered in different directions like marbles poured from a
bag as I flipped through the pages of the new directory. The craving to
see my name in print drives me to look up my name in odd places, such
as our phonebook. As a young college professor, Ilong for someone to
approve of something associated with my name, even if its only a street
address and phone number. Little did I realize what I would unearth
by digging through this diminutive rural Idaho directory.
As I thumbed the book for the D section, I marveled at the homogeny of the names. In high school my classmates had last names like
Sutich, Stickel, Ramey, Radulski, Lendecky, Espositoa witness to
the immigration patterns of the last century in Connecticut. The
names in this phonebook were more like the names from my wifes
years at Orem High where the only ethnic tension was between the
Jensens with an e and the Jensons with an o.
The joie de vivre of the silent g and apostrophe in my French last
name complicates the placid, preEllis Island phonebook world of
Ricks and Klingers. Looking over the page for the exact placement ofmy
foreign name fashioned a genealogical glee within me as I found a Richard Devine. I dont find as many Irish surnames in Rexburg as I used to
in Connecticut, where it seemd everyone had a Farley or Curran in the
closet. But more than just an Irish surname, Devine is a significant name
because it is from my mothers side of the family. My mothers family
was a typical Irish-American family of ten where the five daughters all
had some variation of Mary in their names, and the father, the son of an
immigrant police officer, liked his drinks at the Knights of Columbus.
Eight children, little money, alcoholism, and the normal stresses of life
was a mixture too potent for even my grandfather to swallow. With a
husband who staggered home late and a house with children around
each corner, my grandmother would say only that she coped during
those years by ironing, drinking beer, and crying.
Moving my eyes down from the Robert Devine entry, I was aghast at
the next name down the list: Kathleen Devine. That was my mothers
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name. Since her sudden death by a drunk driver over twenty years
ago, she had only milled about in the back of my memory along with
recollections of kindergarten classmates, Primary teachers, and others
whose faces I once recognized; mere silhouettes of people I used to
know. Now, here on the page in front of me, the formless memory of
my mother emerged like an apparition in the shape of a name.
I cant believe it! I exclaimed in a mixture of sublime wonder and
dread to my wife, who was staring at me, wondering about a person
who reacted that way to a phonebook. I showed her the name.
Should I call her? I asked, bewildered.
No, she said with restrained but grave concern, trying to hide the
unease in her eyes.
I could almost see my wife at some point in the future having to go
around the house hiding the phonebooks because, as she would tell
our friends, They upset him. My reaction, my sense that something
cosmic, fate driven, had happened seemed incredibly real. So part of
me was grateful my wife reacted the way she did; I needed to see the
eeriness of my request flicker across her face. It was like some bad
gothic story. But instead of a story focused on ghosts, stormy dark
nights, castles, fog, and unexplained supernatural phenomena, my
gothic tale involved a phonebook and someone who had the same
name as my dead mother. It had all the makings of a really bad Edgar
Allen Poe story; one he wrote quickly to pay off gambling debts.
I hoped that my ability to question my uncanny response to the
name in the phonebook was an indication that I was not headed for an
early mental breakdown. When my two good and discerning friends
didnt mirror my mystical sense of awe over the name, however, Ifelt
a little like the narrator in Poes famous gothic poem, The Raven. In
the poem, the persona is haunted by a bird that perches above his
chamber door. Like me trying to explain the terror of a name, Icould
imagine the persona later trying to persuade his friends of the horror
of a bird in his office. His friends surround him as he excitedly waves
his hands imitating the infernal fowl. He becomes increasingly agitated as he sees his story fail to elicit any emotion.
Now, what was the scary part again? the tall one asks with trepidation.
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You say the bird looked at you ... My ... goodness ... Well ... That
does sound chilling, another friend would say, coaxing the other
friends to go along with the frenzied fable. Despite Hitchcocks fine
feathered assassins, Ive always questioned how a raven could be terrifying. But after trying to explain my own midnight dreary experience,
I worried that Poes The Raven reveals more about the person who
feels the fear than the object of the fear itself.
My reaction to the name was in part a desire for a Rosetta stone help
me to interpret the fragments of contradicting images I recall of her.
Iremember she was a grade school teacher with a sincere compassion for
her lower-income, downtown students. And I remember how so many of
her students made construction paper cards for my sister and me after she
died. The cards reflected the kind of teacher that played at recess with the
outcasts of the elementary school set. But my personal memories make
her more enigmatic, more like a tortured gothic ghost. I remember most
the sound of her anger. It was more than just the scream of a momentary
frustration; it was the fraying of a despondent life that resonated in our
house. A hypoglycemic Miss Havisham jilted at the altar by normal insulin levels, she would lie in her darkened room at the end of the day, after
medicating her imbalance of blood sugar with candy. I would creep into
her shadowy room to see about dinner and her disposition. My mothers
sunless moods seeped into my bones. These cryptic recollections of her
only intensified her spectral presence in my gothic tale.
I dont know for sure what it was during those months that pulled
her apart by the edges. Between the divorce, my fathers moving out,
her leaving the Church, and her new lover jilting her, her life just
became too much. I could see in her face the tattered strands of a
threadbare soul. Somewhere in some mixture of her own choices and
what life had done to her, she had become embittered, forcible, and
without a hope to regain control. And the loss of her hope for a different life crushed her. So I was left to ponder, Pandora-like, at opening
my mothers memory, wondering if my curiosity over who she really
was outweighed the consequence of knowing the truth.
A few weeks later in that summer, when my father and sister came
to Idaho to visit us, I wanted to gather everyone in our living room,
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misty miasma of grilled fajitas. I could only imagine what our friends
must have been thinking. After a pause, one of our friends added reassuringly to our macabre discussion, Kathy is really nice.
Please tell me shes not in the trunk, was all I could think as I desperately hoped for a subject change or for someone to show me the
hidden cameras. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
drinks, and we slowly found our way past the mortifying topic. But
as freakish as our conversation was, inwardly I had shared my fathers
urge. Seeing my long-dead mothers name just five names below my
own was like someone figuring out my best personal password. The
fear of someone knowing my password and stealing my money or my
personal information would not be the worst thing about someone
figuring out my password; the worst thing would be knowing that
someone knew me well enough to predict my password. The word is a
reflection of the mind that must remember it; an entry point to what
is valuable enough to hide. That name in the phonebook appeared to
my family not as the coalescing of coincidence, but more as the revelation of a door to a room we no longer enter. Maybe I still wanted to
believe the accident was a dream, or maybe I wanted to believe she
was now living close to her son, secretly watching over him and his
family like a mother would. This irrational hope was the part of me
that remembered that something beyond that door once existed.
For a moment, the sight of her name brought her back to me in black
and white, even giving me an address. The name was as tangible as the
felt-board lessons about the plan of salvation were to me as a child.
Carefully pressing the border of each world to come, my small fingertips
ordered the universe of planetary fabric on the board without a thought
to their circumscribed inhabitants. But that almost incarnate name
resurrected as much of her ambiguity as it did her memory, and what
remained unresolved endured. I wonder where my mother is on that felt
board now and if my ambivalence pains her. If only she could give me a
sign. But some signs are harder to discern than the teetering glass that
doesnt shatterlike the occasional kismet in the white pages.
