Tuesday, November 22, 2016

En Strengen av Perler: The History of Clown White.

Whitening the human face for comic effect has its roots in ancient Greek theater.  Comic characters were portrayed wearing white masks, while the tragic heroes were usually cast in black masks.  The ancient Romans continued the tradition until, sometime after the Visigoths sacked the city of Rome at the beginning of the Dark Ages, all masks were prohibited by the Catholic church – who thought they smacked too much of idolatry and sacrilege.

I learned all this in a theater class at the University of Minnesota during a hiatus from the circus, when I decided to trade in my slapstick for a mortar board and become a teacher. That didn't last very long; three semesters altogether. When I left to resume my buffoonery the theater faculty gratefully voted me a flea collar with the inscription: "Barba Tenus Sapientes".

But I digress. To continue with our lecture:

Players then began using minerals and plant matter to color their own faces.  Among the former, white lead was the favorite way of whitening the player’s face.  No one back then really knew about the potential for lead poisoning, but luckily players only daubed it on for brief appearances and then immediately wiped it off to put on another hue to play another character in the same play.  Thus, they never had it on long enough for the lead to seep into the skin and enter the blood stream.
All this changed during the Industrial Revolution in England.  First, because the process for making white lead became much simpler.  Before then regular lead bars were steeped in vinegar, then covered in dung for several weeks, during which time chemical reactions from the vinegar and the dung’s acids would turn the outside of the bar white.  When the bars were uncovered the white crust was scrapped off, washed thoroughly, and made into a paste with tallow.  White lead was used as a white wash and a lubricant in factories because it lasted longer and did not smolder, unlike other lubricants.  So the English factory owners paid their nascent chemists to come up with a quick and easy way to make white lead paste, and they did.  Heated and then sprayed with acetic acid, the lead bars turned white and began flaking without assistance. White lead was now to be found everywhere.

The second change was attributable to one man, the famous English clown Joseph Grimaldi.  He it was who first pranced on the stage with his face completely whitened with a combination of beeswax, paraffin, and white lead.  But Grimaldi, whose ancestors came from Italy, knew a thing or two about white lead, namely that painters who used it frequently back in Italy had a tendency to literally shrivel up and die.  From lead poisoning.

Grimaldi had a secret oil, some say it was bergamot, some say it was rosemary, that he added to his face-whitening mixture that neutered the effects of the white lead, and so he could wear it with impunity.  When Grimaldi retired he did not reveal his secret ingredient, taking it to the grave with him.  Other clowns who emulated Grimaldi’s whiteface began suffering the symptoms of lead poisoning.  These included confusion, irritability, anemia, joint pain, and in some cases seizures. These are the same symptoms that children suffer today when they ingest paint chips from old houses that were originally coated with lead paint.

My parents' house in Minneapolis, built in the 1920's, was a bonanza for both lead paint and asbestos. Plus my parents were both heavy smokers when I was a kid. It's a wonder that I and my little sisters escaped that toxic swamp with our mental and physical health intact. Or did we? My one sister uses sheets of Japanese seaweed to make organic and edible pinatas out in Oregon. My other sister is a kleptomaniac who specializes in ripping the wings off butterflies at the Como Butterfly House and putting them under her pillow. I myself am as sane as any March hare, but have a tendency to come down with the marthambles every winter. 

But white lead was capricious, troubling some clowns and ignoring others who wore it constantly.  The first whiteface clown in America, George L. Fox (1825 – 1877) began losing coordination in his early thirties, and by the time he was 55 he could barely walk and had to be taken in by his sister until he passed away.  But the Hanlon Brothers, a rowdy family circus that toured the South prior to the Civil War, and who all wore whiteface, were never troubled by the symptoms of lead poisoning.
Perhaps the most tragic victim of white lead poisoning was the Ringling clown Frank ‘Slivers’ Oakley (1871 to 1916).  After rising to the top at Ringling Brothers Circus, he suddenly developed severe knee problems and had to retire prematurely when barely in his forties.  When he tried a comeback several  years later he collapsed in the center ring during his first clown sketch and had to be carried out.  The next day he shot himself with a pistol.

