The Raft

Note from Kathy's daughter: Today is my dad's birthday. I visited my mom's blog to share something with my missionary nephew and I saw that I never published this story. It's half mom's and half my memories of what mom would say. For those of you who had the privilege to hear this in person, can you see the two-man raft that she had propped up against the pulpit? That's how she rolled. Enjoy.


This is one of those stories that I've been telling forever.

I can't recall if I've written it down somewhere.

Too many classrooms to count have been subjected to it, in and out of the church.  I've told it at a stake conference and at a high school assembly when they couldn't get a real speaker.

It's now been willed to my two youngest daughters who occasionally afflict it upon their students when the situation seems to require such an affliction.

I've had special trouble getting this story written because like "Francine the Fish," it requires a whole lot of dramatic eye rolling, arm waving, and horror stricken looks.  Plus, I even have the audience stand at one point, search behind them for an invisible raft, and turn slowing around before sitting down again.

Writing these physical elements is troublesome because, with my feeble skills, I can't get words on paper to convey the meaning body language carries.

After all, it's said that 90% of all communication is done without speaking.

I think that's absolutely true. We use shrugs, winces, disgusted looks, tone, winks....that sort of thing.
That thought leads me to go off on a tangent as I often did in the classroom.

Think of all the different meanings a kiss can have for instance.
Depending on the situation, that simple act has gone from sweet, tender, love to the most bitter betrayal of all time.
And what about a bouquet of flowers?
Was that, "Too bad you're sick," "Happy birthday," or "I did a bad thing"?
And garbage taken out "without asking" has always said "I love you" to me.

I'll never forget one of my high school seniors who had trouble understanding this puzzling aspect of being human, as many kids with learning disabilities do.
They often have trouble reading people "outside the lines" so to speak. Many times they think words alone are what counts most when in reality sometimes words don't count at all.
Unfortunately, this can make for trouble.

The trouble one time started with a young man's girlfriend who was "torqued" at him. (His term was not "torqued" but I changed it to be more delicate.)
Scotty couldn't figure out why she was mad.
All the students in my 7th period were boys, and the guys were trying to help him remember what he'd done wrong.

He'd asked her if he did something that "upset" her, (Upset wasn't his word here either. Delicacy change again)
She said, "No, Scott, of course you didn't do anything......you never do.... and I'm not mad!"
He believed what she said.
But she still wouldn't kiss him.
He didn't understand why. After all, he'd asked her if did something to make her mad and she said he didn't do anything and she wasn't mad.

Finally I could take the ignorance no longer.

"Wait a second fellas.  Scotty's girlfriend may have said she wasn't mad at him, but HOW she said it is the real story."
"Huh?" was the reply from the class.
I demonstrated,  giving several dramatic renditions of "You didn't do anything wrong and I'm not mad," with wildly different meanings.

When I finished, the whole class, all boys, looked at me with the most dumbstruck expressions.

Then one poor guy piped up.
"MZ Dub. Do you mean that when a girl says she's not mad....... or that she doesn't care if you go to the wrestling match instead of taking her to the movies.......or that you don't have to call her tomorrow..... that's not what she really means if she says it in a certain kind of way?!?!"

I truly felt sorry for them as I answered in my most sympathetic tone,
"Of course. Everybody knows that.
We'll have a lesson on reading voice, tone, and body language next week."
The whole class groaned and somebody threw an eraser at Scotty.

And now, here I am, an eye rolling, arm waving storyteller, stuck with only words.
Not to mention that this particular tale is much enhanced with large and cumbersome props like a four man inflatable raft which I once dragged onto a podium or large wooden oars which suffice in a pinch.
Yes indeed, I've found that storytelling and writing are very different ways to row to the same dock.
In any case, I've been asked, so here goes.
You all will have to help considerably with a vivid imagination.

One summer, many years ago, not long after school got out, I was blackmailed into being one of the chaperones on a rafting excursion through a canyon in Northern Arizona. I was much younger then, of course.
We were rewarding a bunch of high school kids for jobs well done during the school year.
Some idiot, I believe it was the football coach, thought a three day trip on rubber boats down a cold river would be just the reward kids would love most. Of course the students agreed.
After all they were teenagers whose brains had not finished developing yet. I admit sometimes wondering about the football coach.
Nevertheless, off we went.

