Posted by:
scmd1
(
)
Date: June 23, 2019 06:28AM
I apologize for the length. My sister tells me I exaggerated a few details, but not many.
My dad was a mission president during my late elementary school years. The mission was in the region of our nanny's former wards, though it wasn't the ward in which the Kotex Head incident took place. For the record, we didn't really need a nanny anymore, but she was a de facto family member by that point, and she needed to live somewhere while she completed her practicum for her PPS credential in school psychology. For ease of use reasons, I will refer to her throughout this post as Annonnn.
One week my parents were asked to speak at Annonnn's former ward. Kotex Head would not likely be there, as the ward was within his stake, but not his actual ward. Several eccentrics had been in the ward when Annonnn was there, and at least a few likely still attended the ward. Annonnn thought it best to warn us about these eccentrics so that we would be able to maintain our composure if or when we encountered any of them.
She told us about person who might be playing the organ. Most of the people in that ward who actually knew how to play the piano or organ were young people, who moved on to missions, colleges, or wherever they could to escape the place once they reached the appropriate ages. Sometimes the organists weren't very good. In fact, the former nanny said, one lady who had served as organist only knew how to play about ten different hymn tunes plus several folk songs. She would pick whichever ones went best with the lyrics to the hymns chosen on a given Sunday. The bishop tried to get her to single note the actual designated hymn tunes, but she wanted no part of that.
The person who had been "chorister" when Annonnn was there (I personally hate that term as applied to a musical conductor; I believe only Mormons use the word in that way) had been the chorister for a very long time. The nanny said the woman had looked like a corpse when she last saw her seven years or so earlier, so she couldn't imagine how old she must have looked by the time we would be there. The woman didn't know any actual beat patterns but instead made very slow figure-eight patterns with the conductor's baton regardless of the time signature or of the tempo of the song. She didn't actually sing the words of the hymns while conducting, but instead opened her mouth widely, then closed it, as though she was saying "wOWOWOWOWOWOW" through the duration of the hymn.
Annonnn warned us that one man who was likely to be in the bishopric (there were very few Melchizedek priesthood holders in the ward) had what was probably a terminal case of jock itch, and scratched himself almost constantly. Fortunately, she said, he was rarely asked to bless the sacrament when there weren't enough Aaronic priesthood members available.
One woman, Annonnn told us, usually left her seat and stood with a clipboard and pen near the table where the ward clerk was situated. She didn't trust the ward clerk's attendance figures, regardless of who was the ward clerk. She took attendance herself each week on carbon paper, then handed one copy to the ward clerk, after which she traipsed up to the stand to hand another copy to the bishop. She was known by the kids in the ward as the Attendance Policewoman.
Annonnn also warned us of a ward member who belched frequently and loudly, of a man who loudly clapped his hymnal shut at the conclusion of every hymn, of a maybe forty-year-old woman with no children (so her departures couldn't have been attributed to usual kid stuff) who usually sat near the front of the chapel who left the chapel a minimum of three times during every sacarment meeting, of a guy who clipped his nails during Sacrament Meeting with clippers that were so loud they could be heard all over the chapel, of a woman who clapped along with the hymns (she didn't need to hold a hymnal because she had the words committed to memory), and of a thirtyish and slightly kooky guy who walked around the chapel immediately after the Sacrament every week with a brown paper babg filled with bubble gum, allowing all the children (except those whose mothers forbid it) to grab an entire handful of the gum if they so desired.
Annonnn begged off, still seated on the sofa and in her pjs when we left. She said she had to give a talk in her singles ward. None of us believed her, but my parents couldn't exactly force her to go with us. The rest of us were not so lucky. I'm one of six kids, but there were only four of us still living at home at that time. The oldest brother still at home tried to convince my parents to allow all of us, or at least him, to remain at home and to attend our regular ward, but my parents weren't going without us. We loaded up the minivan and drove the two hours or so from the mission home to the ward in the sticks.
As we walked in to the building, we could hear strains of the organ music to the tune of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean." It was the organist Annonnn had described. We had further confirmation of her identity when we reached the chapel. Annonnn had told us she was a dead ringer for the Vicki Lawrence character of "Mama" from "The Carol Burnett Show" and the sitcom "Mama's Family." Sure enough, she was a doppelganger, with the blue-gray bullet-proof curls, a floral dress with designated recesses for her butt and boobs, the permanent scowl, and even, we would learn as she left the organ to be seated on the dais for the sacrament, support hose and orthopedic shoes, though her shoes were camel-colored rather than the white ones sported by Thelma Harper.The organist segued from "My Bonnie" to "The Streets of Laredo."
Annonnn had also warned us that there was one Melchizedek priesthood holder in the ward who was inexplicably normal. He would serve his five years or so as bishop, then be released, usually to join the stake high council. Then something would go wrong with whatever replacement they had set apart as the new bishop, and the stake Powers That Were would have to find a replacement high council member and put the old bishop back into position. If he could have, he surely would have moved out of the ward, Annonnn said, but he was a farmer and needed to live near his farmland. It was a rural area, and the ward area was geographically massive.
It appeared as we approached that the "normal" guy was again in place as the bishop. He walked up to my dad and greeted him. My dad follwed him into an office. (Did they still have those "prayer meetings" before the regular meetings back then? This was in the '90s.)