As early as the Second century BC, the Greek botanist Nicander voiced suspicions about exposure to lead and its harmful effects, but it wasn’t until the early 20th century, when automobiles came in to their own, and lead was added to gasoline to prevent engine ‘knocking’, that scientists as a group decided that lead in all its forms was deadly to mankind at high exposure levels.  Most lead mines in America were closed down immediately.  Laws were passed to remove lead from gasoline.  But no one thought much about the poor American circus clown, who was still mixing up his own whiteface makeup, using mineral oil, beeswax, and white lead.  And still suffering the effects of chronic lead poisoning, which, in circus lingo, was called ‘jake leg’.

It wasn’t until Max Factor, a Polish immigrant who settled in Hollywood to make wigs and cosmetics, came out with his ‘Safety Clown White’ in 1920, that clowns were finally rescued from chronic lead poisoning.  Having studied art in Florence, Italy, prior to settling down to the wigmaker’s trade, Factor knew that artists had eschewed the use of white lead in favor of oxide of titanium for the color white.  Max worked late into the night experimenting with oxide of titanium, until he developed a formula that gave the exact same white sheen that white lead did, and he began taking his brand of clown white makeup down to the circus lot whenever a show would play Los Angeles and give away free samples to the clowns.  It didn’t take whiteface clowns long before they noticed how much better they felt when using Factor’s clown white instead of their own concoction, and by 1927 every American ‘joey’ was using the Max Factor brand for whiteface.  ‘Jake leg’ disappeared from the circus, never to return.  Today clown white comes in many different brands, and the main whitening agent is neither white lead nor oxide of titanium, but zinc oxide – the same thing we use on bee stings and sunburn.

In fact, one of the very first things I learned in clown alley, from veteran clown Swede Johnson, was to prevent jock itch by smearing on a generous amount of clown white on my nether regions when the hot weather arrived. That kept me calm, cool, and collected while other clowns, who heeded not Swede's pearls of wisdom, itched and scratched and generally walked around bow-legged all summer long. 




and we know our record to be true

" . . . and we know our record to be true . . . "

3 Nephi. 8:1

Where to find recorded truth has plagued mankind no end;
where to find reality that isn't merely trend.
How to know that what we hear or read is guaranteed
to be veracious and not be some foolish cankered creed.
There is only one pathway that stays both straight and right;
the Book of Mormon is the way, the truth, the good, the light.
And if you doubt my words I say you need not trust in me;
just pray to God, who knoweth all, and He will instruct thee! 