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The Missionary
Stephen David Grover
I met a missionary recently. This was back in the fall, when the days
were just cooling off and the weather was crystal clear. I was walking
downtown in the sun, thinking the ambitious thoughts of a graduate
student, and I only half registered the man standing against a building up ahead, seemingly doing nothing but watching passers-by. In a
college town, especially in an election year, being stopped by strangers
peddling causes, candidates, or charities wasnt uncommon, but nothing about the man suggested he was interested in conversation, so I
prepared to pass him without design. I merely glanced down at my
feet, readjusted my bag, and continued walking. Just as I crossed his
position, however, he suddenly said, Excuse me.
I was caught off guard. Normally when approached on the street
Ive seen it coming and have a strategy: Ive either fished out the coins
for a quick deposit or loaded a shrug and a sorry, or maybe Ive maneuvered several fellow pedestrians between myself and whoevers asking
the awkward questions. But Im not generally an avoider, and I never
ignore. Most of the time I just take the flyer with a smile and answer
the question truthfullyYes, Ive registered to vote, or No, I dont
have a minute for the environment just now, or No, I wouldnt like
Honorable Mention, 2009 Charlotte and Eugene England Personal Essay Contest
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to buy any ice cream, even though every purchase helps Kappa Delta
Mu Chi Beta Alpha Whatever. I almost always keep moving forward
regardless. Although such questions dont directly state it, they are
often an invitation to stop and chat. So when the unassuming man on
the street quite suddenly said, Excuse me, in a calm, quiet voice (just
after Id determined his irrelevance to me), I shopped short, surprised.
Torn from whatever reveries occupied me, I glanced over him while
my mind started running through the possibilities: He needed directions? No, he hadnt been looking for anything. Money? He was clean
and neatly dressed, so unlikely that. Had I dropped something? I dont
think so
He was speaking, and his hand turned out to show me the cover
of a book he was holding; I looked at it, focused my attention enough
to read the title, and replayed the sentence I had not been listening to.
The book was the Bhagavad Gita. Were missionaries, he had been
saying: Were sharing this book.
At once the situation dawned on mewhere I was, who I was talking to, what came next. My first instinct was to smile and shake my
head, then nod and say no, then blink and laugh and look slightly off
to the right, then nod and look at him and laugh again while saying,
Imean, I know, and Thanks, but, while shrugging and walking away.
Instead, I looked up from the book, smiled and shook my head,
frowned and stuttered: Ive read this book.
For six hundred sixty-five days I was a missionary in South
Korea. With extremely few exceptions, I spent those days approaching peopleon the street, in their homes, on buses, and in taxis
asking them for a minute of their time.
Nine out of ten people would smile and mutter and walk away. And
those ten were the one out of ten who had stopped at all. Having thousands of chances to practice my method, I learned that if you said hello
and offered your hand too early, a person could skirt around you effortlessly as you bowed. If you started too late, the person would either fail
to notice you in time to stop or could feign not noticing and continue
walking briskly anyway. The trick was to catch someone at just the
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right distance, about seven paces, making the slightest bit of eye contact before stunning them with a brilliantly pronounced, Annyeong
hasaeyo, seonsaengnim. The sudden novelty of an American speaking Korean and offering an appropriate handshaketwo handed, to
show respectmight spark enough cordiality for a returned bow and
a handshake. Koreans are, in general, a very protocol-conscious people.
Surprise, though occasionally an effective missionary tool, is shortlived. It must be replaced by genuine curiosity if someone is to remain
in your company. This means asking a question, and although I had
any number of topics I could raise with anyone I met, I think my
favorite question involved the book I always held in my hand. It was
simple and direct; it appealed to the reader in me and thus, I hoped,
to the reader in them; and it quickly identified me and my purpose.
Have you ever read this book? I would ask, and turn out my hand to
show the gold letters on a blue cover, the Book of Mormon.
Ive read this book, I said to the missionary.
But have you read this book? he countered, and I saw that he
meant to ask whether Id read this particular edition. I could see that
his copy of the Gita was considerably thicker than the one I had read;
the cover showed that it was filled with explanations and annotations
by a holy-looking man with a long, foreign name.
No, the one I read was much thinner. It was paperback and had an
introduction by a scholar. Her name was, uh
A scholar?
Yeah... I grasped for the name on the cover of my own copy, the
one I had bought for an Asian literature class that had been cancelled
the first week of school when only three students registered. I had
decided to keep the books and read them on my own, and the Gita,
with its short, dense stanzas, had made a great bathroom book (not
that Id tell this guy that). The cover was a colorful Hindu painting, the kind of thing you could stare at until its tiny details slowly
revealed themselves, which I had done, incidentally reading the translators name dozens of times and rolling it around my mouth for its
feel and rhythm. It was a solid name, with even syllables; it trod on
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the tongue much like my own name did. What was it? There it was:
Barbara Stoler Miller.
Ah, Barbara Stoler Miller, he said and nodded. Thats the same
one I first read, but its not this one.
Oh? He had me. He had read the same edition I had, had recognized the name of the translator. I could tell he was sincere about that
by the way his voice sped up slightly with the excitement of finding
some common ground. Up until that moment he had spoken, not
slowly, but unhurriedly, deliberately. It was an odd bit of gravity to see
in a young man just a few feet from a college campus known more for
its parties than its studies.
Establishing common ground is essential in missionary work. Its
hard for people to see you as a real person. Missionaries are, in essence,
monks, separated from the normal activities and concerns of life. Mormon missionaries maybe especially so. Who up and leaves homein
my case, just when I shouldve been getting through collegeto stomp
around some strange place annoying people? We didnt watch television, didnt go to the movies, didnt read newspapers or novels, didnt
listen to the radio. We didnt go on datesdidnt even flirt with girls.
Very suspicious, if you ask me.
I wasnt Korean and knew precious little about Korea, couldnt understand the suffocation of a nation having grown up between China and
Japan for three millennia or more, couldnt fathom the impact of having
been at war with oneself for fifty years, and this directly after having been
a Japanese colony, the culture and language having endured systematic
attack for eighty long years. I didnt know how seriously young Koreans
took their education, wasnt aware of the weight the college entrance
exams placed on their shoulders, a weight which fueled a six-day school
week supplemented by hours and hours of private instruction in special
tutoring schools called hagweon. I wasnt privy to the social and economic pressures that divided work from home, to the conflict between
Eastern tradition and Western progress that kept many men working
sixty-hour weeks to provide for families they rarely saw, families that
suffered when fathers were obligated to spend even more time with
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their office mates when the boss would rent out a bar for morales sake
(attendance not optional). Under mission rules I wasnt even allowed to
go to the karaoke bars or, without a broken water heater or busted pipes,
to the ever-popular bathhouse. And, being Mormon, there was to be no
bonding over a cheap glass of Hite beer or a shot of soju. I could drink
tea but only herbal varieties, no greens or blacks.
What did that leave me for common ground? Precisely this: the
Korean-born pitcher Chanho Park had just been traded to the Texas
Rangers in my home state. I spoke fluent English, a coveted skill. And
I was, despite the distance of age and race and history, still a person,
with all the questions we all are born with. Who am I? Where am I
going after I die? Whats right and whats true and how do I know?
Whats so special about this particular copy? I asked. The missionary proceeded to explain that the scripture itself was interwoven
with commentary by a holy man, an expert who made its meaning
clear. I asked why his commentary was better than Millers.
