Letter from my Missionary Daughter

Hi everybody!!

I'm super excited, because this week I get to leave for California!! I'll be heading out on Tuesday in the morning, and will get to call my family before I go, so I'm extra excited for that :)

It hasn't quite hit me that I'll be leaving the MTC... I haven't packed any of my stuff, but that's okay because it's apparently tradition to pack an hour before you leave ;) Just kidding, but I am sort of in denial. Only a few of the people in my district are going to Irvine with me, and the rest are going to Reno and San Diego. It's going to be hard separating from my second family, but the Lord's work must go on, and I'm really really excited to be able to get to help. 

This week probably the most important thing I've learned is a lesson in humility and listening. I thought initially that I was a good listener; but when I think about it now, I'm pretty sure I was just good at being silent and not necessarily listening to what others have to say. We were in a lesson with an investigator, and I thought that it had gone well...or at least not terrible. We talked about the restoration of the church through Joseph Smith, and his experience of the First Vision. That's kind of what we had planned in the first place, but I think I was more talking AT the investigator than listening TO them and what needs they had. So anyway, we finished and I felt pretty okay with what we had talked about. Also, every time we have a lesson, the investigator fills out a survey, then we fill out that same survey, but from their perspective, then we compare the two. When we got the survey back, it said that the investigator had felt uncomfortable, bored, and talked at. I felt angry at myself for being so clueless, because I had absolutely NO IDEA that she had felt that way in the lesson! I got really down on myself and I couldn't think about anything else but how I had messed up so bad. My companion tried to comfort me in her way, but I just kind of shut down and wouldn't talk. It came time for us to head to class, so we got up and headed to our room. I started to feel better as I focused on the gospel and not myself. I also realized that I am NOT a perfect teacher and I don't know everything and that that's okay. Then I got an email from a friend and that really helped to pick myself back up and go on. Just knowing that I had somebody out there who had felt as I had, was really comforting and felt like home. That was such a tender mercy from the Lord to me. On our next lesson with that particular investigator, I really tried hard to listen better and I learned a lot more about how she felt about God and her purpose in life. It was our last lesson with our MTC practice investigators, which is bitter-sweet. I loved getting to know these investigators and their concerns, but I am way excited to get out to California and get to know the people there and help bring them the gospel of Jesus Christ!

I don't have much time left, but I just want to let you all know how much it means to me to have a support system and to know that you all are still out there, alive and happy. Already the mission is hard, but it's been the best thing I've done in my life so far and I would not trade it for anything. 

Until next week, take care!

Sincerely,

Sister Torkildson

****************************************************

Dear Sister Torkildson;

I hope you are not going to be near any of those terrible brush fires that seem to be burning up half the state of California lately! Please address this issue in your next email, K?

Here are my latest Book of Mormon poems. I thought you might enjoy them:

". . . and became the devil, to rise no more."

to rise no more, the devil schemes

to take away all mankind's dreams.

the chains he carries evermore

he puts on us so we can't soar.

to soar above the bitter plain,

to leap beyond all present pain --

the Savior only this can give

if for him, by him, I will live! 

“Now, the Lamanites knew nothing concerning the Lord, nor the strength of the Lord, therefore they depended upon their own strength.”

Dependent on their own physique, the Lamanites did fail

To slay the Nephite armies and were forced to soon turn tail.

For when the saints are righteous and the Lord of Hosts responds,

No flesh and blood can ever send free people into bonds.

And from last General Conference:

“There is nothing to be gained in exploring the views and opinions of the less informed or disenchanted.”

Ian S. Arden

When thirsty I am not inclined some sour milk to drink,

Nor do I want a rotten piece of meat with all its stink.

I prefer a wholesome, fresh, and pure bit of cuisine

To provide good health and strength and keep my judgement keen.

And so my spirit hungers for the perfect word of God --

Not some caustic bilge that comes from crackpot or from fraud.

The fruit that I am after does not grow on poisoned trees,

No matter what the world may say my caution to appease.

Love, dad.

