The Bishop's Son

The first time I saw him – with his sunny blond hair, chiseled jaw, and crystal blue eyes – I knew that he would devastate me…


My father was an exceptionally hard-working man who never seemed content to sit still for very long.  Everywhere we went he had projects underway to keep his hands busy at all times.  I've never been much of a Reba McEntire fan but the first time I ever heard the song 'Daddy's Hands' I instantly understood and identified with the lyrics in a profound way.  My own father's hands had always held a position of special significance to me.  It baffled me how he could be so tender with them when brushing my hair on Saturday mornings while my mom was working at the hospital or while tending to my plethora of scrapes and bumps from being a reckless adventure seeker, yet exhibit so much strength with them while swinging a hammer or digging a hole.  I marveled at how steady they could be when he was drawing and painting, at how calloused and hard they felt when holding his hand to cross the street, and yet how soft they could be when he was tickling my forearm in the pews at church.

His hands were rarely, if ever idle in those days and he put them to use at first light on the first day after our arrival on the property.  He and my mother had spent the previous day, while my sister and I had been out visiting, finding a flat place to park the truck, lowering the stabilization legs on the camper, ensuring the camper was nice and level for comfortable sleeping despite the heat, and preparing for supper, but this was a brand-new day and there was a lot of work to be done.  I don't recall exactly how long it took for him to dig the foundations, but I know that he did the majority of it alone and by hand with a flat-nosed shovel.  Somehow it seems like one day the property was nothing but fox tails and cockleburs from edge to edge and the next there were three big circular trenches of identical size and depth, evenly spaced in a sort of triangle formation.  I do recall that the ground was hard, dry, and brutally full of large rocks.  I remember that he tried using water to soften the earth before digging but the ground was so dry and so compacted that the water seemed to just spread out and vanish as if the entire landscape had been coated in Scotch Guard.  Eventually he resorted to using an unbelievably heavy metal rod that was nearly as tall as he was with a spike at one end and a flat chisel-like head at the other.  Holding it perpendicular to the ground he would raise it up as high as he could manage and plunge it at the ground with all of his strength in an effort to impose his will upon the stubborn desert floor.

Digging a hole in the desert really isn't like trying to dig a hole anywhere else.  In most cases you can place the nose of the shovel on the ground or plunge it in at a slight angle, place your foot at the top of the spade, apply weight, and the shovel will sink in precisely as it's designed to do.  In the desert, that's just not how it works.  Even with a round-nosed shovel you can plunge with all your might and it will simply bounce off the ground with a loud ping as if you'd just been trying to dig through a rock.  You can put your full weight on the spade with both feet and still the surface won't budge even the slightest bit.  Compacted desert sand is like concrete in many ways when it's dry and silt when it's wet.  My sister and I used to borrow a pair of my dad's flat-nosed shovels when he wasn't using them and compete to see who could stand on their shovel with both feet for the longest period of time without tipping over.  Knowing this, it baffles me now that he did so much of the digging by hand even though I failed to appreciate the magnitude of his efforts at the time.  It had to have been long, slow, difficult work but for some reason it seemed like it just happened overnight from my perspective. 

My mother would set me to work on my homeschooling in the camper and then join my father in the shallow trenches, helping him level them with wooden stakes and bits of string.  Don't ask me how they managed to get the walls of those trenches so smooth, the shape of the circles so uniform, or the ground level enough for a firm foundation with string and sticks because I honestly can't wrap my head around it, but my father obviously knew what he was doing and my mother was very good at following his directions.  We weren't allowed to bother them while they were leveling; it was apparently very tedious and precise work that couldn't abide interruption or distraction.  We quickly learned that the hottest part of the day, between noon and four pm, was far too severe to work in.  My sister and I had introduced our parents to Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, the older couple at the bottom of the hill with the dog and two kittens mentioned in the last chapter.  Mr. Wilkins told my parents that this part of the day was often referred to as 'Siesta' because it was just too hot and brutal to do much more than hide out indoors and take a nap.

Grandma and Grandpa Wilkins were good people and quickly became very good friends to my parents.  Mr. Wilkins didn't like the idea of us living in a camper at the top of the hill, fully exposed to the elements without any shade trees or shelter from the wind storms that frequented the area, so he invited my parents to move the camper onto his property at the bottom of the hill.  He had an area all established for campers and trailers with running water, electricity, and septic hook-ups, layered thick with gravel for drainage to prevent the stabilization legs from sinking into the mud when it rained, and big hearty cottonwood trees to provide shade and shelter.  The best part was that we were still close enough to our own property to walk back and forth for getting work done or checking in with our parents.  Our dedication to homeschooling evaporated quite quickly after the move and it didn't take long before my sister and I were spending more time riding the Wilkins' four-wheeler around out in the foothills than we were studying or writing reports, and my parents seemed far too exhausted from working on the house to notice.