Our school bus full of excited teenagers and terrified adults arrived at the river dock. A company of guides and river experts had been hired to provide all the particulars of the adventure. This included crude outdoor latrines with canvas walls and tiny one-man tents barely big enough for a sleeping bag.
The rollaway bed I'm used to when roughing it was nowhere in sight.

Anyway, off we went.
Laughing, noisy kids, expert guides, idiot coaches, and grumbling, reluctant chaperones all piled into three huge rubber rafts for a trip to remember.

The first two days went surprisingly well, I must admit.
The river was slow and smooth, running sometimes through shady groves of sycamore and cottonwood trees. The weather was hot and sunny but the water was cool and clear. Fish jumped, butterflies fluttered, dragonflies flitted. The kids swam and splashed in the deep pools
It was undeniably lovely.
We pulled over to set up camp each night. The guides skillfully prepared burgers and dogs over open fires while watermelons cooled in the shallows. Marshmallows were set ablaze from sticks as dessert.
I had to admit that I was wrong and the football coach was right. The whole experience had been great.                                            

Then, as dawn broke over the breakfast fire on our last day, a committee of kids came with a request to the adults.
They wanted to navigate their own rafts. Float their own boats.
They were sure they could handle everything well just as the guides been doing for the past two days. They wanted to try it on their own. Isn't that what all teenagers want?                                                 

The chaperones and guides conferred and it was decided to grant permission to the kid's request. The guides assured us that the last leg of our float should be free of any hazards.
So all the young people excitedly piled into the last two of the rafts and the old folks carefully climbed into the first.

All morning long things went very well. The lunch stop was to be our last meal together. As we floated peacefully along that afternoon we noticed that the rafts were getting strung out with the last one full of kids sometimes out of sight around bends in the river.  We could hear them though, with their stereos and singing blaring raucous rap sounds through the trees.They were having fun as teenagers should.

As the tired adults were looking all around for a nice area near the water to stop for lunch, the guides noticed a change in the terraine that was unexpected. The water had become brown and bumpy,and I became worried and silent. I listened (holding on to the side of the raft with a firm grip) to the conversation of the guides as they discussed what had happened to change the canyon water so dramatically. Their best guess was that a higher area was experiencing a great amount of rain and we were floating on the run-off that was full of dirt and debris. As they were discussing options, they noticed that the water ahead had unexpectedly split into two paths, leaving an island of sorts in the middle of the the two. As we all surveyed what was ahead, the guides began to scream to us to row as quickly as we could towards the water path on the right. Go Right! Go Right! We must go to the Right! Get to the shore on the right!

All of us furiously paddled, directing our boat as best we could through the choppy brown waters, I could tell that most of us were in silent fervent prayer- praying that we would all make it safely to shore. The two rafts with the adults managed to get to the right and bound out safely. We spilled out of the rafts and stood on shore for just a moment trying to catch our breath. All of us chapperones kind of wondering the same thing--What did the guides see that was so dangerous?

I looked around searching the landscape. And then I saw it.

All the blood drained from my face as I realized the danger that was up ahead. Seconds later, the adults started running back towards the boats of teenagers that would soon appear upstream. We started screaming, yelling, waving our hands and oars as we ran towards the sounds of bass heavy music and laughter coming closer and closer to us.

We could see the first raft of students in the distance. We screamed louder and jumped higher and waved our arms more vigorously. To the right! Go to the right! Go right! Pull over on the right!!!! As the kids came closer, a couple of them noticed us dancing wildly on the shores, turned down the music and hushed the group. After hearing our warnings, they quickly got their paddles in the water and directed their raft over to the right side of the water. They learned of danger ahead and began to run upstream with youthful strength to try and save their friends who were not far behind.

On the last raft, a couple of the teens seemed to be sunbathing or napping. A few of the boys were having a waterfight on the opposite edge of the boat, while a few more were having an oar-sword fight.  The harsh thumping music, which had questionable lyrics by the way, was playing at headache-causing decible level that mirrored the last high school dance I reluctantly chapperoned. We tried and tried to get their attention. Screaming, yelling, jumping, and waving broken tree branches in the air. A few of the adults even tried throwing chunks of wood onto their raft to get their attention.

It didn't work.

You see. What they didn't know; what they couldn't see ahead; was what the storm waters had done to that other side of the newly formed island. The waters had loosened the ground enough to allow a large powerpole to lean down over the rushing waters. The wires had snapped and were now violently flailing spark shooters hanging just above the left water path. Anything going along this side would almost certainly be burned. Electrocuted.

Now this is where my mom left the story. Marked as a draft on her blog.