As my mom stood at the rear of the chapel, looking for a place to sit, my sister walked ahead and sat in a pew about three rows from the back. The rest of us, including my mom, followed. Ten o'clock came and went with about seven people in the pews. At about 10:04, a motely crowd marched in almost as if it was choreographed. One man nudged my brother and said, "Excuse me. You're sitting in our spot." My brother started to argue, but my mom tapped his arm, shook her head no, and got up. We followed her to the second row of the chapel, hoping it wasn't someone else's pew.
One of the counselors conducted the meeting. The bishop sat poker-faced. The jock itch patient -- the other counselor -- scratched. The opening hymn was announced. We would open by singing "Redeemer of Israel," followed by an invocation by Sister Brown. The organist played as an intro the last phrase of "This Land Is Your Land." We sang "Redeemer of Israel" the best we could to the tune of "This Land Is Your Land." It didn't scan all that well, but we went along with it as did everyone else present. At the conclusion of the opening hymn, we heard the sound of a hymnal closing loudly.Sister Brown invocated without incident.
There wasn't any ward business, so we went into the Sacrament. The Sacrament hymn was "God, Our Father, Hear Us Pray," to the tune of "In Humility, Our Savior," [Welsh Hyfrydol] which was a little weird, but seemed conventional compared to the opening hymn. (Once again, the sound of a hymnal being closed forcefully was heard.)
There was a shortage of priests, and Jock Itch Patient WAS asked to fill in. As my sister turned green, my mom whispered, "He's only scratching on the OUTSIDE of his pants." Children behind her heard and giggled. My mom's words were not sufficient consolation, as my sister's normal color failed to return. We all watched to see whether or not we got Jock Itch's tray. We did. It came first to my brother, who whispered, "I'm not worthy" to the deacon who held the tray. He held it for my sister, who shook her head and passed it on. We all passed it on, including my mother. So much for the "he's only scratching on the outside of his pants" rationale. My dad was glared at us from the stand. He was lucky enough to have gotten the other guy's tray.
Bubble Gum Man came around with the brown paper bag. When he got to me, I extended my hand to take some, but my mom loudly hissed, "NO, Scott!"
The counselor then announced the order of the program. A youth speaker would say a few words, followed by a musical number by Brother Gunnison, with my dad concluding the main program of the meeting. Before the youth speaker reached the podium, a woman sitting directly in front of us stood and walked out of the chapel.
The youth speaker was boring as I recall, but most youth speakers were boring as I recall. (His words were accompanied by the almost rhythmic sound of nail clippers in action.) He concluded his remarks, which he read from a sheet of white copier paper previously folded (what appeared to be in eighths). Then Brother Gunnison stood and walked to the microphone. I assumed Thelma Harper's alter ego would accompany him, but she made no move to return to the organ, but sat with her ankles crossed, lips pursed, fanning herself with the printed program. (The woman in front of us who had left the chapel returned and took her place in the front row.)
I assumed Brother Gunnison would then sing a capella. He instead pulled a harmonica from his pocket and played all the way through "Carry On." It wasn't bad as harmonica playing goes, but still it was harmonica playing. (The lady seated on the front row got up again and left the chapel when he reached "And we hear the desert singing," returning as he finished his second verse.) The bishop sat with his head in his hands.
My dad spoke, but none of us heard much of what he said. We were too occupied with the nail clipper, Bubble Gum Man (who made a second round with his brown bag), Lady on the Front Row, who left the chapel and returned a total of six times before the meeting was over, Jock Itch Patient (my mom said she would have bought a can of Cruex and brought it to the meeting to give to him if she had known Annonnn was serious), while looking out for the Attendance Policewoman, who was apparently truant that day, and the clapper, who presumably ditched church along with the Attendance Policewoman.
I didn't mention the chorister, but everything Annonnn said about her was correct. She looked like I would imagine the woman who played Granny Clampett looked about a year after she was interred. She did make figure eights with the baton (which I'm almost positive was actually a green Tinker Toy) at the same dirge-like speed even through the final hymn, which was "Master, the Tempest Is Raging" to the tune of what my Dad later told us was a traditional Scottish clan fight song, "The Campbells Are Coming." It must have somewhat worked, as I noticed my dad singing along. By that point, absolutely nothing seemed out of place.
As a hymnal loudly closed, Brother Zumwalt approched the podium to give the benediction. Before he could get out a word, he let loose with the largest belch I've ever head in my life, directly into the microphone. Even my mother laughed.
Thelma Harper's doppelganger broke into something that sounded vaguely like a song about crawdads. My dad shook hands with the bishop and the counselor who conducted. Jock Itch Patient extended his hand to my dad, but my dad instead clapped him on the shoulder a couple of times, then turned to make his way off the stand. We all made a hasty retreat.
We stopped at an A & W in the next town to pick up burgers and rootbeer floats to eat in the van on the return trip, which was something we never did on a Sunday. My dad must have felt guilty about what he had forced us to endure. When we got home, Annonnn was still sitting on the sofa in her pajamas, waiting to hear how many of her predictions had been accurate.
SORRY FOR THE LENGTH
Edited 5 time(s). Last edit at 06/24/2019 05:51AM by scmd1.