Patch, the dog, in the family Ford

Once the digging was done there was a lot more opportunity for me to help out on the project and I had always like helping my dad with his projects, whatever form they took.  With the camper removed from the truck and parked down on the Wilkins' land we were able to use the truck to make frequent trips into St. George for building materials and matinees at the dollar theater.  We would take Patch, the dog, with us on these excursions and leave him in the back of the truck while we were in the stores or watching the movies.  My dad had placed a large sheet of plywood in the bed of the truck that fully encompasses end-to-end and side-to-side to protect his feet from the hot metal and give him a comfortable surface to lay on.  We always parked him somewhere with plenty of shade and poured him a bowl of water before going inside but we never had to worry about tying him down because he never tried to jump out of the truck or go anywhere at all.  In fact, it almost seemed as though he knew precisely the behavior that was needed of him whenever we would leave him because he would lay down in the back of the truck, entirely out of view, and hide there until our return.  As we would emerge from wherever we'd been, and he would hear our voices, we noticed he would peek over the bed of the truck with just his eyes and the very top of his head as if checking to be certain that it was really us and then, once he'd made visual confirmation, he would pop up fully and we would hear the thumping of his tail against the bed of the truck in greeting.  

I realize now that in today's society the idea of leaving a dog in the truck, even if parked in the shade, while attending a movie would be viewed as animal cruelty and I would certainly never do that now with any of my dogs, but at the time it seemed perfectly natural and it was something that everyone did.  He never seemed uncomfortable when we returned, never panting hard or showing signs of distress and he always wanted to go with us whenever he could tell that we were going somewhere, even though he must have realized he wouldn't be permitted to leave the truck.

On one excursion to town to pick up some rebar for the foundations, my sister and I expressed a desire to go to church.  We'd been living in southern Utah for a few weeks or more and somehow, when packing for the move, the entire family had neglected to consider church clothes of any kind – having packed them all away inside the big semi-trailer with the rest of our belongings.  For my sister and I, church was a social event where we could meet new friends, especially considering the fact that we didn't go to school, and as the only other kids my sister and I had met thus far had been Emily and her little brother, my sister was especially keen to make some new acquaintances.  It seemed that a family trip to Wal-Mart was required and after a brief argument with my mother over her need to continue dressing me in the same fluffs and frills that I'd been donning since my first Little Miss beauty pageant, one where my father took my side as he often did when my mother and I would argue, we settled on two age-appropriate skirt and blouse combinations of my choosing and one fluffy dress of my mother's that would have looked utterly and inescapably appropriate on an episode of Hee-haw or The Grand Ol' Oprey complete with a ruffled white petticoat and lace-trimmed socks.

My college roommate many years later, playing dress-up in one
of the frilly dresses that I'd worn to church as a child (for laughs).

On the first Sunday as we entered the church building my dad stopped the first random little girl that he could see and, after confirming that her age was close to mine, had us introduce ourselves to one another and asked her to show me the way to the Primary room where all of the kids ages 11 and under met for Sunday School.  I don't recall who that girl was now, but I know that we didn't became fated-friends following that chance encounter.  She was nice, polite, and helpful but we had very little in common and I quickly found other girls my age that I got along with better.  Alicia was a year younger than I was with blond hair, Down's Syndrome, and a smile that was utterly infectious.  You literally couldn't be around this girl without smiling, she made it impossible to feel sad or even indifferent around her because she was never sad or indifferent and her mood always set the precedent.  I have a cousin with Down's and though we'd not seen each other often growing up, we'd always gotten along very well, and I'd always felt very comfortable around him, so I didn't have the aversion that many other kids have to someone who seems a bit unique.  We got along extremely well from the very beginning, but I regret that as I met other girls our age, girls who didn't have the same appreciation for Alicia that I had, I found myself spending more and more time with them and less and less time with her.  I don't know why that was, but I wish I'd realized it was happening and made more of an effort to prevent it because I don't think she ever realized how much I liked being around her.