Monday, November 21, 2016

En Strengen av Perler: Silver and gold have I none

In 1974 I was in the middle of my LDS mission in Thailand. I worked for two years prior to going to save enough money to be eligible for my call from President Spencer W. Kimball. I had no idea where I would be sent; I only knew I wanted to go. Needed to go. Not to prove anything, but because a love stronger than anything I had ever experienced before had gently led me to that decision. So I did birthday parties as a clown, and then, by good fortune, I was teamed with master clown Steve Smith at Ringling Brothers for a season as advance clown for the show. At a very good salary. When I left the show to become a full-fledged missionary, Smith said huskily: "Tork, just remember that my regard for you is like heat rash -- it'll never be gone unless you learn to shower more often!" 
Much of my time in Thailand was spent in and around Bangkok. 
The city sidewalks there, when not inundated by floods and garbage, were awash with mendicants.
Country women, their small withered breasts hanging out, sitting sideways and holding a silent infant, followed me with their eyes; their lips and teeth stained a lurid red with betel nut. Blind men blew discordantly on tin whistles. Old ladies, their shriveled faces as sad and remote as an Appalachian applehead doll, holding out an ornately designed tin bowl, mouthing soundless entreaties. 
There were, of course, innumerable street urchins, clad only in long tattered t-shirts like Hearst's The Yellow Kid. Their constant cry upon sighting a farang such as myself or my companion was "Hey you, one baht!" 
Thai Church members told me that the begging was all a racket -- the Chinese mafia put those poor supplicants out every morning and picked them up after the foot traffic stopped around midnight, keeping most of the money collected and giving the wretched beggars just enough to live on in unimaginable squalor. It was well known, the Thai members informed me, that anyone in real need had only to appeal to the nearest Buddhist temple and the monks there would be glad to see to their wants.
For several weeks in the Pratuu Naam area of Bangkok my companion and I went business tracting -- that is, we went into office buildings, and, floor by floor, office by office, confronted officious secretaries to demand to see the boss right away. We had a very important message to deliver. We got in to see the boss surprisingly often (because there was a rumor extant that the Mormon missionaries were actually working for the CIA) and would then deliver a ten minute explanation of the Family Home Evening program, leave a pamphlet explaining it in more detail. We gave nothing but the dust of our heels to the huffy secretaries.
Each day during that period we walked past one particular beggar, who was spectacularly crippled. He looked like a contortionist frozen in the most agonizing part of his act. His fingers were splayed like the roots of a fallen tree. He was covered in scabs. He lay on his stomach as his arms and legs spasmed continuously, assuming impossible angles. He drooled constantly. His eyes did not focus.
He lay on a thin and filthy bamboo mat, in the direct sunlight.
Everyone averted their eyes from him, including me. But he was sketched in my mind by peripheral glances, and I began to obsess about him.
A scripture from the Book of Acts kept recurring to me: "Then Peter said Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee . . . "
I wanted very much to be able to do the same thing for that poor cripple, frying like an egg on the scorching sidewalk. It was a prideful longing to do something spectacular that would make the careless Thais sit up and take notice of the LDS Church. I cared nothing for the glory of God, but only for my own chance to get back into the spotlight.
One morning my companion and I went to the Chemical Bank before beginning our business tracting, in order to draw money out of our savings accounts to pay the monthly household bills. This included rent and the maid. 
And so we each carried 5-thousand baht in our pockets as we began that day's proselyting. 
As we approached the writhing cripple on his stomach I fell a few steps back from my companion. When I reached the beggar I quickly bent down and put all of my 5-thousand baht in his pink plastic bowl. Then caught up with my companion. I never even looked directly at the beggar.
Believe me, this was not my Mother Theresa moment. All I felt was anger and resentment, as if that cripple were emotionally blackmailing me. 
I was relieved and guilty at the same time. I had done something, but it was not a miracle, and, according to the Thai members I had talked to, it was probably a complete waste of my own money.
5-thousand baht was a lot of money back then. I had to sell my leather briefcase, my wristwatch and my camera in order to have enough to pay my share of the bills. 
I never saw that crippled man again. The next day I was stung by a small scorpion as I was putting on my shoes and had to be rushed to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction. I was in the hospital for several weeks, trying not to ogle the beguiling nurses and my reading material restricted to the Book of Mormon in its incomplete Thai version. When I recovered I was transferred to a different part of Bangkok.
Now that I'm older and don't care a fig about getting any wiser, I can write about what happened back in Bangkok without trying to pin a meaning onto it. Or if you insist on one: "Look up at the tropical sky to go blind and fall into a Bangkok sewer." 