Miller isnt trying to lead people to truth. She doesnt believe in
the truth of this book. Shes a scholar and sees it as a poem only. This
man is holy. He isnt trying to sell books. He only wants to help others
understand and be happy.
He went onI dont remember his exact words, of course. As he
spoke I noticed how striking his eyes were; they were very light, an icy
blue, clear and focused even as they darted from the book to my face
to some middle distance whenever he searched for a word. His hair
was very dark, which set his eyes off even more, and it was buzzed
short except for one long lock in the back. I could see that his hair was
fine and soft like a babys. He was in his very early twenties, Iguessed.
He told me his name was Patrick.
When he finished his explanation he didnt rush ahead, didnt take
control of the conversation and guide it toward a chosen subject. He
just stopped for a second. Perhaps he was feeling out the reverberation of what hed just said, checking to make sure it had the ring of
truth he trusted it should. Maybe he was just giving me a minute to
digest it all. It occurred to me that I could ask an unfair, malignant
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minutes of anger, learned to laugh at myself in pitiful moments. Sometimes in the desperate belief that I had become a clich, that no one
really saw or heard me, I would say something completely unexpected
just for the shock of it. One night knocking doors in a particularly trying apartment building with my companion, I rang a doorbell, and
when a lady asked who it was over the intercom, I said, Were two
large and hungry Americans. Can we come in and have some dinner?
She mumbled something about the baby being asleep; I laughed and
assented, content merely to hear something new.
On the other hand, the repetition made it hard to see the people I
met as people. Koreans already all look the same to an American, and
it was all I could do to resist talking at them as if to a robot. (As it turns
out, Koreans all look different once you get to know them, and Americans all look the same once youve been gone for two years.) At first my
struggle with the language kept me on my toes, listening intently to try
to catch every word a person said in our short exchanges, but before
long I knew my script and every possible permutation thereof. Just
as easily as some polite person could mindlessly fire excuses my way
in hopes I would give up without their having to be assertive, I could
deflect such attempts without blinking. How easy it is to be heartless.
Mine was the business of constantly tempering a thick skin with
some degree of vulnerability, to regard each person I saw as a brother
or sister without taking things too personally. To fall too far toward
one side of the balance was to become manipulative, a salesman; to
fall too far to the other was to risk despair.
Heres what I learned as a missionary: real conversations occur
when both parties risk something, when they both acknowledge the
humanity of the other. Ive never been a great listenerIve too many
ideas in my head at any given time for thatbut those few moments
of my time in Korea that I would classify as touching grace all occurred
within conversations. They occurred when I put aside my ego and my
insecurity and was paid the same respect. It was both scary and sacred.
Patrick never had a single ready response. He heard my questions as if they had never been asked before. I watched him consider
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each one and formulate his answer. I heard him speak sincerely, not
eloquently, but with short pauses as he arranged his phrases. He held
his book in one hand as the other was tensed softly, fingers spread as
if holding a softball, and he made gentle grasps in the air as he sought
the proper path. I got the impression he hadnt been doing this long.
How do I know this book is true?
He squintedhe was either remembering what he had been
trained to say or was searching his feelings for the truth: You read
the book, you try out the things it teaches in your life, and you see if it
feels true, if it brings you peace.
At times it was scary talking to him. I asked him the questions I
had long ago figured out were the most important to me, the ones
I wished people on the streets in Korea would think to ask, and his
answers were eerily close to the ones I wouldve given. It was as if I
had met myself from seven or eight years beforeit put a suddenly
clear perspective on my life since then. I seemed to see all that would
befall this boy in a few short years, and I didnt know whether to
lament the passing of time or to put my arm around him. He was me,
but then, he wasnt.
Is this how a father feels seeing his son walk a strangely familiar
path? Is this what my own father, who was a missionary in Scotland
in 1974, saw in my letters home from Korea in 2001, what he sees in
me every day on a twenty-seven-year delay? Im twenty-seven myself,
now, though I dont yet have a child of my own to watch.
The strange discomfort of listening to Patrick struggle was mixed
with an odd pride at seeing him do so successfully. I gave him my final
question: Okay, so what is it you want from me?
Confused look.
Youre a missionary: youve told me about your book, youve told
me how to know if its true. Now what?
Id like to give you this book.
There is one statement for which there is no reply a missionary
can give. Every person who doesnt stop seems to say it; most of those
who do stop say it in one way or another: Im not interested.
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104
Chadwick: Poems
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106
Hallstrom: Lets begin with a little background about your new novel,
The Lonely Polygamist. Polygamy is obviously a topic rife with potential
and conflict for Mormon writers. What were your particular reasons for
tackling it?
Udall: I started thinking about writing a novel back in 1997 when
I wrote an article for Esquire magazine about modern polygamy. It
seemed like such an interesting and complex topicsomething I just
couldnt resist.
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Hallstrom: Ive read that you spent a good deal of time getting to know
polygamists within their own communities. What were some of the biggest
surprises you encountered in your research?
Udall: The biggest surprise was how normal everything seemed. The
homes I visited were no different than any other Mormon household
you might come acrosspictures of the SLC temple, a piano in the
family room, scriptures on the coffee table. Kids running around. Lots
of kids.
Hallstrom: Mainstream Mormons have complicated feelings about
polygamy. Have you encountered resistance from Latter-day Saints when
they hear youre writing a polygamy novel? How do you answer those
Mormons who would prefer that we distance ourselves from polygamy and
downplay the common roots our religion shares with modern-day polygamist religious communities?
Udall: Before the novels release, my publisher asked me to write a short
letter specifically for Mormon readers, and here are the last couple of
paragraphs of that letter, which I think answer the question pretty well:
Because novelists are routinely asked what they happen to be
working on, I got into a lot of discussions about polygamy, and I
noticed a common reaction among members of the church. Mostly
they seemed agitated, or even aghast, wondering why I would want to
write about such a prickly subject. Once or twice I was asked if I had
something against the church, some axe to grind.
Of course, these sorts of reactions were not surprising. The church
has struggled to distance itself from polygamy, claiming that it no longer has a connection to the practice. And yet I dont think we can
sweep polygamy under the rug so easily. Whether we like it or not,
polygamy is not only a part of our past, its part of our present, our
scripture and theology, which both suggest it will be part of our future.
If we are to respect our heritage and be honest about who we are as
a people, we must acknowledge polygamys place in our church and
culture. And when we see a polygamist family among us, we must
remember we are looking in the mirror; we are looking at ourselves.
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openness. This isnt the arch, ironic, cool (in both senses of the word)
novel that we often find in contemporary literary fiction. What are the
risks and benefits of writing literary fiction that embraces emotionality?
Udall: Thank you, and thanks for the question. I think the only risk
with writing in an emotionally open way is that critics will brand your
work with that dreaded word: sentimentality. To me, fiction is an
inherently emotional art form. The novels we love we love not because
theyre intellectually stimulating or philosophically deep, but because
they present us, as Faulkner said, with the human heart in conflict
with itself. I love what William Kittredge once had to say about this:
If youre not risking sentimentality, youre not risking anything at all.
