As Lambs to His Fold, Page 7

CHAPTER SIX

  Days Of Summer Glory....

  “Lee’triss, how do angels fly? You know, without wings?”

  In spite of what we had seen in various pictures, we knew that angels did not have wings. Joseph Smith had said so. And he ought to know. He’d seen plenty of angels.

  “Well,” said Leatrice thoughtfully, “maybe it isn’t flying — maybe it’s more like swimming — sort of a dog paddle.”

  __________

  Summer had waltzed upon the stage, and strawberries were ripe. Leatrice and I had very efficient stomachs, and we could eat almost as much of the luscious fruit as we were sent out to pick. Then, with scarcely a pause, we could sit down to an ample meal topped off with a strawberry dessert — perhaps strawberry shortcake piled with whipped cream; or, maybe, Grandma’s wonderful strawberry and rhubarb pie. And, in addition, there was always home-baked bread with butter and strawberry jam.

  Swallowing a bite of shortcake, I concluded that there had to be strawberries in heaven. Then, remembering that crawling along the rows to pick them was hard work, I added the hope that they would be the kind that jumped off the stems and picked themselves.

  One of our favorite people was Brother Sheen, Welcome’s policeman. There was very little crime in our town, and Brother Sheen mostly spent his time walking around stopping people from littering the sidewalks or loitering on the grass.

  I don’t know what Brother Sheen would have done if there had been any serious breaking of the law. He said that the outlaw, Butch Cassidy, rode through town once, but he was off fishing and didn’t get to see him.

  Brother Sheen had a little game he liked to play with us. We were delighted and entered into the make-believe enthusiastically.

  “Well, well!” he would say as he approached, stomach pointing forward, feet pointing out. “Public Enemies One an’ Two. What crimes have ye been committin’?”

  “None!” we would shout gleefully.

  “Lemme see yer hands.”

  We would extend our grimy paws.

  “Aha! That looks suspiciously like coal dust. Yep, coal dust, as sure as I’m alive. And all over yer faces, too. I’ll bet,” Brother Sheen would scowl fiercely, “I’ll bet ye’ve been robbin’ trains!”

  “No!” we would exclaim with delight.

  He’d shake his head. “Yer guilty, no two ways about it.”

  Sometimes he would accuse us of breaking into the Welcome Bank and stealing all the money or of holding Miss Perkins, the town librarian, for ransom and demanding a million jelly beans for her release.

  As we dissolved in laughter, Brother Sheen would tap us on the head with his stick and say, “Well, as me old mither usta’ say, ‘If ye can’t be safe, be careful!”

  He would stroll off, swinging his stick and whistling.

  Another citizen of Welcome, not so popular with us as Brother Sheen, was Ben Gracey, who owned the Mile-a-Minute Garage and Gasoline Service. Ben had two gas pumps, one that said REGULAR and one that said ETHYL.

  We had asked him one day, “Mr. Gracey, what does ETHYL mean?”

  “Wal,” he said, leaning against the pump and crossing one skinny leg over the other, “yuh know, there’s this-here woman name of Ethyl, lives down amongst the oil fields in Texas. Great big gal, stomps around them oil rigs wearin’ boots an’ a ten-gallon hat. Inspects the oil bein’ pumped outta the ground. Says, ‘This-here’s good oil. Put muh name on it;’ er else, ‘This-here oil’s no good. Don’t put muh name on that.’ So, when it’s made inta’ gasoline, yuh know it’s good if it’s got Ethyl’s name right there on the pump.”

  I was enchanted with Ben’s description of Ethyl. When I went with Daddy the next time to get our car filled with gas, I begged him to buy Ethyl’s gasoline.

  But, Daddy didn’t seem to understand about Ethyl. He said “That’s enough, Beth. The twenty-cent gas is good enough for this flivver. Fill it up, Ben.”

  Ben Gracey stood leaning on the pump, picking his teeth and grinning. And I felt mortified at what Ethyl would think if she knew how cheap my father was.

  I made the mistake of telling Irene about Ethyl. She let out a whoop and went to tell Dorajean. They didn’t quit for a week reminding Leatrice and me how dumb we’d been.

  We couldn’t decide whether to be madder at them or Ben Gracey.

  __________

  On Grandpa’s farm, we mostly ignored the animals, except for a few that we dearly loved: a sheep and some rabbits. They had reminded us of people we were fond of. The sheep we named Sister Woolsey; the rabbits were Brother and Sister Hopper.

  Leatrice and I had been walking home from school one snowy afternoon when some boys started pelting us with snowballs. I wasn’t surprised that one of our tormentors was Norman Higpen.

  We tried to retaliate, but our aim fell short. What we got in return was a blizzard of hard-packed snow right in our faces. We ran, but they followed, keeping up a barrage of misery on us.

  Norman threw a particularly hard ball, and it and it hit me so hard I collapsed in a snow bank.

  I yelled, “You ignorant Amos!”

  Leatrice shouted, “You guys won’t come forth in the First Resurrection!”

  They just hooted and ran off.

  I lay there bawling.

  Leatrice was crying, too, pulling on my arm and saying, “Get up, Bethy. You got to get up, or you’ll freeze to death!”