Headlines & Verse. Saturday December 9 2017. Trent Franks

Trent Franks, Accused of Offering $5 Million to Impregnate an Aide, Abruptly Resigns

A lawmaker said to his aide

“My dear, you’re a comely young maid.

I would be happy

To be a new pappy --

And you would be very well paid."

Actually, You Do Want to Know How This Italian Sausage Gets Made

A heedless young man of Verona

In curing shed smoked a corona.

The sausage turned green

From his nicotine --

He’s now a non grata persona.

Trump Hails Civil Rights ‘Heroes’ in Speech Some Black Leaders Boycotted

If you have a building to clear,

This news ought to bring you great cheer:

Have Trump give a talk,

And people will  balk

At staying unless there’s free beer.

How Amazon Picks Its Seemingly Random Deals of the Day

I never intended to buy

A thing from that Amazon sly --

It must be black art,

Cuz my shopping cart

Fills faster than Nixon could lie.

The Plumber's Gag

Bill Ballantine, the venerable Dean of the Ringling Clown College, was a writer and illustrator by trade. With a literary flourish, he nicknamed the Class of ‘72 “The Young Turks.” His reason for doing so was based on the fact that we were feeling our oats, grew too big for our britches, and generally ignored the tried and true Biblical warning that “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

Several of us First of Mays on the Blue Unit of Ringling that first season felt that we could come up with much better gags than the ones that Mark Anthony, Swede Johnson, Prince Paul, Dougie Ashton, and Otto Griebling assigned us to perform. Levoi Hipps, the boss clown that season, finally threw up his hands in despair at our constant whining and carping about the antiquity and unfunniness of our current buffooneries.

“Alright!” he hollered at us one day after the matinee. “Alright! If’n you think you can come up with a better ring gag than the ones you’re doing, I’ll put it in center ring -- dagnabbit! Go ahead and show us jest how high-larious you all can be!” And he stalked away to replace the worn baby shoes on his stilts with a new pair of white ones.

I rubbed my hands in glee at his challenge. NOW we’d show ‘em! I already had a wonderful gag vaguely planned out in my mind, and began to explain it to Chico, the Little Guy, Roofus T. Goofus, Rubber Neck, and Anchorface -- all of them as eager and anxious as I to show up the veteran clowns, who took so little notice of us that they didn’t even know our names. To them I was either ‘Smutch Finger’ or ‘Greaseball’ -- as in “Hey, Smutch Finger, better get started on blowing up the balloons for come in” or “Hey Greaseball, don’t powder so damn close to my trunk -- take it outside the alley, will ya?”  

We’d get this oversized toilet, see, and pretend to be plumbers like the Three Stooges and we’d fall into the darn thing and then at the end it would explode and we’d all run out of the ring with toilet plungers stuck to the top of our heads!

Sounded like a great gag to me. But strangely enough my compatriots had their doubts.

‘What ya gonna build a giant toilet out of?” asked Roofus T. Goofus. “Balsa wood or foam rubber or what? It’s gonna weigh a ton -- the roustabouts won’t wanna carry it in and out of the ring.”

“Kinda poor taste, dontcha think?” queried the Little Guy. “I mean, couldn’t we make it a bathtub instead?”

Chico liked the idea, but he wanted to put in too much ‘spaghetti.’  “Let’s have it shoot water at us and then we’ll put in a toilet paper fight!”

“You can’t make fun of plumbers” said Anchorface, whose old man actually was a plumber. “They got a real powerful union -- they could sue us!”

“Bah!” I retorted to one and all. “We can work out the kinks later. But first let’s build a prototype and get Levoi to let us put it in center ring for the next matinee!”

They all liked that word ‘prototype.’ It sounded scientific and encouraging. So we cobbled together something that looked like a cross between a Sherman tank and a bidet, using odds and ends of foam rubber and plywood, and held together with several miles of duct tape, and informed Mr. Hipps we were ready to make circus history. We didn’t really ever rehearse for it -- we figured our brilliant improvisational skills would provide a risible storyline. And we each had a hardware store red rubber plunger ready to stick on top of our heads for the blow off.