Hallstrom: The Lonely Polygamist is a sprawling, complicated novel
that juggles an enormous cast of characters. Not only does it employ three
main points of view (Golden; Trish, the fourth wife; and Rusty, the
11-year-old family terrorist), but an omniscient, present tense point of view
occasionally pops in and offers us a more cinematic perspective. Most of
your previous work has been written in the first person. Could you describe
how your experience writing The Lonely Polygamist differed from writing
projects in the past? How did you handle all those points of view?
Udall: This is definitely a writer-to-writer question, and I appreciate that. Youre right: nearly all of my previous work was done in the
first person, and with this novel I wanted to do things Id never done
before: third person, multiple perspectives, the God-like omniscient
narrator. Heck, even writing from the point-of-view of a woman I
considered a challengeI hadnt really done that before. For me, this
was a pretty difficult book to write because of all the new things I was
doing, but the daily challenge of it kept it exciting.
Hallstrom: How does your work as a teacher of writing inform your
work as a novelist? Do you think writing can be taught?
Udall: I dont know that my teaching influences my writing, but I
know my writing influences my teachingI try to warn my students
away from the mistakes I have made and continue to make. I do think
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writing can be taught, but as with most everything else, there has to
be some talent involved; you cant teach someone whos tone-deaf to
sing like Caruso.
Hallstrom: Do you have another writing project in the works? If so,
could you tell us a little about it?
Udall: The next project is in the planning stages. I think its going to
be a YA novel of some kind, and its going to be an investigation of the
afterlife. Sounds weird, I know.
Hallstrom: Sounds interesting to me! Ill be looking forward to it. Thank
you, Brady, for a great interview, and for writing such an excellent novel.
Its one of the best novels Ive come across in years, and I hope it continues
to be widely read and discussed by all sorts of readers.
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Submission Instructions
Deadline: Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Only electronic submissions will be accepted. Email your entry as an MS
Word, WordPerfect, or RTF file attachment to contest@mormonletters.org.
In the subject line, please write 2011 Irreantum Fiction Contest. Include
your name, the title of your submission, and your contact information,
including address and phone number, in the body of the email.
To facilitate blind judging, no identifying information should appear in
the story itself other than the title of the manuscript, which should appear
as a header on each page.
Winners names will be posted on Irreantums website, www.mormon
letters.org/irreantum, on August 31, 2011.
For more information about Irreantum and the Association for Mormon Letters,
see www.MormonLetters.org/Irreantum.
With no official connection to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,
Irreantum and the Irreantum Fiction Contest
are funded through a grant from the Utah Arts Council.
The theme for this years conference is One Eternal Round: Mormon Literature Past, Present, and Future. The title alludes to scriptures in both the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants that
say the course of the Lord is one eternal round (1 Ne. 10:19, Alma
7:20, Alma 37:12, D&C 3:2, D&C 35:1). I have always taken comfort in this thought: that Gods ways are unchanging and His works
are never ending. However, over the past few weeks as Ive contemplated the idea and applied it to myself, Ive grown more apprehensive. Granted, the scriptures refer only to the Lords course, but for
us Mormons striving for a God-like existence is a way of life. Would
I really want my existence to be an eternal round? Would I really
want to relive my life? For one thing, I would not wish to keep planning AML conferences forever. Nor would I want to have to relive the
stress of writing and delivering a presidential address for this highly
literary audience, an audience that knows an elegant turn of phrase
and a well-crafted sentence, and fears all too rightly hearing neither
here today; so that, like Woody Allen claiming that a loving God
could never make him sit through another Ice Capades, you will all
hope for the mercy of Just Once. Appropriately, in a fit of anthropomorphic malice, my computer ate the first version of this talk so I did
get to experience writing it again.
Recursion is a fairly popular literary device, especially in speculative
fiction. Time travelers have to avoid nasty possibilities of becoming
Presidential address, 2010 Association for Mormon Letters annual meeting
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who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment
when you would have answered him: You are a god and never have I
heard anything more divine.
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maneuver on a choking man. And he comes to know and be appreciated by everyone in town.
What frees Phil Connors from the banal repetition of his life are the
same things that can free the Mormon artist. First, we must develop
our talents and pay attention to the craft of storytelling. As Phil Connors comes to learn, we must assume others have something to teach us
and apply ourselves to the work of listening to them. Second, we must
have charity, both for our audience and for our characters: we show
charity for our audience by rewarding them with originality and depth.
Our characters deserve charity by our letting them live and develop;
by making them well rounded and whole; possibly letting lifes pain or
joy win even when we might disagree philosophically; squashing the
ideological didactic urge to either preach at or disillusion our readers.
Finally, as we do this, we will be released from the eternal cycle of the
mundane and enter the eternal cycle of endless possibility, a world of
joy and light and truth. Remember our word recreation as in to play
literally means to create again. Recreation is found in re-creation, but
only in real creation, not in hack writing or mindless repetition.
I think Eugene England would be proud of the recent developments in Mormon literature. A sort of renaissance seems to be taking
place in Mormon literature, drama, and cinema. We have artists who
are reimagining Mormon ideas in bold, creative ways, many coming
from that spooky radical middle. The familiar theme of the missionary narrative has certainly developed in rich and complex ways, from
Eliots Fires of the Mind through Mitchells Angel of the Danube, Gods
Army, The Best Two Years, Errand of Angels, and States of Grace. The
conversion narrative has been rethought in works like Jack Harrells
Vernal Promises and Coke Newells On the Road to Heaven. Richly
textured characters like Todd Robert Petersens Jens Thorsen and
Angela Hallstroms Palmer family are becoming more common, and
they are shown to live human lives in which the gospel doesnt necessarily provide all the answers but does provide comfort and stability.
New themes and social issues are being explored, like the place of gay
individuals in Mormon culture in works like Larsons Little Happy
Secrets and Langfords No Going Back. The stereotypical Mormon
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image is being exploded in works like Greg Whiteleys New York Doll
and Elna Bakers The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween
Dance. And Angela Hallstroms recently released Dispensation: Latterday Fiction continues the tradition of collecting the best literary short
fiction of Mormonism, picking up where Eugene Englands Bright
Angels and Familiars left off. I want to celebrate a reawakening of Mormon literature!
Another Nibleyism, if youll forgive my recursion: once when
Hugh was talking to his daughter about the temple, he compared his
constant delight in those same two-hour ceremonies over dozens of
years to a baby learning to walk: A baby doesnt take his first steps and
then sit down! A baby doesnt say, Well, thats it, then, Iknow how
to do that, so I dont need to try anymoreof course not! Ababy
keeps practicing that walk until he can run, not just because he wants
to do that activity for its own sake but for where it can take him! He
twinkled a bit and added, father of eight that he was, And oh! Where
it takes him! Into all kinds of trouble! But what fun! Can you imagine
anything more fun?
Neal A. Maxwell once wrote that given Gods divine love, there
is no boredom on His part amid His repetitive work, for his course,
though one eternal round, involves continuous redemption for His
children; it is full of goodness and mercy as His long-suffering shows
His love in action (5354). To create something original, with charity and mercy, over and over again is, perhaps, our only escape from
Groundhog Day. We may hope to become a type of Nietzschean bermensch, by authentically confronting each new day with a new creation.
Works Cited
Austin, Michael. The Persistence of 19th-Century Mormon Stereotypes in Contemporary Detective Fiction. Sunstone August 1998:
5171. Print.
Baker, Elna. The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance:
A Memoir. New York: Dutton, 2009. Print.
