Could It Be You?

On January, 2003October, 2012 By Peter WatkinsIn 20031 Comment

Dear Will:

My wife and I recently snuck off for a weekend getaway to Mendocino. Words fail to describe how beautiful it is there. God definitely put some of his best artists to work there during the Creation.

We spent a couple of hours one afternoon browsing through the shops in town, including one which, as it turned out, sold a lot of hemp products and books on the occult (it also had a “smoke shop” upstairs—we decided we weren’t the target audience). While I was reading up on why hemp fabric makes superior clothing, a loud horn shook the town (it has only 1,100 residents, by the way). When we asked the shopkeeper what was up, she calmly told us that it was the alarm for the Volunteer Fire Department.

Sure enough, as we left the shop and rounded the corner, we discovered that the fire station was open and the truck was gone. I suppose I knew that there were still volunteer fire departments functioning, but I have to admit that I imagined the scene as it might have played out in an old black and white movie, with some guy leaping up from the barber chair, his face only half shaven. In truth, I suppose that in this case the volunteers were accountants, construction workers, retirees—people like you and me who had agreed to drop everything when the blast sounded. I’d guess that some do it for fun, some for the thrill or the glamor, but all of them are motivated to one degree or another by a desire to look out for one another. In that respect, I guess a volunteer fire department is the ultimate in neighborliness.

When Jesus taught about loving our neighbors, he told of the Good Samaritan, illustrating as he did so that we should cultivate a genuine concern for others regardless of their race or religion or gender or political persuasion. He wanted us to recognize the brotherhood that binds us rather than the differences which seem so often to pull us apart.

Such thoughts are especially on my mind lately as I see our nation tilting, inexorably it seems, toward war. Throughout the ages nations have struggled to find ways to peacefully resolve their differences, the result being that hatred and misunderstanding lead us to kill and be killed. I can’t say that I feel like there is a lot I can do about all that on the global stage, unfortunately; but at a minimum I know I can try to be a little kinder, a little more thoughtful, a little more aware of those around me—probably starting right next door.

Here is, perhaps, a silly example of what I’m talking about. My next door neighbor owns a doughnut shop, and periodically he shows up on our doorstep with a dozen—just because. Although he speaks little English, he has found a way to speak a language that my children especially understand. As a result, I don’t ever think about our obvious cultural differences; instead I try to figure out something nice I could do for him to reciprocate.

In short, I’m feeling like the alarm has sounded and it’s time for me to get up out of the barber chair and figure out who needs my help. Could it be you?

The Lord and His Lady Give Fanks

On December, 2002October, 2012 By Peter WatkinsIn 2002Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Anon, the Lord and Lady of the Manor return to their castle. (Editor’s note: Anon? Castle?) Noting well the declining state of his family fortune, once again this year the Lord has chosen—alack!—to postpone the digging of a moat until more prosperous times. And tho’ a drawbridge would indeed annoy the Homeowners’ Association, he knows that it would likewise be the envy of the neighborhood—especially should the Huns perchance lay siege to Orange County.

They steer their coach toward the garage, and yet they cannot park, for their path is impeded by the personal effects of the fair maiden Bryn, to wit: a scooter, rollerblades, a copy of Little House on the Prairie, a ballet bag, and a pair of all-purpose, playground-style balls which for some reason she chooses to call Dorothy and Shirley. Ere they are aware, she charges forth on her five-speed.

“Felicitations, my beloved,” says the Lady of the Manor, exiting the half-parked vehicle with flourish both regal and stately. “Prithee, fair one, place these items as before in yon toy box lest my regal and stately demeanor turn unbecomingly common.”

“As you wish, Mother,” the child proclaims reassuringly, skipping off. Alas, the lass lacks both short-term memory and follow-through, and thus the Lord and his Lady remain somewhat less than reassured. Yet tho’ they are vexed, even so are they perplexed and fascinated, unable to comprehend the ways of an eight-year-old girl.

As the nobleman parts the castle doors, the servants scatter—which is to say they scatter socks, books, papers, and markers about the Study as if to conceal the carpet therewith; and therein ‘midst the sundry oddments, Sir Luke sits majestically at the computer. Indeed, since Luke decided to become a writer, he has often been found in this very position, composing his latest text. Tonight’s folio bears the name “Detective Rat and the Curious Case.”

As his master enters, Luke neither genuflects nor kneels to kiss his master’s signet ring. Indeed, it might be noted that he does not acknowledge the presence of the Lord of the Manor in any way. “Beloved son,” his lordship cries, “knowest thou what hath befallen these quarters?” The lad responds not, as is his wont. Indeed, from his mother Luke has inherited an ability to focus on any chosen task without distraction—a gift turned weapon when wielded by a teenager-but-for-the-birthday 12-year-old.

Of a sudden, the Lord of the Manor recognizes that the debris is the product of Master Seth, who, though only three, has decided that nothing brings greater joy than doing homework—doubtless because his older siblings complete their schoolwork with such unabashed enthusiasm. (Editor’s note: That business about unabashed enthusiasm? A total crock.)