Giving us the stink eye, Levoi granted us permission to go into center ring after the rola bola act and try our luck. The veteran clowns merely shook their heads in tired silence. Damn fool kids -- they’ll probably kill themselves out there . . .

Bandmater Bill Prynne played us on with ‘Wedding of the Winds,’ as Roofus T. Goofus and I lugged our mammoth toilet out into center ring (the roustabouts would have nothing to do with it unless we paid them five bucks a show for the extra work.)

Then, to put it politely, everything went south. The turkey basters inside the toilet, designed to spritz us intermittently, sprang a leak, which not only caused the seams of foam rubber pieces to come unglued, but also ruined the black powder squibs so they didn’t explode at the end of the gag. The circus audience resolutely sat on their hands during our debacle, refusing to release a single titter. Finally, in extremis, we started pummeling each other with our toilet plungers and ran dispiritedly out of center ring backstage to a glowering Charlie Baumann, the Performance Director, who soundly berated us for bringing such deplorable infamy to the proud name of Ringling Brothers.

And did I learn a lesson from this embarrassing fiasco?  Actually . . . no. For the rest of my clown career I kept tinkering with new ideas and trying to build original clown props to titillate the audience. Most of what I came up with was pure dreck -- but once in a blue moon I’d hit upon a piece of whimsy that got a rise out of the fickle circus crowd, as well as my fellow jesters. And so clown alley old-timers today will tell you, if you give them half a chance, about the time old Tork built a pyramid of pop cans in center ring; or how he clipped a balloon on the back of Charlie Baumann’s tuxedo coat one day, and the fun that then ensued.  

Then again, they’re just as likely to tell you about the time I split my pants during the elephant manage number . . .

Headlines & Verse. Friday December 8 2017. Flu Vaccine Revealed as Effective in only 60% of Population

Too Many Children in California Can’t Read, Lawsuit Claims

Forgetting about ABC’s,

They’re teaching our children Burmese.

Or New Math equations

And other evasions

That leave our kids dumb as brick cheese.

Effectiveness of Flu Shot Is 60%—in a Good Year

From the Wall Street Journal

I thought that my flu shot was valid.

As certain as croutons in salad.

But now it’s revealed

As just a cracked shield --

I’m starting to feel a bit pallid . . .

Or

When getting a flu shot I guess

The virus with you can still mess.

Mutating betimes

It executes crimes

That leave you limp as watercress.

Jailed for a Text: China’s Censors Are Spying on Mobile Chat Groups

Consider the plight of poor Chen;

He texted a joke now and then.

The censors got wind

And so he was tinned,

And spent sev’ral days in the pen.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, Please Wake Up!

There once was a juror who snored

Whenever he felt very bored.

The judge in the case

Did also keep pace --

They both sawed enough for a cord.

And it came to pass that I beheld a tree

The tree we ought to celebrate this season of good cheer

Is not the winter pine on which we hang so much bright gear.

We ought instead to revel in the tree that Lehi saw

In vision when Jehovah led him to that field of awe.

Amidst the dark and dreary waste good timber stood ablaze

With fruit to quench the appetite and cure all grim malaise.

No barrier turned back the man who yearned for its sweet bliss.

Twas offered free to ev’ry soul who shunned the world’s abyss.

So as we decorate the evergreen beneath our roof,

It may be well to contemplate the joyous living proof

Of that other tree that once a prophet did behold

Which beckons all to come partake and thus emerge paroled.

All the damn quacks tell me why I am fat

All the damn quacks tell me why I am fat;

They think it’s white bread and a lot of Kit Kat.

Or else I need kumquats and twice daily boosters

Of fish oil mixed in with the blood of young roosters.

They pelt me with grapefruit and twelve step routines;

They want me to gobble just endive and beans.

Even my friends promise wondrous results

If I will join in their dieting cults.

Away with you, varlets! Begone, mountebanks!

This boyo was raised on canned beans and plump franks.