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Bunker, Gary L., and Davis Bitton. The Mormon Graphic Image 1834
1914: Cartoons, Caricatures, and Illustrations. Salt Lake City: U of
Utah P, 1983. Print.
Card, Orson Scott, and David Dollahite, eds. Turning Hearts: Short
Stories on Family Life. Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1992. Print.
England, Eugene. Danger on the Right! Danger on the Left! The
Ethics of Recent Mormon Fiction, Dialogue 32.3 (Fall 1999): 1330.
Print.
, ed. Bright Angels and Familiars. Salt Lake City: Signature, 1992.
Errand of Angels. Perf. Erin Chambers. Excel, 2008. DVD.
Fires of the Mind. By Robert Eliot. Margetts Arena Theatre, Brigham
Young University, Provo. November 1974. Performance.
Foster, Craig L. Victorian Pornographic Imagery in Anti-Mormon
Literature. Journal of Mormon History 19 (Spring 1993): 11532. Print.
Givens, Terryl L. The Viper on the Hearth: Mormons, Myths, and the
Construction of Heresy. New York: Oxford UP, 1997. Print.
Gods Army. Dir. Richard Dutcher. Zion Films, 2000. DVD.
Groundhog Day. Perf. Bill Murray. Columbia Pictures, 1993. Film.
Hallstrom, Angela. Bound on Earth. Woodsboro (MD): Parables,
2008. Print.
, ed. Dispensation: Latter-day Fiction. Provo: Zarahemla, 2010.
Print.
Happy Little Secrets. By Melissa Leilani Larson. Dir. Landon Wheeler.
Provo Theatre Company, Provo, Utah. 19 March 2009. Performance.
Harrell, Jack. Vernal Promises. Salt Lake City: Signature, 2003. Print.
Hugh Nibley, Leaders to Managers: The Fatal Shift, Dialogue 16.4
(Winter 1983): 1221. Print.
. Tinkling Cymbals and Sounding Brass: The Art of Telling Tales
about Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. Salt Lake City: Deseret
Book, 1991. Print.
Jones, Megan Sanborn. Performing American Identity in Anti-Mormon
Melodrama. New York: Routledge, 2009. Print.
Lambert, Neal E., and Richard H. Cracroft. Through Gentile Eyes:
A Hundred Years of the Mormon in Fiction. New Era 2 (March
1972): 14. Print.
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The poem offers the story of these anonymous sixty with a series of
one line statements about their war experience. The poem might be
the voice of a single youth recounting a chronology of his particular
experience and perhaps speaking for all. Or it might be a combined
voice offering a chronology of the collective experience, beginning
with the groups enlistment at the poems opening:
My father spoke often of burying his sword.
Mom nodded, I know youll return.
I joined to avenge the death of Antipus.
I arrived after sundown.
I wasnt old enough to fight.
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My leg was cut off just below the knee.
Weep? Wail? Moan? No word can describe the screams.
sixty-one lines to the poem? What did the poet intend with the extra
line? And then a possible irony occurred to me. Bennion, thinking
deeply through his determined celebration of the Myriad Unknown,
may have imagined there were actually sixty-one warriors and that
one went uncounted and unacknowledged. Mormons record, notwithstanding its label as the most correct book on earth, may have been
mistaken in this one detail, or perhaps had rounded the number to a
convenient sixty. The possibility exists that one went unnoticed.
Bennion perhaps may not have intended this interpretation, but I
will hold to it nonetheless. I prize the oddity and quirkiness of conveying the poignancy of our anonymity by the poems suggestion that
one of the stripling reinforcements went unacknowledged. I further
prize the technique of the poemthe grim authenticity of the singlestatement observationone statement leading to the next and building upon all the previous, and I suppose I find it especially authentic
and compelling because of my uncles personal experience. The poem
rings with a genuine voice, whether it be one voice, or sixty-one voices,
because what impacts us most deeply, what may change us irrevocably,
is often best captured in a single reflection, reduced to an apothegm,
a proverb, a word.
For this poem alone, The Other Sixty, I recommend Psalm &
Selah, yet there are easily another dozen poems with which I am
equally impressed. Nevertheless, I make this recommendation with
some caveats. Bennions book is a decidedly devotional text with a
spiritual sensibility premised upon revealed religion, so (1) it is probably not to the taste of the nonpraying, irreligious reader, who would
not appreciate how one might kneel down to knowing. Also, while
Bennions collection is not necessarily just for Mormons, one will
need more than a passing acquaintance with the Book of Mormon
to follow the many allusions of the poems, so (2) this book is not
general reading matter even for many Mormons, although it could
and should be. Further, Bennions poetry presents a number of complexities and, notwithstanding one recognizable sonnet and villanelle,
it is certainly not conventional rhymed and metered homily, so (3) it
is not for the reader who prefers Best-Loved Poems and expects a tidy
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One meaning of the word kindred would be the stripling warriors own family found among the slain as food for vultures. However, another meaning for the word would be kinship, as in a kindred
spirit, one who identifies himself as akin to a vulture or a hawk hunting for prey. The kindred are not a family of blood relatives, but a
family of like predators. The line reads perfectly with either meaning.
Bennions poetry abounds with this kind of wordplay, and the reader
needs to remain nimble and alert to it to fully appreciate his layered
nuances.
Other difficulties are not so readily explained. The poem Rift, for
example, deals with the fissure in our fold when growing antagonism between the supporters of Laman and Lemuel on one hand, and
those of Nephi and Jacob on the other, reaches an irreconcilable rift.
The poem ends with a troubling sentence, which remains an incomplete thought no matter how many times it is read:
The soil hardens as I lift my feet, your swagger
and threats spread over the undergrowth;
fear falls everywhere in the time it takes to spill water
or watch a bowl drop and shatter; and now that
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Swagger and threats have generated fear and spilled into conflict,
as in the image of an argument ending with a shattered bowl. Portents
of battle and war are imminent in the images of artificer, blacksmith
and apprentice melting ore and fashioning weapons. But the clauses
beginning with the words now that do not conclude. That is, now
that the artificer and blacksmith are at their tasks, what then? The
poem does not answer, or answers only with a dangling conditional
phraseas afternoon heats up, that sorcerer, heaving its dry spell...
Certainly Bennion, who teaches college-level English, knows an
incomplete sentence. The ellipsis created by the incomplete thought
can only be intentional, but to what purpose? One possible explanation is that the inconclusiveness of the sentence suggests the inconclusiveness of The Rift. What will be the outcome of the conflict
as it evolves with time into the cruelties of fratricide and warfare?
Would anyone have predicted at the outset that this family quarrel
over rights of inheritance and leadership would deteriorate centuries
later to the point that some women were forced to feed upon the flesh
of their husbands and others were raped, tortured, murdered, and
then devoured as a token of bravery? Indeed, as the afternoon heats
up, that is, as the Rift widens and heads toward the darkness of
nightfall, that sorcererin one sense meaning the beguiler, Time,
and in another, the great deceiver, Satanthat devil begins a work
of uncertain outcome, casting a spell like older brothers burying the
younger ones / or throwing them into the sea. It is a dark mystery,
indeed, set in motion.