There were key details that I knew she would include. The part where she would have you look back behind you to see the ones who are following you. She had yet to wrap it up and relate it to life in the brilliant way that only my mom does. I'm actually kind of mad she didn't. She left the toughest part.

There are many layers to this story--especially because it was told in several different setttings.

For my AVID students and those in the gymnasium in the white mountians, this story is about listening to coaches and caring adults in your life because they have been on the same path as you and have seen the dangers ahead. Listen to their warnings. Listen when they caution and repremand you. They are trying to save you from pain and heartache. If they are shouting from the shoreline, they still care about you and want whats best for you.

For the young women in her beehive class, this story is about listening to the warnings of Prophets and Apostles as they lead us through our journey here on earth. They give us guidance through scriptures and conference talks that help us in our day, in our circumstances. Do we listen? Do we study the scriptures? Or do we turn up the world louder and drown out their voices?

For those attending the Regional Fireside, this story is about the Savior. And His constant plea for us to follow His path and choose the right. He has placed many along the shores to warn us and even has given us the Holy Ghost to help us hear and commit to his directions. Do we turn off the radio and watch for Jesus daily? Do we seek out time with the Savior and try to learn of Him, and follow him? Do we look ahead to see those who are placed in our lives by Him to help us ultimately navigate the treachorous waters? Are we trying to be like Jesus?

My mom said that once after she shared this story at a stake event, a young woman came up to her afterwards and asked her if it was true. Her reply was classic mom, with a wisdom that I was envious of even at a young age. "It happens every day."




                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Truth

*Note: This entry was left unpublished for some reason. I'm not sure why my mom, Kathy, felt it wasn't ready yet. I suspect she wanted to rearrange the order of things. I think it is fitting to publish this on the eve of The Raggedy Old Convert's funeral. Tomorrow she will be buried with her sweetheart and we will have these stories to cherish for generations. What a wonderful gift to be left by such a wonderful lady! We love you Mom.





God, our Eternal Father, has promised us these things.
He ALWAYS keeps His promises.

Good will conquer evil.
Health will replace illness.
Every mind and body shall be healed.
All pain will end.
Light will banish darkness.
Smiles will replace tears.
Beauty will banish ugliness.
Kindness will take the place of cruelty.
Every temptation will be overcome.
Courage will fill every heart.
Industry will take the place of laziness.
Love will vanquish hatred.
Learning will be loved.
Intelligence will replace stupidity.
Families will be united.
Loved ones will be held tight in joy.
Eternal light will fill the universe.
We will see God and feel His love.
We will see the Savior and feel His love.
We will see our Heavenly Mother and feel Her love.
We will all honor the Priesthood.
We will truly love all others as our brothers and sisters.
The lion will lie down with the lamb.
Christ will triumph over the adversary.
We will understand the Atonement.
The scriptures will be made clear.
Power will replace weakness.
A sure knowledge will banish all doubt.

CHRIST'S ETERNAL ATONEMENT WILL CONQUER EVERY FOE.

HIS LOVE WILL FILL EVERY HEART AND EVERY CORNER OF THE UNIVERSE.

The Sleeping Bag

*Note
I'm currently revising some old posts to be sure that I've used the correct name for the Lord's Church on earth today........The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.
*************

The Sleeping Bag

The two sometimes surly angels I live with have urged me to take action purging and sorting.
It seems they have issues with my drawers and closet shelves.
The angels read some sort of clutter control book and at my age they feel it's time for me to "cast away stones."

Alas, while sorting as I was directed to do, I happened upon several stories gathering electronic dust in a computer closet called "Docs."
They'd never been posted or needed repairs.
Kind of like that new skirt with the tags still on. It never did fit.

So after dusting, here's "The Sleeping Bag."

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

I have a confession to make.
As a convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints I've sometimes felt outside of all that it means to be a full-fledged member.
I know it's wrong to feel that way.
But now and then I felt as though I was looking in through a window at strangers whose lives were so very different from the one I'd known growing up.

I thought that all the "real" Latter Day Saint women had mothers who taught their daughters to bake bread and sew quilts.
Or that domestic skills were genetic traits packed into handcarts and passed down from ancestors.

I figured that I must have come from the shallow end of the gene pool because my mother taught me whether olives, lemon twists or tiny onions were best for martinis.