Nearby in the Ballroom (Editor’s note: OK, so it’s a dining room with no furniture), the Lady of the Manor finds more evidence of Master Seth’s handiwork: a bizarre structure that rises and sprawls from the cut-pile carpeting like a mutating organism. It is a veritable mishmash of wooden blocks and cardboard bricks, some jutting skyward with Babel-like determination, others lined end-to-end like a Chinese wall for Weebles. Within the courtyard of said monolith, stoic as sentries, one beholds an assortment of plastic animals, including a zebra, a giraffe, a gazelle and several other favorites. They are assisted in their vigil by various plastic dinosaurs: triceratops, pachycephalosaurus, perhaps half a dozen stegosaurs or more. These are the chosen few, the “guarders” of the diorama; for meat-eaters, “mean guys” in the common parlance, are clearly a threat and are left outside looking in.

There, in the midst of this menagerie, sits Master Seth, the architect himself, who looks up with a grin. “I’m building Baby Elephant’s Cage,” says the boy, as if such an explanation were needed. Although his fortress-like creation has often been razed and raised again, never with the same design, it has always been known simply, consistently, and somewhat inexplicably, as Baby Elephant’s Cage. Somewhere within, Baby Elephant (a plastic piece perhaps 1½ inches long) stands ensconced, consistently and inexplicably accompanied by a small plastic dolphin which has never once had any kind of structure named for it.

Anon (Editor’s note: There’s that word again) the dinner hour approaches. From within, the alarum is sounded, beckoning all to sit and eat with the Lord and his Lady. And yet the children come not. Again the alarum is sounded, and again the children come not. The Lady of the Manor remains unperturbed. Demurely she importunes her husband. “My lord,” says she, “prithee beckon the children that they hie to the table, that we might sup together.” At once the Lord rises from the table and. . . . (Editor’s note: The manuscript at this point becomes garbled, with dubious references to tantrums and indifference and insubordination and threats.)

Once gathered, the family bows in reverence. “Let us pray,” says his lordship. “It’s my turn,” says Seth. “Fodder in Headen: Fank you for da food. Pwease bwess it. Fank you for Mommy and Daddy and Wuke and Bwyn and Seth. Fank you for my famwee. In the name of Jesus Chwist. Amen.”

Fank you indeed.

Let’s Do It Again Next Year

On October, 2002October, 2012 By Peter WatkinsIn 2002Leave a comment

Dear Will:

A long time ago I promised my son Luke that when he turned 12 I would take him to Salt Lake City to attend General Conference in person. Not exactly the bar mitzvah he was maybe hoping for, but to my delight, he called my bluff. So a few weeks back he and I piled into the ol’ Camry and headed north.

Maybe it’s a guy thing, but there was something liberating about heading off, just the two of us, knowing we didn’t really have to answer to anyone for about 72 hours. If we wanted to drive too fast or make a pit stop or skip lunch so that we could gorge ourselves on a big steak dinner (and let’s be clear: we wanted to) we could do it (and did). As we drove, it was just me and my son—the two dudes—telling stories, playing games, or just sitting in silence. We weren’t exactly Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, but it was fun.

It took us 10 hours to reach our destination—11 if you count the grubfest at Outback. The next morning we took our seats in the nosebleed section of the new Conference Center just off of Temple Square. It was a magnificent facility and we were delighted to be a part of the scene. But the excitement of that morning didn’t prepare us for the thrill of that evening, when we found ourselves—I’m not making this up—on the fourth row of that 20,000+ seat auditorium, directly in front of the prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley.

It was very cool. Directly before us sat the President of the Church, his two Counselors, and several of the Twelve Apostles. People speak of “sitting at the feet of the Prophet,” and there we were, living the metaphor. Unforgettable.

The real test came the next day, however, when we piled back into the Camry for the return trip. Maybe we talked less—I’m not sure—but certainly we felt a bit less giddy. Still I felt an easiness as we traveled together that I often don’t feel when we’re living together. As a dad, it felt good and right. Nonetheless, as we headed down Cajon Pass, back into the L.A. Basin, chasing the weekend warriors and desert rats toward home, I nervously asked the Big Question: “Well Luke, was it worth it? Now that you know what’s involved, would you do it over again if you had the choice?” He didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely. Let’s do it again next year.”

That ain’t gonna happen, unfortunately, but it was a good reminder—I hope to both of us—that it never hurts to step out of the usual routine and spend some time together—just because. Would that I could find a way to pull that off without having to drive 1400 miles in the process.

I’m reminded of a children’s book in our study called The Treasure by Uri Shulevitz. It tells the story of a poor man named Isaac who has a recurring dream in which a voice tells him to go to the capital city and look for treasure under the bridge by the Royal Palace. Finally, he takes the long, arduous journey through forests and over mountains, walking most of the way until he arrives in the capital city. To his disappointment, he finds that the bridge is guarded day and night. When at last he tells the captain of the guard of his dream, the captain laughs at him. “If I believed a dream I once had,” the soldier tells him, “I would travel to your town and look for a treasure under the stove in the house of a man named Isaac.” Bowing respectfully, Isaac embarks immediately on the long walk back, journeying over mountains and through forests until he comes to his humble home—wherein he finds the treasure he sought. The moral: Sometimes we must travel far to discover what is near.

I hope that this hits “close to home” for you as it did for me.