this is the color

this is the color

of my hope for tomorrow

upon goodly hills

look up to grayness

look up to grayness

looking down to the grayness

it tells no secrets

A letter from my missionary daughter in California

Hello everyone!!

We have had a busy week! And come to think of it, I don't think there's been a week that we haven't been busy, which is great. Now when it comes to remembering all the things we've done this week, that's a different story! We had transfers, and found out that both of us (Sister Peterson and I) are staying in Dana Point!! We are so excited to have another six weeks together, this area is really cool and there is so much work to be done. And we are both really musical, so we love to make music together! 

We have dinner with members almost every night, which gives us a great chance to get to know the people here and this week we had dinner with a family by the last name of Brown. They're a couple in their 50s that manage medical offices and can pretty much work from home but also travel whenever they want. They're pretty well off, financially, but they have a modest house and they're such kind and genuine people. They asked us about our families and shared their stories about when they joined the church, which are always my favorite stories to hear! Brother Brown said that he joined when he was 14 and living in Chicago on the Southside. His parents had passed away and so he went to live with his aunt, but he remembered that the Mormon missionaries used to visit his mom before she passed away. His mom was too sick to be baptized before she passed away, but she wanted it very much. .  And he also remembered that his dad would greet the missionaries at the door with a shot gun, but they kept coming back ! I was really taken aback by that and I thought to myself "Would I got back to a house where someone had pointed a gun at me?..." I mean, I'd like to think that the answer would be yes if God was the one telling me to do it, but that takes an insane amount of courage and faith. But I think the reason those missionaries kept visiting them is because they knew one day Brother Brown would accept the gospel, and he did! And so did his sister. And His father eventually stopped pointing a gun at the missionaries when they would come over. But for Brother Brown, joining the church was about becoming part of a family, not so much about making a promise to follow Jesus Christ and our Heavenly Father. And everyone has a different story about how they came to know the church was true, because we are all different. But that's the wonderful thing about the gospel, there's something for everyone! No matter who you are,  or where you've been; it's all about knowing where we're going, returning to our Father. 

We had so many great things happen this week with less active members and recent converts that we've been working with! There was one day that we were thinking of people to visit and Connie Riddle came to mind. She is a returning less-active member who is getting ready to get married and move in with her soon to be husband. She had been packing up some things in her apartment and had thought about asking someone for help,  so she said a quick prayer. And the next thing she knew, we were on her doorstep offering to help! I love it when we are able to be an answer to someone's prayers, it's awesome to be God's hands :) 

Thank you all for what you do for your families and friends and the good that you do in your communities! Keep it up! I love you all, have a great week!

Elon Musk

Elon Musk, the billionaire CEO of Tesla and

SpaceX, is criticizing the media as being driven

by advertising dollars and says he plans to create a

website called Pravda that will rate journalists’

credibility.  Global News

A millionaire by the name Musk

The media thought to detusk;

He’d make up a chart

On which ones had heart,

And which are just lowly mollusque.

Senines and Senums

Senines and senums and plenty of shum

Make this old Mormon feel pretty darn glum.

A bushel of barley makes sense to my brain;

But ezrams and ontis just give me a pain.

I wish that were all that I had to recount;

But sadly there’s many more coins to surmount.

There’s shiblum and leah and antion, too --

Their number and value make me lose a screw!

It’s almost as bad as our bitcoin today --

Just add in some ziff and you’re well on your way!

fresh on the hot sand

fresh on the hot sand

the blossom will not wither

when touched by rapture

Shaving Cream in the Bathtub

Saturday, May 26th, began as a peaceful day for me. I had 2 slices of leftover Tony’s pepperoni pizza for breakfast, washed down with a yogurt/banana smoothie. I read the New York Times online, writing a few nifty little limericks about some of the stories, and sent them to the writers of said stories. Then I went shopping just across the street at Fresh Market for ground turkey and a big can of navy beans so I could make turkey bean soup today and serve it in the lobby of my apartment building to anyone who wanted a bowl for lunch.

Then Amy showed up. Now, if you’ve read any of my memoirs here before you know that she and I were married for fifteen years and had 8 kids together. Then she divorced me. In the summer of 2017 she moved here to Provo just a few blocks away from me and we began cautiously feeling out each other about a reconnection. It didn’t work, and I was the one who finally called it off. This did not sit well with her, naturally enough. So when she came over yesterday to say she wanted to talk to me, I figured she wanted to blow off a little steam -- and I figured I had it coming. I promised her I would not interrupt her at all. And I didn’t; I was completely tongue-tied by her words and delivery.