En Strengen av Perler: Silver and gold have I none



In 1974 I was in the middle of my LDS mission in Thailand. I worked for two years prior to going to save enough money to be eligible for my call from President Spencer W. Kimball. I had no idea where I would be sent; I only knew I wanted to go. Needed to go. Not to prove anything, but because a love stronger than anything I had ever experienced before had gently led me to that decision. So I did birthday parties as a clown, and then, by good fortune, I was teamed with master clown Steve Smith at Ringling Brothers for a season as advance clown for the show. At a very good salary. When I left the show to become a full-fledged missionary, Smith said huskily: "Tork, just remember that my regard for you is like heat rash -- it'll never be gone unless you learn to shower more often!" 
Much of my time in Thailand was spent in and around Bangkok. 
The city sidewalks there, when not inundated by floods and garbage, were awash with mendicants.
Country women, their small withered breasts hanging out, sitting sideways and holding a silent infant, followed me with their eyes; their lips and teeth stained a lurid red with betel nut. Blind men blew discordantly on tin whistles. Old ladies, their shriveled faces as sad and remote as an Appalachian applehead doll, holding out an ornately designed tin bowl, mouthing soundless entreaties. 
There were, of course, innumerable street urchins, clad only in long tattered t-shirts like Hearst's The Yellow Kid. Their constant cry upon sighting a farang such as myself or my companion was "Hey you, one baht!" 
Thai Church members told me that the begging was all a racket -- the Chinese mafia put those poor supplicants out every morning and picked them up after the foot traffic stopped around midnight, keeping most of the money collected and giving the wretched beggars just enough to live on in unimaginable squalor. It was well known, the Thai members informed me, that anyone in real need had only to appeal to the nearest Buddhist temple and the monks there would be glad to see to their wants.
For several weeks in the Pratuu Naam area of Bangkok my companion and I went business tracting -- that is, we went into office buildings, and, floor by floor, office by office, confronted officious secretaries to demand to see the boss right away. We had a very important message to deliver. We got in to see the boss surprisingly often (because there was a rumor extant that the Mormon missionaries were actually working for the CIA) and would then deliver a ten minute explanation of the Family Home Evening program, leave a pamphlet explaining it in more detail. We gave nothing but the dust of our heels to the huffy secretaries.
Each day during that period we walked past one particular beggar, who was spectacularly crippled. He looked like a contortionist frozen in the most agonizing part of his act. His fingers were splayed like the roots of a fallen tree. He was covered in scabs. He lay on his stomach as his arms and legs spasmed continuously, assuming impossible angles. He drooled constantly. His eyes did not focus.
He lay on a thin and filthy bamboo mat, in the direct sunlight.
Everyone averted their eyes from him, including me. But he was sketched in my mind by peripheral glances, and I began to obsess about him.
A scripture from the Book of Acts kept recurring to me: "Then Peter said Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee . . . "
I wanted very much to be able to do the same thing for that poor cripple, frying like an egg on the scorching sidewalk. It was a prideful longing to do something spectacular that would make the careless Thais sit up and take notice of the LDS Church. I cared nothing for the glory of God, but only for my own chance to get back into the spotlight.
One morning my companion and I went to the Chemical Bank before beginning our business tracting, in order to draw money out of our savings accounts to pay the monthly household bills. This included rent and the maid. 
And so we each carried 5-thousand baht in our pockets as we began that day's proselyting. 
As we approached the writhing cripple on his stomach I fell a few steps back from my companion. When I reached the beggar I quickly bent down and put all of my 5-thousand baht in his pink plastic bowl. Then caught up with my companion. I never even looked directly at the beggar.
Believe me, this was not my Mother Theresa moment. All I felt was anger and resentment, as if that cripple were emotionally blackmailing me. 
I was relieved and guilty at the same time. I had done something, but it was not a miracle, and, according to the Thai members I had talked to, it was probably a complete waste of my own money.
5-thousand baht was a lot of money back then. I had to sell my leather briefcase, my wristwatch and my camera in order to have enough to pay my share of the bills. 
I never saw that crippled man again. The next day I was stung by a small scorpion as I was putting on my shoes and had to be rushed to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction. I was in the hospital for several weeks, trying not to ogle the beguiling nurses and my reading material restricted to the Book of Mormon in its incomplete Thai version. When I recovered I was transferred to a different part of Bangkok.
Now that I'm older and don't care a fig about getting any wiser, I can write about what happened back in Bangkok without trying to pin a meaning onto it. Or if you insist on one: "Look up at the tropical sky to go blind and fall into a Bangkok sewer." 