The books obscurities may, in fact, all be intentional. It may be
part of Bennions design to introduce indecipherable mystery, just as
scripture will. I draw this conclusion in part from comments made
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The meanings are multiple and can apply to a number of different journeys(1) the literal journey at sea to discover a new land;
(2) the literary journey that we course through in the Book of Mormon in echo of the voyage undertaken by Lehi and his sons, or (3)the
spiritual journey offered by the words of Christ, which, as Alma tells
us, will carry us beyond this vale of sorrow into a far better land of
promise. With these final lines of the poem I am satisfied that Bennion has likewise offered in his poetry a similar journey. Psalm &
Selah is just such a curious ship as Hagoth built, by which we might
leave the plain and ordinary world and sail for a rich, imaginative one
to find what is full of promise.
Bennion persuades us that much in the unchronicled lives of ordinary people invites celebration and that every honest artistic effort to
bring such lives out of obscurity, including the studied effort of Psalm
& Selah, is praiseworthy. I think of my uncle and the millions like
him, who have been relegated to the ranks of the long forgotten. His
name was DougDouglas Murphyand I am honored to be his
namesake, the namesake of one who survived a horrific war honorably
while being shot at, even though he didnt have a gun.
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her sometimes grisly world. This has been no easy prospect since,
first, Im not female and Ill never really know what its like to be one
(though that doesnt keep me from trying to understand); and second,
the only experience Ive had with serial killers has come through the
movies or episodes of CSI and Criminal Minds. Nonetheless, I consider myself a willing learner, and Ive hoped I could meet Moore on
some common rhetorical ground so she could show me, in a manner
of speaking, how the other side lives.
Through this process, Ive also thought a great deal about the
desires, needs, and intellectual/rhetorical demands of my immediate audience of readers of Mormon letters and, by extension, Moores
potential readers, wondering with what critical/rhetorical focus and
what language I might best honor Moores intent (she is, after all, part
of my audience and I feel some responsibility to her and her words);
the complexity of her psychological landscape; and the intellectual,
psychological, and rhetorical demands her narrative might make (or
fail to make, as the case may be) on that audience.
Now, caveats thoroughly expressed, time to dive into Moores text.
Kitty! ... I wont hurt you. I promise. Moore reflects, At that moment,
I wanted desperately to believe that promise. But I had heard it before.
It was not a real promise, it was a lie. It was a lie every single time
(3). As the child begged for her kittens release, her father gathered
them from her helpless grasp, took them to the clothesline, and, in
a moment of appalling cruelty, hung each kitten, biting and scratching, with a clothespin fixed to the scruff of each neck. Running for
her mothers help, little Melissa replayed memories of her fathers violence toward catsmemories that recalled the deep hurt and pain
afresh. But she found no willing partner in her mother, who simply
pulled from her daughters grip, and, blank eyed, turned back to folding the laundry into neat little piles and neat little rows (4)a manifestation of her efforts to create some order in her otherwise unstable
existence as an emotionally and mentally battered wife.
Moore returns to and analogizes this moment later in her memoir
when she relates how, as a teenager, after being raped by her boyfriend
and realizing she was pregnant, she wondered whether abortion was
the answer. Her boyfriends family, she says, would have paid for the
procedure. But she was looking for support beyond financial, for
some human connection that could whisk her away from past abuses
and mistakesa relationship that could save her from herself and
her fathers crippling influence. In short, she confesses, she wanted a
knight in shining armorsomeone to slay my dragons and allay my
fears. Someone to fix everything and make it all right (153). Yet, she
continues, in Sean (her boyfriends pseudonym) No knight had come.
There was no soldier to fight my battles, slay my dragons, kiss away
my fears, and chase the demons away from inside my mind (154).
She was alone, in her words, Like my baby kittens on the clothesline,
... suspended in mid-air, beaten back by life (154).
So drawing this connection between her fathers violence, the
deformative power it had over her development, and the string of
unpleasant realities from which her life was hungbroken familial
bonds, neglect, abuse, rape, teenage pregnancy, and moreMoore
points to her own perpetuation of the attitude of nonaction, fear,
bitterness, and blame that enabled her passive engagement in the
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that you didnt reveal the most squalid details of your life. However,
with the advent of tabloid TV, shame went out the window, Zinsser
observes. No family was too dysfunctional for people to talk about
and write a memoir about, though these memoirists simply took
pleasure in playing the victim, in heaping personal failures and perceived wrongs on parents, siblings, and coaches in order to absolve
themselves of responsibility for personal choices gone awry.
Yet, Zinsser continues, a few great writers turned things around
with psychologically and rhetorically demanding memoirs that dealt
with childhoods every bit as terrible as those written by the whiners
and the bashers, but that were instead written with love and forgiveness. These writers didnt pass the buck for personal weaknesses or
present failures; in fact, Zinsser asserts, they were as hard on their
younger selves as they were on their elders. And with this acknowledgment of their own accountability, they refused to engage in and
thus absorbed the prevailing rhetoric of blame, saying, in effect, that,
yes, we come from a tribe of fallible people and we have survived to
tell the story.
Though Im fairly certain Moore is unaware of this movement of
memoirs written with an eye toward the fallibility of ones elders and
ones younger self yet all the while grounded in the virtues of courage, love, and forgiveness (an unfortunate lack on her part, which, if
filled, could have infused her narrative with greater rhetorical stature
and influence and helped her look her fathers story in the eyes), she
does acknowledge, however unconsciously, the space created by such
writers when she claims that she lives in the perfect place at the perfect time to tell her own story of survival (xv). And that, I believe, is
the singular merit of Moores book, glaring formal inconsistencies and
weaknesses notwithstanding: having survived her childhood amidst a
tribe of fallible, bitter, and violent people, shes found a way to begin
metabolizing the rhetoric of blame and to ground herself and her
story in the possibilities of personal and rhetorical growth and change,
of forgiveness, and of a world that yearns together for a way out of violence into healing, temperance, tolerance, charity, love, and joy (220).
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Works Cited
Broderick, Carlfred. Letter. I Have a Question. Ensign (Aug. 1986),
3841. Web. 10 Dec. 2009.
Keller, Karl. On Words and the Word of God: The Delusions of a
Mormon Literature. Tending the Garden. Ed. by Eugene England
and Lavina Fielding Anderson. Salt Lake City: Signature Books,
1996. 1322. Print.
Moore, Melissa G. and M. Bridget Cook. Shattered Silence. Springville,
UT: Cedar Fort, 2009. Print.
Olsen, Jack. I: The Creation of a Serial Killer. New York: St. Martins
Press, 2002. Print.
Tanner, Kristi. Becoming a Transitional Character: Changing Your
Family Culture. Forever Families. School of Family Life at Brigham
Young U, Aug. 2002. Web. 10 Dec. 2009.
Zinsser, William. Memoirs and McCourt. NYTimes.com. The New
York Times Company, 24 Jul. 2009. Web. 10 Dec. 2009.
141
The latest volume from the Joseph Smith Papers project, Revelations and Translations, has created quite a buzz in the Mormon historical community. Numerous articles in the Church News, Deseret
News, Mormon Times, Salt Lake Tribune, and the Ensign have covered
the publication. BYU Studies published the papers presented at the
May 2009 Mormon History Association conference, which discussed
the publication of this volume. Many blogs have posted interviews
with editors or presented reviews of the volume. The reason for all the
excitement is manifold. The book is a beautiful example of printing.
It provides Mormons with some of the earliest records of the church,
and the contents of pages 8405 are being made available for the first
time with this publication. This volume consists of two revelation
books recorded by scribes employed by the Prophet Joseph Smith.