I've mentioned before that Virgin was a small community and there really weren't a lot of kids my age to begin with.  My ages 10-11 Sunday School class consisted of maybe a half-dozen kids, both boys and girls, and that was only when all of us were present which not everyone was on that first day – but he certainly was.  The second I caught a glimpse of him in his snazzy maroon dress suit complete with a jacket and tie, looking all grown up and too-cool for school I was fully head-over-heels along with every other girl within a 20-mile radius.  His name was Telton and he was tall, slender, surprisingly athletic looking for an 11-year-old kid, and in every way a walking, talking future edition of a GQ Men's magazine cover.  He was utterly and soul crushingly beautiful and I was immediately obsessed with him.  I snagged glimpses of him whenever I could manage during class and I know he must have noticed because he kept giving a little smile with one side of his face, a somewhat smug expression that made it clear that he was both fully accustomed to and rather fond of receiving attention from every girl he met.

Me at around 11-years-old displaying the constant struggle
between my mother's desire to put me in dresses and my
own desire to be a rock-kicking tom boy.

I didn't consider myself to be a particularly pretty girl, but I hadn't yet developed a low esteem of myself either.  I'd been crowned Little Miss Roy in a kid’s beauty pageant when I was five, received a fair number of valentines from my male classmates before being removed from school, and had always found it easy to make friends with boys, and my mother frequently told me that she thought several of my male friends had crushes on me, so I think it's safe to say I considered myself solidly in the running for his affections.  At that point in my life I had thick, long blond hair that nearly reached my waist, my skin was tan because I was always outside as often as possible, and I was very much a tom boy, preferring sports and recreation over daintier activities like shopping and TV watching – plus I was a gamer which was exceptionally uncommon among young girls back then.  The downside to me, though I didn't know it yet, was that I was fat.  Somehow, I'd managed to utterly miss that fact whenever I looked at myself in the mirror – perhaps I didn't realize that being nearly as round as I was tall was something boys would find unattractive, or perhaps I'd gained the weight gradually and just never noticed the change in myself but at that age, fat was not a word that I ever would have used to describe myself … yet.

When it came time for Sacrament Meeting, the large gathering of the whole congregation of all ages in the main chapel, I reunited with my parents and sister while remaining keenly aware of where Telton and his family were sitting as well.  His father, to my surprise, was not sitting with his family but instead had positioned himself on the stage, behind the podium with several other men.  This was where the Bishop sat.  Unlike many other religions, the Mormon service does not involve a pastor or preacher who stands at the podium week after week giving a sermon, but instead calls upon 2 or 3 individuals per week from the congregation to prepare brief talks which they deliver between hymns.  The Bishop, along with his two counselors and a few other ward officials, sit at the head of the room, behind these speakers, and listen to the talks along with everyone else.  

Being a Bishop is a calling rather than a vocation.  It is a temporary position that no one seeks out or trains for but rather they are asked to perform the duties by the Stake President who is believed to be inspired by and acting under the direction of God when selecting individuals for these positions.  The Stake President himself is called to his position by someone of higher authority than him and that person is also called as are all other church officials from the lowest office in the ward to the highest office in the church which is that of Prophet.  Most of these positions are not permanent and after a Bishop or Counselor or Teacher has performed their duties well for a time they are eventually relieved and replaced, unless they encounter personal issues and request to step down.  The positions are purely voluntary, and anyone called to a position can decline it and none of these positions offer any pay or any kind of monetary compensation whatsoever, requiring the people who fill these roles to do so in conjunction with their normal jobs and responsibilities.  Still, it is considered a great honor to be called to a position of any kind within the church, especially that of Bishop as the head of the ward and my new crush just so happened to be the Bishop's son – a fact that made him all the more appealing to me.

Wanting to make a good impression I made certain to sing each and every hymn loudly and in the very best and most beautiful voice that I could manage.  Singing was my forte.  Aside from my hair, my voice was and remains to this day my single greatest source of personal vanity.  My mother kept nudging me during the hymns, trying to clue me in to the fact that I was singing far louder than was required.  Church hymns are, after all, a group activity in which every voice is expected to raise just enough to be heard as a part of the whole, but I was grandstanding in all of my desperate 10-year-old glory for attention.  My singing did get attention that day, but not from Telton.  After the service was finished I was approached by a girl my age with fair skin, long brown hair, and naturally plumb lips.  She'd not attended Sunday school, but her family had arrived just for the final hour of service and had been sitting a few pews behind my family.

"I like your singing."  She said.
"Thank you."  I replied, feeling flattered but also too vain to be surprised.
"I'm Cherri."
"Sherry?"
"No Cherri, like the fruit."  She said it with practiced ease and perhaps a bit of annoyance.  It was obvious she'd had this precise exchange with others many times before in her young life.

"My name is Toni."  Yes, I had continued from the very first encounter and throughout the day, to introduce myself to teachers, kids, and everyone who asked, as Toni Smith and by this time I'd gotten quite good at it.  Lynsee was fast becoming dead to me.