  I was floundering in the snow, trying to rise and at the same time wipe my runny nose on my sleeve, when out of a nearby house came the real Sister Woolsey. She helped me up, and she brushed me off, and then she invited both of us into her house. Sister Woolsey was round and soft, a bit like Grandma; but she had beautiful, light-brown hair that she wore in a coil on the back of her head. It looked like a delicious cinnamon bun.

  She smelled like cinnamon, too, and other spices. She sat us down and gave us hot cocoa and raisin cookies, warm from the oven. I was as grateful as though she had really saved my life.

  Sister Woolsey (the sheep) had a long, dignified face. She looked as though she was about to trot up to the pulpit and bear her testimony. Every summer she had her wool clipped off, after which she looked shorn and skinny, but somehow relieved to be rid of her hot coat. The wool went to the mill to become blankets. On one occasion, I tried to ride Sister Woolsey. It looked easy. She had a nice, broad, soft-appearing back. I climbed on, and Leatrice gave her a whack on the behind. Sister Woolsey took off like a rocket; and I fell into a patch of stinging nettles. Irene said it served me right for abusing an animal.

  I said I wasn’t abusing her — just trying to ride her.

  Brother and Sister Hopper (the humans) had a farm out in the valley. Each Halloween they would come into town with a wagon full of pumpkins for all the kids. Then they’d take us all for a hay ride. We’d ride around the valley, singing songs like, “Shine On, Harvest Moon.” We’d end up at the Hopper farm, and Sister Hopper would be waiting with cider and doughnuts.

  Brother and Sister Hopper (the rabbits) were just beautiful, I thought, with their soft, white fur and dear, little pink eyes like cherry drops. If we asked, Grandpa would let us open the hutch and lift Brother and Sister Hopper out on the grass. They acted so glad to be out they almost went crazy, and they would race around with their hind legs going before their front ones. And they would run in circles and play leapfrog over each other. We would feed them carrots and lettuce, which they would chomp joyfully with their big, white teeth. We had been surprised and delighted one day to find baby rabbits in the hutch with Brother and Sister Hopper — tiny copies of their parents, with long ears and darling, little, white tails. Sister Hopper was a good mother. She must have known that there was going to be a blessed event. Why, even before the baby rabbits came, she had pulled out some clumps of her soft, white fur to make a little bed for them.

  “Lee’triss, where’d’ you think baby rabbits come from?”

  “From heaven,” she said promptly. “An angel brings ‘em.”

  I lay
back on the grass, picturing all those darling baby rabbits being lowered from heaven in a beribboned Easter basket.

  Our conjectures took another turn when, a day or so later, Leatrice and I were sitting on her front steps working over a pearl necklace Grandma had given us. She had been cleaning out some drawers while we looked on and had asked us if we would like to have it. Oh, boy! But we had discovered that the necklace was not made of real pearls, but of little metal beads coated with wax.

  Now we were busy scraping the wax off the beads and chewing on it. Our mothers were sitting on the porch behind us. Mamma was in the rocking chair knitting; Aunt Mabel was shelling peas.

  We heard Mamma say, “When is the Knutsen baby due?”

  “Any day now, I understand,” said Aunt Mabel.

  The Knutsen baby? How did Mamma, and Aunt Mabel, and — most important of all, the Knutsens — know a baby was about to arrive?

  Leatrice and I strolled away. When we were out of ear-shot, I whispered, “Lee’triss, do you s’pose angels bring people babies, too?”

  “Bound to,” she said.

  We had tired of playing with Grandma’s phony pearl necklace. We hung it around the neck of Dorajean’s cat, an ugly black, and white, and orange creature she called “Titty-Poo.” The cat ran off meowing and playing with it.

  We were tired of chewing on the wax, too. It didn’t taste very good, so we spit it out.

  Several days later, we happened to be passing the Knutsen place when we saw young Sister Knutsen coming down the steps, leaning on the arm of her husband.

  We heard him say, “Just hang on, dear. The baby will be here in a little while.”

  The baby was coming! Had the Knutsens gotten a sort of heavenly telegram informing them of the delivery?

  We watched as Brother and Sister Knutsen got into their car and drove off. But where were they going to pick up the baby?

  To the tabernacle, of course! Where else would angels come?

  So, down to the tabernacle we ran. We arrived puffing hard. But, where was the Knutsens’ car? No place that we could see. We went up to the tabernacle doors. They were locked. We banged and shouted. No one came. What was going on, anyway?

  “Lee’triss, where d’you think they’ve gone?”

  “Maybe to the temple.”

  That was the only other place we knew of where angels might come. But, the Manti Temple was miles away. We couldn’t possibly walk there. Disappointed, we shuffled home.

  That evening, as Mamma was preparing dinner, I asked her, “Mamma, where did the Knutsens go to get their baby?”

  “To the hospital, of course,” she said, busy scrubbing potatoes.

  To the hospital? That was the last place I’d expect angels to come. Well, to take people away, maybe; but not to bring them.

  The Knutsen baby was a large, healthy boy. When his parents brought him to church to be named and blessed, he was so lively that he almost sprang out of the hands that were holding him. He was caught by his christening dress, where he dangled until his father had finished blessing him.

  In later years, Calvin Knutsen entered the U.S. Army and became a parachute jumper.