Intellectually I knew that it was wrong to feel like an outsider.
We're a church made up of millions of converts after all, every one of them a beloved son or daughter of Heavenly Father.
I knew I was a beloved daughter.
Nevertheless, there I was, often feeling on the fringe.

The problem for me was cultural, I think.
Almost a culture shock, if you will.

Well, I was surprised to find out that I wasn't the only one getting buzzed.

Even our youngest daughters admit to having these fleeting feelings, which is surprising since they were both born in the Church.

But looking back over the years, I do remember hearing them make remarks like,"Whoo hoo, look at you!" if they walked into their older sister's house to find her baking homemade yeast rolls.
She'd learned to make them in Relief Society.

They certainly didn't mean this in a mocking or negative way.
And they knew that homemade rolls don't have any religious significance.
It's just that yeast never made it into our shopping cart. Yeast wasn't part of our  culture.
Crescents from a can were as cultured as it got around our house.

Then our family moved from the big city in the desert to our beloved little town in the Arizona mountains.

Things changed.

There we found ourselves thrust right into the middle of a tight knit group of what we considered really "hard core" Latter-day Saints.

Our new hometown was chocked full of members of the Church.
Many of these wonderful mountain folks were descended from ancestors who came across the plains pulling handcarts, I'm sure.

Hardy souls, these were, with skills difficult to fathom for city slickers like us. Self reliance took on a whole new dimension at mountain altitudes.

These folks worked hard at jobs all day and then came home to grow, can, dry, and freeze their own food.
They raised, fished or hunted meat. They butchered it themselves.
And the necessities of life were obtained not only with credit cards, as we did, but with guns, bows, arrows, and fishing rods.

Both the men and women possessed amazing cooking skills.

More than once I've witnessed huge pits dug into meadows, then blazing fires started inside them and left to burn down to coals.
Enormous quantities of beef, chicken and pork were lowered down into the pits in huge black pots.
Then they were buried to be dug up later.

Cauldrons of home grown sweet corn, beans and peach cobbler bubbled on smaller fires nearby.
Yeast rolls perched on top of those cauldrons. There they baked surrounded by glowing coals.
Yes, you heard right.
Yeast in a meadow!

As the sun went down hundreds of hungry people came to feast.

I remember too, one sweet sister who made a six tier wedding cake that looked like a magazine picture. Exquisite roses and doves covered every inch.

Her friend, who was helping, explained to me that this can easily be accomplished using ten boxes of white cake mix for the base if you need to take shortcuts.
Bless her heart, she actually thought I might need this information someday!

The brothers built their own houses.
They did all the carpentry, plumbing, bricklaying and electrical themselves, of course.
Cars, snowblowers, chain saws and anything else with an engine was repaired at home.
Wood was used for winter warmth, and after chopping their own, they always left a cord or two for widows or those who were laid up.

I remember that we once had a huge Ponderosa pine that was a hazard growing too close to our house and garage.
Something had to be done.
So after much research into expensive options, we were told by someone in the ward to get the elementary school principal to come chop it down for us. He could drop it on a dime we were told.
He did.
Then he made neat cords of wood to dry for us or to haul off to town for some other person's future winter.
The only pay he wanted was man junk from Larry's garage.

Many of the sisters had amazing sewing skills, making everything from wedding dresses to men's suits to band uniforms.
I once complimented a student of mine on a beautiful quilted jacket she wore after Christmas break. I asked if she'd mind seeing what department store it had come from because I wanted to get one for my oldest daughter.
She looked at me oddly and said, "My mom made it. But she can show you how."

Sadly too, we learned that when the time called for it, these amazing saints even tenderly crafted coffins for loved ones who had been called home.

Well, inadequate doesn't begin to describe my feelings. My self esteem was in shatters.
No way could I ever fit in with this bunch!

Then a member of the Relief Society Presidency and the Bishop did something that changed my mind.

One week I sat in Relief Society meeting as the sister up front began to talk about some tragedy that had happened on the other side of the world.
An earthquake or something had destroyed people's homes.
Winter was coming on. Little children and old people would be cold.

The stake had asked the sisters in each ward to donate their time, means and talents to make warm quilts to help those in such dire need.
A sign-up sheet was being passed down the rows of sisters.

In the heat of the moment I signed up.
I regretted my decision before the clipboard even got to the end of the row!

What in the world was I thinking?
I didn't know how to make a quilt!
All these other sisters could whip up some sort of "Texas Wedding Ring," "Log Cabiny" gorgeousness in their sleep!
I'd be a laughing stock for sure.