The manuscript books cover the years 1828 to 1834, a period in which
a large percentage of Smiths revelations were received.
This new volume may be the crown jewel of the thirty-plus
projected volumes. In this volume of Revelations and Translations the reader will find the raw manuscripts of one hundred and
nine items in Revelation Book 1 and fifty three items in Revelation
Book 2. The volume has two parts: the Book of Commandments
and Revelations is designated Revelation Book 1, and the Kirtland
Revelations Book is designated Revelation Book 2. The volume has
a series introduction, a volume introduction, and each Revelation
Book has an introduction. Each page of the two revelation books is
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and in Revelation Book 1, John Whitmer has written 27th Commandment A Revelation to Emma (3839). Historians had often
wondered what Booth meant by 27th commandment, and now the
reason he used this phrase is known.
Another more substantial comparison can be found with Doctrine
and Covenants Section 28. This section is Book of Commandments
Chapter 30 and is found in Revelation Book 1 (5153). Comparing
this document with the Book of Commandments and the Ezra
Booth letter (Ohio Star, December 8, 1831) one discovers some very
important differences. The manuscript in Revelation Book 1 provides
us with the source for these changes found in the Book of Commandments. Apparently, Sidney Rigdon went through the manuscript and
made changes for its publication in the Book of Commandments.
One of the important changes Rigdon makes is identifying the place
for the city of Zion. The original revelation has among the Lamanites; the Rigdon change found in the Book of Commandments has
it on the borders by the Lamanites. Booths letter has the original
wording found in the manuscript. This does not mean Booth copied
the revelation from Revelation Book 1. Revelation Book 1 has an error
John Whitmer made in copying the revelation; Booths copy found in
his letter does not contain this error.
It is important to put this new volume in perspective. One of the
manuscript books, Revelation Book 1, has been housed with the First
Presidency collection since Joseph Fielding Smith became church president in 1970. According to the introduction, Smith may have known
about the manuscript book as early as 1907 (4). Church authorities like
B.H. Roberts, who worked in the historians office and wrote extensively on church history, had no knowledge of this manuscript. From
the beginning of the twentieth century to about 2005, the importance
of this manuscript book and the information contained therein have
been unknown to church leadership or its historians and scholars
studying the texts of Joseph Smiths revelations.
For years historians believed a manuscript collection or manuscript book existed for the publishing of the Book of Commandments.
This collection was believed to have been written and organized in
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told the books were out of print when, in fact, the book was still in
print and available to other stores. Those who inquired after the books
were told that the scriptures in their present format were identical in
content (Wood; Openshaw). The Wood books reproduced the first
edition of the Book of Mormon, the 1833 Book of Commandments,
and the 1835 Doctrine and Covenants. In a related statement, Elder
BoydK. Packer said this in the April 1974 General Conference: Now,
Iadd with emphasis that such changes [in the books of revelation] have
been basically minor refinements in grammar, expression, punctuation,
clarification. Nothing fundamental has been altered. Why are they not
spoken of over the pulpit? Simply because by comparison they are so
insignificant and unimportant as literally to be not worth talking about.
After all, they have absolutely nothing to do with whether the books
are true(93).
Similar ideas about Smiths first revelation, The Book of Mormon, can be found. In the October 1961 Conference, President Joseph
Fielding Smith said,
It is true that when the Book of Mormon was printed the printer was
a man who was unfriendly. The publication of the book was done
under adverse circumstances, and there were a few errors, mostly
typographicalconditions that arise in most any book that is being
publishedbut there was not one thing in the Book of Mormon or in
the second edition or any other edition since that in any way contradicts the first edition, and such changes as were made, were made by
the Prophet Joseph Smith because under those adverse conditions the
Book of Mormon was published. But there was no change of doctrine.
Recently Royal Skousen has written, The original [Book of Mormon] manuscript supports the hypothesis that the text was given to
Joseph Smith word for word and Joseph Smiths editing for the second and third editions (1837 and 1840) represents human editing, not
a revealed revision of the text.
Other writers have felt differently about changes made to scripture.
Joseph Anderson, secretary to the First Presidency, wrote in the 1970s
attesting to the accuracy of Woods books. Anderson, in discussing
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revelations. This volume could signal a new era in Mormon historytellingsurely good news!
Ive pondered the reluctance of Church authorities to lay out the
historical record cleanly and completely. Its almost as if some leaders
feared that Mormonism was a house of cards that might collapse at
any moment if members discovered that changes and alterations were
made in the revelations. Is Mormonism so frail, so unsteady on its feet,
that a whiff of the truth might make it all come down?
As Richard Bushman said some time ago, Weve grown up. We
can now discuss our past openly and honestly. Elder Jensen adds,
We have nothing to hide. Bravo! And with this volume, we can see
a glimpse of the richness and variety of the revelatory experience in
early Mormonism. More importantly, we can now understand revelation as a progressive and flexible phenomenon, rather than a producer
of static communication from God to man.
Of course, some realities emerge whenever discussing religious
institutions and their telling of their own story. Sociology 101 teaches
us that the primary purpose of every institution is self-preservation,
that organizations will not do anything to threaten their stability and
existence. In Mormonism, the vast number of new members, those
who must receive the milk first and then the meat, necessitates a careful telling of a history that might be called faith-promoting.
But after a while, the milk no longer suffices. Then comes the time
for the meat. Frankly, finding meat on the Mormon menu has been
pretty tough. The Bible itself tells us: But the path of the just is as
the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day
(Proverbs 4:18). Does this apply to prophetic experience as well? Of
course it does! Why then do some shy away from the more difficult
issues, such as changes to the revelations, when such changes can be
understood as the result of that light shining brighter and brighter?
As time passes and as that light continues to shine, changes are
to be expected. Some may balk: why not just create new revelations?
Why alter what previous prophets have written? The citation from
Proverbs, I believe, contains the answer to this question. Not only
does the doctrine of continuing revelation allow such updating, but it
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virtually requires it. While ultimate truth may be static and unchanging (some would dispute this), the reality is that our perception of
that truth, and our expression of our understanding of that truth,
confront us from day to day.
Prophets are fallible; they are, after all, people just like you and me.
With a certain amount of boldness and, perhaps, some private doubts,
these inspired men and women have penned their thoughts for all to
read. At times theyve had to go back and amend their writings. As
their own vision of Truth became more focused, it is only natural to
expect that they would go back and reinterpret their own views to
conform to more recent revelation.
I can recall coming across a volume from Bookcraft early in my
explorations of Mormonism. It discussed Josephs First Vision. To
my surprise, it related several versions of that experience. The version
canonized in the Pearl of Great Price is not the earliest, but is, perhaps, the version that is most faith-promoting. I wondered at the time
how Mormons could accept the canonized version so readily. Today I
understand the rationale and have little trouble with it.
Was the Church ready for this book on the First Vision back when
it was published? I recall it was published in 1980. Disturbingly, since
then, the Church has shown little willingness to turn the historical
pages and find the exquisite truth that lay behind the faith-promoting
teachings. Joe mentions a few of the General Authorities who tried to
perpetuate a stereotype that simply falls to the side when considered
closely and with complete honesty. Im confident theyre aware of what
has actually taken place throughout their history. Im also confident
that their primary mission has been to present a confidence-building
account that would feed the flock and encourage faithfulness.