The reason I’m fat is because I’m not thin.

So stop with your yammering racketing din!

Headlines & Verse. Thursday December 7 2017. Al Franken Resigns.

Al Franken Announces He Plans to Resign

There was a young Senator, Al,

Who flirted with many a gal.

His boisterous fun

This moment has won

For him an unseated locale.

Is It Time for Teddy to Go? Better Call a Stuffed-Animal Exterminator

If you have a bear that’s stuffed

And want to have it quickly snuffed

Just call a teddy hatchet man

Who’ll dump ‘em in a mute trash can.

They take out bunnies and plush mutts;

But they don’t work for just peanuts.

So giving unicorns the boot

Is gonna cost you lots of loot.

Full of germs and allergens,

Stuffed toys are too hard to cleanse.

Better kids should ask Saint Nick

For Barbie dolls and pogo stick.

Hackers Steal $70 Million in Bitcoin

Such slippery treasures just prove

That wealth is a pawn to remove

From this place to that --

It’s really old hat;

As ancient as Minoan groove.

In Norway, Fighting the Culling of Reindeer With a Macabre Display of a Curtain of Skulls

Displaying of dry reindeer skulls

To protest continuing culls

Is not very smart --

Twould be better art

Displaying the lawmaker’s hulls.

Email to my daughter Madelaine

What’s cookin’, good lookin’?

Does it count as insomnia when you wake up at 3:30 a.m. because of hunger? I didn’t have any dinner last night. I’d gotten a breakfast burrito at Rancheritos across the street from the DI store here in Provo and gnawed at it all morning and into the afternoon yesterday until about 3 -- they really stuff ‘em with potatoes, eggs, cheese, and bacon -- and so had no appetite for dinner. Now my stomach is growling, demanding the sacrifice of a toasted bagel with cream cheese or perhaps a steaming bowl of ramen noodles with 2 soft boiled eggs floating in it. But before I can have anything, there are several pills I have to take on an empty stomach, and then wait an hour before eating anything. I just took the dratted pills, so to wile away the time until I can stuff my face I can either go back to bed or write to you. Lucky you . . . I’ve decided to go back to bed -- no, wait! I mean I’ve decided to write to you . . .

I have lots of fascinating facts and figures about my declining health to share -- but strangely enough I find that people don’t hang on my every word when I describe in great detail my hemorrhoids anymore -- so I will skip the medical bulletin once again. Although I have several unique conditions that continue to baffle medical science -- they are probably going to name a bacillus after me.

Sarah and the kids are coming over for lunch today. Last week she was telling me how much she loves green beans and just doesn’t get enough of them. So I decided to create a green bean casserole for my slow cooker and have her over. It’s a simple recipe: a pound of fresh green beans, a link of sliced kielbasa smoked sausage, diced mushrooms, sliced carrots, a cup of cooking wine, and a can of diced tomatoes. They go in the slow cooker for 4 hours on high, and voila! You have a mess of soggy green beans and sausage to serve over egg noodles. What makes this upcoming meal so interesting is that Sarah’s in-laws are visiting for the Holiday, and she said she may bring her mom and dad in-laws along for lunch, too. Fine by me -- the more the merrier, says I. But since they’re Italian they may actually expect a decent meal, so I’m going to go over to Fresh Market this morning to get some artisan bread and fancy-schmancy goat cheese so they have something elegant to nibble on in case the green bean casserole goes south. Better get a bottle of those outrageously priced Kalamata black olives, too.

Sarah’s green bean casserole is the last meal for guests I’m making for a while. The obsession to cook for others has left me as suddenly as it came. I’ll let the slow cooker and the stock pot gather dust while I pursue my new obsession -- ordering a different meal every morning at Rancheritos. It is possible to eat 28 different combo platters there, all under ten dollars and including refried beans and Spanish rice, with lots of shredded lettuce. And they have a nice little sides buffet where I can get all the cilantro, diced onion, pickled carrots with jalapeno peppers, limes, sliced radishes, pickled prickly pear cactus, pico de gallo, and red & green sauces that I want. In other words, for Christmas this year I’m gifting myself with Mexican heartburn.