She took 8 pages of handwritten script out of her purse and put on her reading glasses. At this point I knew I was in for some heavy weather, and decided to record the approaching cataclysm for posterity. I unobtrusively turned on my laptop and set it to record.

I’ve spent several hours this morning transcribing her eloquent and passionate diatribe. I think if she were to repeat it onstage as a one woman show she might win a host of theater awards, and certainly have a sold-out hit on her hands. Her invective is scintillating. Her reasoning is bold beyond reckoning. And her volume and vibrato, once she hits her stride, would power a nuclear submarine. Her use of recurring themes during her wonderful anathema is superb. That I am a prevaricator and an imposter is to be expected, but she rings so many changes on my poisonous characteristics that only Shakespeare could limn such another villain. And throughout her rant she is constantly referring darkly to ‘shaving cream in the bathtub’ with the same ambiguous horror as Aunt Ada Doom, in the novel Cold Comfort Farm, where she steadily adverts to seeing “something nasty in the woodshed.”  

I see no point in reproducing the entire text of her malediction here, but I want to share a portion of it that I find, as Alice said, “curiouser and curiouser” the more I consider it. To quote:

Did you know that God is the great comedian? He knows how to laugh and how to get other people to laugh. And you try to be like him! (she gives a very haughty sneer) You don’t know the first thing about being funny or about humor. You can’t be funny because of your fear. Because of your lying ways. Because you always want someone else to do your work for you -- even your so-called funny business!

If you want to be funny like God is funny you’d better wake up and start seeing what God sees, not what you see. See how paying every debt is going to keep us all busy until we die. That’s what you should be seeing and making funny about -- not all this other mockery you think will excuse you. Ask God to make you funny and he will. I know he will. But you can’t make yourself funny, not by one cubit or stature. You have never been funny in your entire life, because you have never feared God your entire life. He guides the laughter of the universe and of each person and down to each individual atom of matter. Did you know that spirit is matter so fine that we can’t see it? And that fine matter is laughing all the time. It is what laughter is made of, and you can’t access it -- you won’t access it because of your dishonesty. And you’ve made me so dishonest that I used to think you were funny! I’m so angry that I let myself be fooled by you! You can never be funny until you pay all your debts -- we learned that in our self reliance class at church. So be funny, Tim -- just try to be funny without help from the Great Comedian. I feel sorry for you for even trying . . . “

This represents just one of Amy’s paragraphs. If you want to read the complete text It’s all going into my next book, to be called “Castigat Ridendo Mores.”

With One Accord

Reyna I. Aburto

“Every one of our paths is different,

yet we walk them together.”

Reyna I. Aburto

Walking closely to our home, the pavement may be cracked;

There may be puddles and debris, or some strange artifact.

A kindly word of comfort or a bit of quiet praise

Will help us reach that haven where the love of God does blaze.

Keep the same direction and be cheerful while you skip,

And others will be heartened to keep making this great trip!

Government Clerks

WASHINGTON—President Donald Trump signed three executive orders making it easier for the federal government to fire employees it considers to be poor performers, the White House said Friday, drawing rebukes from union representatives who said the sweeping changes were a “direct assault” on the rights of millions of workers.   WSJ   

The tenure of government clerks

Is one of the strongest of perks.

They cling to their post

Like butter on toast --

Removing them takes fireworks.

I was a Mad Child Scientist

Our basement on 19th Avenue Southeast, where I grew up, was dismal and clammy. Scaly yellow mold flourished on the whitewashed cement block walls, no matter how often my mother made me scrub it away with diluted Clorox bleach. The undulating cement floor was painted dark gray, and had begun to fissure -- creating a welcoming abode for spiders and silverfish. The squat gas meter sat in one corner, looking like a goblin. Most of the basement was taken up by the massive cast iron furnace, with hot air tubes wrapped in asbestos cloth shooting out and up in all directions. Next to it lurked the green fuel oil tank. My dad was in charge of watching the cracked and stained gauge on its side, so he would know when it was time to call the fuel truck to come fill it up again. This, like many other things in his life, he frequently neglected to do. I recall one Christmas eve when the fuel oil ran out completely, and there was no fuel truck in all of the greater Twin Cities that cared to make a delivery that holy evening. We huddled around the gas stove, with the door open, as our only source of heat, and went to bed layered in flannel shirts, snowpants, and about a dozen wool socks on each foot. The bedroom was lit by the eerie green glow of dozens of Christmas candles, most of them reeking of bayberry, which mom thought would give us a modicum of heat through the frigid night. Dad had to pay a hefty premium, above and beyond the regular fuel oil price, to get the truck out first thing on Christmas day.  