En Strengen av Perler: Silver and gold have I none

In 1974 I was in the middle of my LDS mission in Thailand. I worked for two years prior to going to save enough money to be eligible for my call from President Spencer W. Kimball. I had no idea where I would be sent; I only knew I wanted to go. Needed to go. Not to prove anything, but because a love stronger than anything I had ever experienced before had gently led me to that decision. So I did birthday parties as a clown, and then, by good fortune, I was teamed with master clown Steve Smith at Ringling Brothers for a season as advance clown for the show. At a very good salary. When I left the show to become a full-fledged missionary, Smith said huskily: "Tork, just remember that my regard for you is like heat rash -- it'll never be gone unless you learn to shower more often!" 
Much of my time in Thailand was spent in and around Bangkok. 
The city sidewalks there, when not inundated by floods and garbage, were awash with mendicants.
Country women, their small withered breasts hanging out, sitting sideways and holding a silent infant, followed me with their eyes; their lips and teeth stained a lurid red with betel nut. Blind men blew discordantly on tin whistles. Old ladies, their shriveled faces as sad and remote as an Appalachian applehead doll, holding out an ornately designed tin bowl, mouthing soundless entreaties. 
There were, of course, innumerable street urchins, clad only in long tattered t-shirts like Hearst's The Yellow Kid. Their constant cry upon sighting a farang such as myself or my companion was "Hey you, one baht!" 
Thai Church members told me that the begging was all a racket -- the Chinese mafia put those poor supplicants out every morning and picked them up after the foot traffic stopped around midnight, keeping most of the money collected and giving the wretched beggars just enough to live on in unimaginable squalor. It was well known, the Thai members informed me, that anyone in real need had only to appeal to the nearest Buddhist temple and the monks there would be glad to see to their wants.
For several weeks in the Pratuu Naam area of Bangkok my companion and I went business tracting -- that is, we went into office buildings, and, floor by floor, office by office, confronted officious secretaries to demand to see the boss right away. We had a very important message to deliver. We got in to see the boss surprisingly often (because there was a rumor extant that the Mormon missionaries were actually working for the CIA) and would then deliver a ten minute explanation of the Family Home Evening program, leave a pamphlet explaining it in more detail. We gave nothing but the dust of our heels to the huffy secretaries.
Each day during that period we walked past one particular beggar, who was spectacularly crippled. He looked like a contortionist frozen in the most agonizing part of his act. His fingers were splayed like the roots of a fallen tree. He was covered in scabs. He lay on his stomach as his arms and legs spasmed continuously, assuming impossible angles. He drooled constantly. His eyes did not focus.
He lay on a thin and filthy bamboo mat, in the direct sunlight.
Everyone averted their eyes from him, including me. But he was sketched in my mind by peripheral glances, and I began to obsess about him.
A scripture from the Book of Acts kept recurring to me: "Then Peter said Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee . . . "
I wanted very much to be able to do the same thing for that poor cripple, frying like an egg on the scorching sidewalk. It was a prideful longing to do something spectacular that would make the careless Thais sit up and take notice of the LDS Church. I cared nothing for the glory of God, but only for my own chance to get back into the spotlight.
One morning my companion and I went to the Chemical Bank before beginning our business tracting, in order to draw money out of our savings accounts to pay the monthly household bills. This included rent and the maid. 
And so we each carried 5-thousand baht in our pockets as we began that day's proselyting. 
As we approached the writhing cripple on his stomach I fell a few steps back from my companion. When I reached the beggar I quickly bent down and put all of my 5-thousand baht in his pink plastic bowl. Then caught up with my companion. I never even looked directly at the beggar.
Believe me, this was not my Mother Theresa moment. All I felt was anger and resentment, as if that cripple were emotionally blackmailing me. 
I was relieved and guilty at the same time. I had done something, but it was not a miracle, and, according to the Thai members I had talked to, it was probably a complete waste of my own money.
5-thousand baht was a lot of money back then. I had to sell my leather briefcase, my wristwatch and my camera in order to have enough to pay my share of the bills. 
I never saw that crippled man again. The next day I was stung by a small scorpion as I was putting on my shoes and had to be rushed to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction. I was in the hospital for several weeks, trying not to ogle the beguiling nurses and my reading material restricted to the Book of Mormon in its incomplete Thai version. When I recovered I was transferred to a different part of Bangkok.
Now that I'm older and don't care a fig about getting any wiser, I can write about what happened back in Bangkok without trying to pin a meaning onto it. Or if you insist on one: "Look up at the tropical sky to go blind and fall into a Bangkok sewer." 