"Did your family just move here?"
"A little while ago, we're building a house on Kolob Road."
"Do you want a piece of Candy?"
"At the Bishop's office?"  My heart leapt at the prospect.

You see, at my previous ward back in Roy we'd experienced Sunday services in the reverse order of how they were done here.  Sacrament meeting had always come first at the beginning of the morning and then the families had branched off to their various age-based and gender-based classes for the remaining two hours, but this ward had held Sacrament meeting last.  In Roy, as soon as church was over all of the kids would dash from the four corners of the building toward the Bishop's office where he would proceed to dole out a variety of candy, one piece per child, in the form of Red Vines, Salt Water Taffy, and Peppermints.  It was his own special tradition that I believe he'd inherited from the Bishop that had preceded him, but I'd never realized that and had just assumed that it, much like the singing of hymns and passing of the sacrament, was a ritual conducted throughout the whole of the church – a way to reward all of us youngin's for sitting obediently and quietly for three straight hours without any breakfast – but Cherri made a strange face of confusion.

"Noooo."  She drew the word out to further illustrate the oddity of my assumption.  "From my dad."

My parents were being vehemently greeted by other adults of the ward and it seems that this is something common among the whole of the Mormon church, in my experience.  New faces are often engulfed the first week by well-wishers and welcomers to ensure that they feel wanted and their presence among the congregation valued.  Because of this it was easy enough for me to slip away with Cherri and meet her father, an extremely large man whose giant round stomach and bushy salt-and-pepper beard would have made him a prime candidate for a Santa suit were it not for his constantly serious and even somewhat sour disposition.  At Cherri's request he produced two large, flat, white tablets that looked more like medication than candy and I became instantly suspicious.  In Roy kids had to be extremely cautious, even then, about accepting candy from strangers.  Every Halloween my mother would go through our candy with us to check for suspicious packaging, broken wrappers, and such.  Anything that appeared to be home made was suspect unless we knew precisely which house we'd gotten it from, who lived there, and that they could be trusted.  The year that the caramel apples were thrown out before we could get much farther on them than a nibble is still a vivid one in my memory and to this day I've never had the opportunity to try one.

I looked to my mother, even as Cherri popped one of the tablets in her mouth and began crunching away on it and Merlin, her father, looked at me.  I think he could tell that I was a bit confused so when my mother caught me looking at her he raised his voice just slightly and said "Vitamin C".  She nodded her consent and I ate it.  I knew what vitamin C was but I'd never seen it in tablet form before – as far as I knew it was something invisible and flavorless that could be consumed in orange juice … something healthy.  As soon as I crunched down on the tablet, however, I knew why Cherri had called it candy.  It was delicious: sweet, tangy, and citrussy with a flavor very similar to orange juice.  In hind sight it was kind of genius of him to give vitamin C to his kids as 'candy' … far healthier than actual sweets, not enough sugar to be addictive, and a good immunity booster to ward off the cold and flu season!

Cherri and I wandered into the basketball court with her father's permission where the boys had already discarded their suit jackets and ties and were tossing a ball around.  I was mesmerized watching Telton and it didn't take long for Cherri to notice or to recognize the way that I was looking at him.

"You like him?"
"He's alright."  I had to play it cool, after all.
"I know him."
"You do?!"  All cool-ness lost.
She nodded.  "Want me to introduce you?"
I nodded.
"Hey T!"

He stopped dribbling the basketball and turned immediately, pausing only briefly before striding confidently toward us with the grace and casual majesty of a movie heartthrob.

"This is Toni.  Her family just moved here."

He stuck out his hand and I shook it; my stomach did a backward triple loopdy-loop the second our hands touched and I'm sure I must have had the most idiotic expression on my face.

"Nice to meet you."
"You too."  

I'd barely had a chance to get the words out before he'd already turned around and started heading back toward his friend and my heart sank.  He'd been polite but nothing more.  No smile.  No twinkle in his eye.  No indication of any kind, whatsoever, that he was in any way interested in me.  I felt devastated but couldn't let it show.

Still, somehow, Cherri must have noticed because she leaned in close and whispered "He can be kind of a jerk sometimes."

Sometimes.  Sometimes meant that he wasn't a jerk all the time.  My hope sparked.  Maybe I still had a chance.  I just needed to put on some jeans and rollerblades and show him I was a tomboy and then he'd take to me just like all of my other guy-friends had.  
Just one problem with that plan: my roller blades were packed away inside the trailer where I wouldn't be getting to them anytime soon.