The only bright spot in that embryonic dungeon was the laundry corner, which contained the washer and dryer, as well as an ancient cast iron sink divided into two halves. Mom put yellow curtains up on the casement window and tacked cheery plastic flowers onto the sullen corner wall. She kept a radio tuned to WCCO on a small shelf next to the Oxydol and 20 Mule Team Borax, so she could listen to Joyce Lamont’s recipes and household hints.

There was just room to squeeze in a small workbench next to the washer, where she folded and stacked laundry -- and where I performed my mad experiments in chemistry and mechanics.

I guess my curiosity about how things were put together and what happened when you mixed one thing with another, were natural in a small boy. What was altogether unnatural, and severely irritating to my parents, was my surreptitious experiments on the basement workbench that resulted in disemboweled toasters and roaring stenches that would choke a goat.

My experiments started out innocent enough; pouring vinegar over baking soda in a cup to watch it fizz and pop, or unscrewing the lid of a flashlight to see how the batteries were connected.Once I sawed a golf ball in half, to discover a tightly wound sphere of rubber binders that immediately began to quickly unravel, resembling a globe of thin worms twisting their way to freedom. The gooey black center of the golf ball dribbled all over the front of my shirt, the stain proving so reluctant to yield to my mother’s efforts to expunge it that she finally ripped it up for dust rags.

But by the age of seven I wanted to push the envelope a bit more. I took apart a transistor radio, spreading its wire guts all over the workbench. There were little brightly colored knobs and discs among the wires, which I sliced open with a pen knife to discover what their innards were made of. They didn’t seem to be made of anything, and so that exploratory surgery ended up nugatory -- and when my older brother Billy finally missed the Realtone that had been in his shirt pocket the day before, I beat a strategic retreat across the street to my friend Wayne Matsuura’s house for the rest of the day, after sweeping all the tangled parts into the basement wastebasket and covering them with old newspapers.

My infamous chemical exploits were inspired by a movie I saw on TV, called ‘The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T.’ It starred the ineluctable Hans Conreid as a mad musician who enslaves little boys and forces them to play on a gigantic piano, and was written by Dr. Suess.  At one point the boy protagonist concocts a sound-sucking potion out of liquid odds and ends he finds around the room; the resulting brew not only vacuums up every decibel of sound but explodes in a most gratifying manner at the end of the movie. After seeing that, I was resolved to recreate the same results on my little workbench in the basement.

I had received a Chemcraft chemistry set for Christmas the same year we had to cluster around the Kenmore to keep from freezing to death -- so I immediately set to work on my sound sucking formula. A little cobalt; a splash of rubbing alcohol; a touch of ammonium carbonate; gum arabic; and, of course, a generous helping of sulfur. My formula looked, and smelled, troubled, but not yet effective. So I added my ace in the hole -- a cup of bleach. The results were spectacular. The plastic beaker melted like wax, so the formula dribbled off the workbench onto the cement floor, where it ate away the gray paint. The overpowering odor caused me to gasp and cough, and then tear up. The smell soon permeated the whole house, making it uninhabitable for a few hours, while all the windows were left open to air the place out.

Here’s the funny thing, though -- I no longer remember what dire punishment I received for my reinvention of tear gas. Likely enough it was a couple of swats on the rear with mom’s hairbrush and then exile to my bedroom for a longish period to ponder my misdeeds. As I stitch these little memoirs of my childhood together I am often nonplussed by my lack of memory of the punishments meted out to me. Wholly justified they were, of course. But maybe there just weren’t that many, after all.  Anywho. I know I always tried to show my own kids a little more mercy and respect than I seemed to get as a boy. Carpent tua poma nepotes.