Maybe this is why I treasure this newest volume so much. Yes, it
weighs about 100 pounds (slight exaggeration?). And no, it isnt as
compelling as a Dan Brown novel, nor as titillating as the latest Danielle Steel romance. But after Brown and Steel recede into our collective memory, this volume will stand tall as one of the most important
and relevant releases from the Churchs press.
Make no mistake: at nearly a hundred bucks, this is a big investment.
150
But its worth grabbing this volume now and spending some quality
time discovering the roots of Mormonism. If Karl Barth was correct,
that scripture was, in effect, a divine-human encounter that morphs
into a personal contact point for each of us individually, this book can
come alive as evidence that early LDS revelation was, and still is, this
same kind of encounter.
Each reader meets God in the scriptures in a different way. Early
LDS leaders likewise experienced God in their own deeply personal
way. And as their minds scanned the theological horizon, and came to
understand Josephs revelations in new and exciting ways, they journeyed through those revelations and clarified so many points, filled so
many holes.
What a treasure this book is! My excitement about owning this
book is eclipsed only by my anticipation of whats coming next. Has
Mormonism turned a corner in the telling of history? I hope so.
Works Cited
Anderson, Joseph. Letter to T. G. Witsitt. 29 July 1974. TS.
Brown, Hugh B. Letter to Morris L. Reynolds. 13 May 1966. TS.
BYU Studies. 48.3 (2009). Print.
FAIR: Foundation for Apologetic Information and Research. Book
of Mormon/Lamanites/Referenced in the Doctrine and Cove
nants. The Fair Wiki. 29 November 2009. Web. 28 April 2010.
Far West Record. Ed. Donald Q. Cannon and Lyndon W. Cook. Salt
Lake City: Deseret, 1983. Print.
Joseph Smith Begins His Work. Ed. Wilford C. Wood. 2 vols. Salt Lake
City: Wilford Wood, 1958. Print.
Kirtland Council Minute Book. Ed. Fred C. Collier and William S.
Harwell. Salt Lake City: Colliers. 1996. Print.
Marquardt, H. Michael. Early Patriarchal Blessings. Salt Lake City:
Smith-Pettit, 2007. Print.
Openshaw, Marie. Letter W. E. Lewis. 3 Oct. 1967. Letter to John M.
Cuthbert. 24 Jan. 1973. TS.
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152
Artists Statement
The cover image is a tree and its roots, made up of quotes from each
piece within this issue of Irreantum. The image has multiple levels of
meaning. The tree represents life, growth, health, and vibrancy. It also
represents the wonderful range of experiences, feelings, and ideas that
come from the observant and articulate group of writers represented
in this issue. The intricate patterns and textures speak to the often
subtle and seldom-discussed nuances of the human experience. The
image allows readers to catch glimpses of the minds of these authors
so that as they read the text, phrases from the cover will resonate for
them. The end product or final image of the tree is only possible when
all pieces come together and work together. Please dont misunderstand. Though the twists and turns of a trees branches find their own
way towards the light, the tree is still one. I have observed that our
beauty, as Latter-day Saints, comes from our unity as well as from our
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diversity, which isnt something we often associate with the LDS faith.
I am talking about the diversity of the human experience. We are
beautiful because of our similarities, and more importantly, because
of our differences. Those differences are the reason we live such rich
lives. I hope as we read this text that we will reflect on the beauty of
differencedifference of opinion as well as difference of experience,
while always growing toward the same eternal light.
154
Contributors
Irreantum
and Irreantum. His play Matters of the Heart, which was first published in Irreantum, will be reprinted and made available in Zarahemla Books's upcoming anthology on LDS theatre entitled Saints on
Stage. Winning third place in this contest means that he can continue
to brag that hes won one award for every decade hes been writing,
starting in the 1960s.
Joseph Geisner lives with his wife in California, where they provide
residential services for the developmentally disabled. He is a lover of
books and history.
Stephen David Grover is a contributing editor of Quotidiana and
the former managing editor of Brevity. His essays have appeared in
journals such as Artful Dodge, Black & White, and JuiceBox.
Angela Hallstrom lives in South Jordan, Utah, with her husband
and four children. She is the author of the novel Bound on Earth and
recently edited a collection of short fiction by Mormon authors, Dispensation: Latter-Day Fiction. She teaches creative writing at the BYU
Salt Lake Center, and serves as Irreantums co-editor.
Melissa Inouye is a graduate student in Chinese history at Harvard University. She currently lives in Los Angeles with her husband,
Joseph McMullin, and two sons, Isaiah and Kai.
Jeffrey Needle is book review editor for the Association for Mormon Letters.
Jim Papworth grew up in Lewiston, a pulp and paper mill town in
northern Idaho. He has taught at BYUIdaho since 1988. He lives in
Rexburg with Anne and their two sons, Tavenor (3) and Mackinley(5);
and two older sons who have yet to sprout wings and fly away. He
enjoys being married to Anne, raising their family, fly fishing, reading,
writing poetry, teaching, hiking, and backpacking.
156
Contributors
157
Richard Cracroft
James DArc
Anonymous
Terryl
L. Givens
Marilyn Brown
John S. Harris
LaVerna Bringhurst Johnson
Edward L. Hart
Bruce Wayne Jorgensen
Sustaining Members ( $250)
Clinton F. Larson
Merilyn Alexander
Gerald N. Lund
Elouise Bell
William Mulder
Signature Books
Hugh Nibley*
Levi S. Peterson
Contributing Members ($100) Thomas F. Rogers
Steven P. Sondrup
R. Don Oscarson
Helen Cardland Stark
Cherry & Barnard Silver
Douglas Thayer
Bruce Smith
Emma Lou Thayne
Farrell M. Smith
Laurel T. Ulrich
Virginia Eggertsen Waugh
Honorary Lifetime Members Maurine Whipple
Terry Tempest Williams
Lavina Fielding Anderson
William
A. Wilson
Elouise Bell
Wayne Booth*
Mary L. Bradford
Marden J. Clark
*deceased
158
___________________________________________
Address ___________________________________________
___________________________________________
___________________________________________
The Association for Mormon Letters and Irreantum magazine will begin accepting manuscripts for the third annual Charlotte and Eugene England essay contest on January 1, 2011.
Because Irreantum is a literary journal dedicated to exploring Mormon culture, essays must relate to the Mormon experience in some way. Unpublished
personal essays up to 5,000 words will be considered. Authors need not be
LDS. Individuals may enter a maximum of two essays. Irreantum staff and
members of the AML board are not eligible.
The first-place author will be awarded $200, second-place $150, and thirdplace $100 (unless judges determine that no entries are of sufficient quality to
merit awards). Publication is not guaranteed, but winners agree to give Irreantum first-publication rights.
Submission Instructions
Deadline: Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Only electronic submissions will be accepted. Email your entry as an MS Word,
WordPerfect, or RTF file attachment to contest@mormonletters.org.
In the subject line, please write 2011 Personal Essay Contest. Include your
name, the title of your submission, and your contact information, including
address and phone number, in the body of the email.
To facilitate blind judging, no identifying information should appear in
the essay itself other than the title of the manuscript, which should appear as a
header on each page.
Winners names will be posted Irreantums website, www.mormonletters.org/
irreantum, on August 31, 2011.