Well, it was too late now as I saw the Relief Society President pick up the clipboard.
So I went home to research the possibilities.

I learned about a blankety comforter-like thing that you could make using two sheets with some stuffing in the middle.
You tied it with yarn snippets.
The directions said it was easy.

Okay....maybe this was possible.
That was the plan then. I'd get on it right away.

In the meantime a table appeared outside the Relief Society Room door. Beautiful handmade quilts began to appear in stacks on top.
A glitter embellished sign explaining the project hung on the wall above.
Each week more and more lovely works of art began to appear. They draped over the table and were stacked on the floor around it.

My heart sank every time I passed that table.

I was going to have to get moving on this soon!
Procrastination wasn't helping matters.

That old Mark Twain quote, "If you have to swallow a frog it's best not to stare at him too long first," began to shake its metaphorical finger at me at the oddest times.

Finally, one dreadful Sunday the announcement was made that the project would end week after next.
I hadn't even started!

"Not to panic!" I thought desperately.
I knew our family would be heading the 37 miles down the mountain to the big box store on Saturday.
I'd get all the supplies then and have a week to finish. It said it was easy!

Saturday came, we arrived for our shopping as usual, split up at the door, each of us with our shopping assignments and separate carts.

I headed to the sewing department for batting, needles, pins, thread, yarn and then on to the sheets.
As I was throwing another roll of batting into my cart, life began to seem overwhelming, not to mention expensive.

Only a week to get all this done.  Wifeing, mothering and teaching full time to boot.
I dejectedly rolled on to the checkout line resigned to my fate. The wheel on my cart wobbled.
It was my own stupid fault!

But just then a tender mercy bestowed itself gently from above.

As I pushed my cart toward my doom I came across a huge bin practically blocking the entire aisle. There was a giant red "SALE!" sign above it.

The bin was overflowing with sleeping bags.

I slowed down. I slowed some more. Then I stopped.

"Sleeping bags were warm," I thought.
"Sleeping bags were probably just as warm as a quilt in fact.  These were nice thick ones with a zipper.
Not so beautiful as a quilt maybe........but wait.......here was a really thick, red one with a SuperHero on the front.
A kid might think that a thick, red, warm, sleeping bag with a SuperHero on it was beautiful!"

I opened it up and spread it out.

" A kid WOULD think this is beautiful!!" I thought joyfully as I examined the bright colors on the SuperHero's cape.

I threw it into my cart and headed back to the sewing department to put the batting, yarn, thread, pins and needles back. Then on to return the sheets.

The next day we arrived at church early so I could sneak into the hall and make my contribution without getting caught.
I got down on the floor and was putting the sleeping bag way underneath the table when the door to the Relief Society Room opened.

One of the sisters in the presidency stuck her head out, saw what I was doing, smiled, and said, "Thank you."
I mumbled something and dashed off to the chapel.
"Well, at least that was over." I sighed.

A couple of weeks later, in Sacrament meeting, the Bishop got up to give the announcements.
He began by telling the members about the tragedy in the faraway land. About how the people had lost their homes and that winter was coming on. Children and old people would be cold unless someone helped. He explained that the sisters in the stake had been asked to donate their time, means, and talent to make warm quilts for them.
He told how proud he was of our ward's generous response and contribution.

He said, "All the members of our ward will be proud to know that our wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, nieces and friends have donated thirty-seven beautiful handmade quilts to keep people warm this winter!"

"Oh wait"... he paused...."here's a note...."
He stopped to read before going on.
"Correction" he continued......"that's thirty seven beautiful quilts ......plus one warm, red, Superhero sleeping bag. Thank you so much sisters."

The sister from Relief Society was sitting just two rows in front of us. She turned to smile at me.

A minute later my husband looked at me questioningly.
Then he whispered, "Why are you crying?"
I just shook my head at him.

I was crying because in that moment I knew that the Lord and His Church had accepted my efforts.
What I could do was what I should do.

It didn't matter that other people could do more. I was supposed to help too, in whatever way I could. It was enough. And it did help!

Some kid really would like the warm, red, Superhero sleeping bag. His life would be better because of it.
A kid on the other side of the world, someone who had lost his home maybe, would be warmer because of something I was able to give.

The Relief Society sister was trying to send me this message when she gave the note to the Bishop, of course.
I'll never forget her smile.

And I've felt a lot less like an outsider ever since.

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

"Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the Lord our God, which He hath given thee."

Deuteronomy 16:17