Restaurant Review: Rocco's Big City Deli. Provo, Utah.


Rocco's is at One Center Street, so you can't miss it. It's down a flight of stairs, which I normally don't do anymore because of my osteoarthritis, but in the cause of good eating I decided to hazard the descent:

 Rocco's appears to be a guy's place. There was a preponderance of shaved heads and beards, and the several TV sets scattered around were all on ESPN. There are sports relicts and New York City memorabilia on the walls, and a low ceiling. An extensive collection of baseball cards is stuck to the walls.


I ordered the Reuben combo, with a six inch Mob City grinder, to go, for my dinner tonight (this is laundry day, so I don't feel like messing with the stove). It set me back $14.35.

The fries are thick and crisp, with Lawry's Seasoning Salt dashed on them. The Reuben was good, but not exceptional; I felt they skimped on the corned beef and sauerkraut. Like I said, I'm saving the grinder for tonight, so I can't tell you anything about it except that it looks and smells mighty good, filled with Italian cheeses and cold cuts. A cut above a Subway sandwich.
I'm giving the place Three Burps. I'd call it a rough and ready hangout for anyone out on the town looking for a full belly and not too choosy about what they fill it with. They open at 7 for breakfast, too. I can see doing breakfast there the next time Nathan Draper comes to town on a flying visit from Thailand; he always wants to spend the whole day with me but his wife always whittles it down to 2 hours in the morning -- so we'll hang out at Rocco's and feel like a couple of Wise Guys while we nosh bagels and lox.



The Lord of the Books

"Whether our testimony of the Book of Mormon comes the first time we open it or over a period of time, it will influence us all of our days if we continue to read it and apply its teachings."    LeGrand R. Curtis Jr. 

The Lord of the Books, you might say;
its power is felt every day.
When read with belief
it brings great relief;
its words are a map of God's way. 


Sunday, November 20, 2016

En Strengen av Perler: The Torkildson Family Reunion.