Since I’m rambling on about my absurd obsessions, I might as well describe the other one that captured my fancy yesterday.

As I was swimming at the Provo Rec Center it entered my head that I should send a batch of Christmas cards this year to the newspaper reporters who have consistently championed my light verse by sending me encouraging and complimentary emails. By the time I was soaking in the hot tub with a bevy of sagging blondes after our aquatic aerobics class, I knew I had to act on that impulse immediately, or die in the attempt.

So I took the #850 bus down to the Big Lots store for a five-dollar carton of 18 Christmas cards (as well as a small jar of capers that was on sale for $1.50.) I stopped at Macey's for a book of stamps (and to put some money on my Rider’s Pass for the bus -- I’m still paying $2.50 per ride because I can’t get the Senior discount until I turn 65 next September.) Then I stopped at the Dollar Tree for some Tea Tree Foot Cream (they were all sold out) and a wad of oversize play money. Then I went to Rancheritos and ate a third of my burrito there, wrapping the rest up in a plastic bag to bring back home. Then went to DI to buy a book (and also a cute little man doll for 75 cents that says things like “Honey, let me do the dishes tonight” and “Sweetheart, can’t your parents stay another week?”   I’m going to give it to Sarah.

Here is the list of reporters I sent the cards to -- each card included some play money, and I wrote in each card “Hope you enjoy the Hush money.”

1. Matthew Goldstein. NYTimes
2. Michael Wilson. NYTimes
3. Maura Judkis. Washington Post
4. Corey Kilgannon. NYTimes
5. Tom Meersman. Mpls Star Tribune
6. Liam Stack. NYTimes
7. Ruth Eglash. Washington Post
8. Peter Baker. NYTimes
9. Janet Moore. Star Tribune
10. Jo Craven McGinty. Wall Street Journal
11. Amy Argetsinger. Washington Post
12. Penelope Green. NYTimes
13. Saabira Chaudhuri. Wall Street Journal
14. Joseph Palazzolo. Wall Street Journal
15. Donald McNeil. NYTimes
16. Patrick Coolican. Star Tribune
17. Andrew Ackerman. Wall Street Journal
18. Kathleen Pender. San Francisco Chronicle

It took me all afternoon to get the cards addressed, signed, and stamped, and by the end of it I keenly regretted giving in to my obsession. The arthritis in my fingers was killing me. I could barely turn the pages of the book I’m currently reading, Annals of the Former World, by John McPhee.

Oh well, it’s over and done with now. And I have no obsessions bedeviling me this morning -- except, of course, what to feed the High Priest Group Leadership this evening when we meet at my place for our weekly confab. I’m the secretary for them. And the host. And I’m obsessed with serving them something that they will eat up and then lick their fingers in appreciation. So far the most successful hors d'oeuvres I’ve served have been Cheetos and donuts. But such a plebian offering hardly satisfies my desire for elegance and a distinctive dining experience. I’m thinking about offering a variety platter of crackers with various toppings -- such as braunschweiger with sweet pickle chips; cream cheese with capers; Velveeta with pickled jalapenos . . .

Ah, the hour is nearly up -- now I can eat my breakfast! I’m beginning to lean towards a cheese omelette with a toasted bagel. I bought several bagels on Monday, having one for b’fast and saving one for my lunch and one more for my lunch guest Phil Hinckley. But he brought over a loaf of cornbread and wanted to eat that with his lunch, not the bagel I had gotten him. Yesterday I had the Rancheritos burrito so I didn’t have room for the bagel. And now it sits in the kitchen, growing staler and dryer by the minute. But it should still be okay if I toast and butter it.

Here’s hoping you avoid any Seasonal Affective Disorder. I feel a touch of it myself these days -- so I’m pricing light boxes with Storis. The Mayo Clinic website says they really help if you use them first thing in the morning.

May all your days be filled with emoticons, my little hellebore.  

Amantis patris tui.