My family genealogy indicates that there were sturdy pioneers on both sides who broke the sod in the Dakotas, roughing it with mud and wattle huts and rude campfires until they could afford the time and money to put up brick and cement domiciles — which they promptly moved into and never again showed the least sign of moving out of to enjoy Mother Nature’s wonders. They’d had enough of her blizzards and locusts, droughts and floods, mosquitoes and sunstroke. Indoor plumbing spelled the death of the outdoorsy spirit for the Torkildsons. 
No surprise, then, that my parents, the direct descendants of these pioneers, had no sympathy toward my childhood requests to go camping. What? Leave their comfortable home — with its modern kitchen, entertaining television, and cozy beds — for the howling wilderness? Not on your wet bar, kiddo! 
This makes it all the more mystifying as to why my parents and some of my aunts and uncles one day decided to go to a state park 50 miles away for a weekend of camping.  When I goggled in disbelief at the announced trek, I was told to stop making funny faces and help pack the car. We were having what is technically known as a family reunion.
Tents were still made of bulky canvas in those years, and so our family’s tent, even when folded and sat on by the entire family, barely fit into the trunk of the car. Everything else had to be packed around us kids in the back seat. I was wedged in so tightly that when we arrived at the campsite, it took two grown men, my dad and Uncle Jim, to pull me out — accompanied by an avalance of Coleman lanterns and mosquito coils.
The initial set-up was rather fun. I got to pound metal pegs into the ground with a bung starter that my dad had liberated from Aarone's Bar and Grill.
But then Aunt Cecelia took over, and everything went to the devil.
Aunt Cecelia was Uncle Jim’s wife. She was not Scandinavian in the least, unlike the rest of the family. She was of determined Bohemian stock, and the blood of Jan Hus, along with his itch to reform everything, ran in her pudgy veins. She immediately deputized all the men to go fishing, so we could enjoy a fish fry that night. It was an overcast day, with an occasional drizzle and a stout breeze. Not a good day for angling. But Aunt Cecelia overruled the menfolk and sent them on their way to the nearby river with a flea in their ear.
They caught nothing. But they were not unduly worried, since they had brought along a case of Hamm’s beer with their tackle, consuming it studiously as they waited for a nibble. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, a tornado roaring through the camp would not have unduly worried them by the time they unsteadily returned from the river.
In the meantime, Aunt Cecelia had asked the phlegmatic park ranger where the ‘powder room’ was, and had been shown a ghastly tin shack with fat blue flies buzzing around it like an aerodrome. There was nothing quaint or rustic about it, especially the odor, and Aunt Cecelia immediately set up a to-do that caused pine cones to fall in heaps from the nearby conifers. She attempted to corral the women into cleaning up the pestilential place, but they were made of sterner stuff than their menfolk. They mutinied. They were not going to spend their time swabbing out toilets — they had enough of that at home!
While Aunt Cecelia fumed, they built a jolly great bonfire and got all us kids sticks so we could roast wieners and marshmallows.
When the men finally returned with not even a carp to show for their efforts, everyone was inclined to shrug their shoulders and let it go; there were plenty of cans of pork-and-beans and a dozen loaves of Wonder bread (and another whole case of Hamm’s surreptitiously tucked under the sleeping bags). Beans, bread, and some rousing choruses of the Crow Song (Krakevisa, in Norwegian), and we could call it a successful family reunion even though it was starting to drizzle steadily.
But Aunt Cecelia, balked of her sanitary crusade, flung aside the sleeping bags, clamped on to the case of beer, bundled it down to the river, and threw it in. Then she demanded that we all pack up and go to Jax Cafe back in Nordeast Minneapolis for a proper meal of prime rib and baked potatoes. 
Confusion and discord followed. Uncle Jim glumly began packing up his family’s gear, as did several others, but a few hardy souls refused to budge and declared their intention of sticking it out for another day, and Aunt Cecelia could take her bossy ways and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. You betcha!
My dad wanted to go home, but Mom had her dander up now and told us we would stay the night — especially since the reservation fee for the campsite was nonrefundable.
"Ungkarer er heldig" my dad kept muttering to himself as the drizzle turned into a cold steady rain.
Our tent, which had been hastily purchased at an Army/Navy Surplus store just prior to the outing, was as porous as a sponge. And the rain continued the next morning.
We returned home cold and hungry.
There have been other family reunions since that time — but none of them have been held anywhere near the outdoors, or very far away from Jax Cafe -- they offered a complimentary schooner of Hamm's with every roast chicken dinner.  


Truth is the Prism

Truth is the prism through which we may see
the colors of God's sweet variety. 
To spurn any color because of its hue
won't lessen God's grandeur, but only our view. 


Murdering the Prophets

  And the regulations of the government were destroyed, because of the secret combination of the friends and kindreds of those who murdered the prophets.
3 Nephi 7:6
I murder the prophets whenever I cease
to live with my brothers in goodwill and peace.
I put them to death when I choose to behave
in carnal frenzy or as cunning knave.
Their lives have no meaning to me if I fail
to heed them and put my own soul up for sale.
God help me remember all prophets today,
and support ev'ry ruler who follows Thy way!