The Day Before
(Monday, April 3rd, 2000)
Just as this day began, I was attempting to count to a thousand. Counting to a hundred is easy enough, but counting to a thousand takes a bit more numerical concentration than I am used to.
Finally I just gave up. Jared was asleep and the Academy was silent, so really, there was no reason for me to wait any longer. Unfortunately, a rumor had been about that I intended to go scandaling tonight—whence that rumor came, I know not. It must have been a deviant glimmer in my eye. The only person who knew the truth regarding my plans for the evening was trustworthy Lloydel, and I was certain he had not told. Indeed, for a long time I assumed he would be part of my scheme’s execution.
I was forced to bring Lloydel into my confidence some weeks before. My scheme involved twine, and twine was not available in Nauvoo. So I would have to purchase it elsewhere. The problem: I was not authorized to drive the Academy’s van. And so I needed to breach the plan with a driver. Lloydel was the obvious choice. Lloydel had been notable at the academy from the very first moments—he was the tallest, the oldest (even older than me!), and had the single most interesting tooth (dentists’ kids not excepted). Lloydel was additionally possessed of all the good personality points needed in a comrade (kindness, honest, secret-keeping ability, etc), and just might prove wicked enough to be a participant as well as an enabler.
I revealed my scheme to him and promised to take full responsibility for its execution (and especially all the blame—this was a comfort to him). He was pleased with the plan and my offer, and on the next Wal*Mart run to Keokuk, he and I, after dropping off the shoppers, drove further down the main drag to a farm supplies outfit and split the price of a sizeable roll of twine. I also signed up for a free ThankQ Advantage card, which gives me discount off all my purchases at any outlet in the Quality Stores, Inc. family.
I’ve never used it since.
(Incidentally, there is another amusing story connected with the day Lloydel and I bought twine. En route to home we passed through Carthage because I and a few others wanted to buy copies of Dallin H. Oaks and Marvin S. Hill’s Carthage Conspiracy from the Visitors’ Center and get it stamped. Even since the Mark Twain Shrine, I had been getting appropriate texts stamped at appropriate places, and I wasn’t going to let Carthage slip by.
(We purchased our books, but the missionaries running the register were not quite sure where their stamp was—or if they even had one! But they looked and they did. Two stamps, in fact. But a dry inkpad. Further rummaging uncovered a bottle of black ink. Ever ingenious in the service of the Lord, the missionaries ripped up a Styrofoam cup and used it as a pad. They poured the ink onto the halved cup and stamped my book with one big, black splot. Afterwards, they tried blotting before stamping. I had mine stamped with the other stamp much more successfully, which stamp well complemented the amoebic stain above it. My book’s sacrifice fortunately led to new techniques allowing all the other books to be stamped much more neatly, and we rushed home for dinner. Between twine, books and good food,1 I ended that day very satisfied indeed.)
Creeping out of bed, careful not to disturb Jared, I took my twine out of hiding, and in the bathroom removed its plastic wrapping. Then I moved into the boys’ lounge to lie on the couch until three, when the building was no longer merely quiet, but deathly still. (Appropriately, I suppose, since several of us would be off to the Old Pioneer Cemetery later that morning.)
Stealthily, I crept up to the forbidden girls’ floor and systematically tied each door handle to that on either side. When each door was securely fastened, I moved back to the guys’ floor.
Although while tying up the girls’ floor I was careful not to stretch twine across the hall, and although I had cut the twine and started anew rather than run twine dangerously across the entrance to the stairway at the hall’s center, I took no such precautions with the guys’ hall.
I madly roped twine here and around and across and through, purposefully tying unused rooms shut and incorporating the two Mystery Bras2 into the mess.
Having tied all doors shut—not tightly, but emphatically—excepting my own, I opened the door to my room, went inside, and after using passing strands of twine to secure my door as well, closed it and walked to my bed. Once in bed, I realized I really, really had to go.
My theory behind windows’ invention is congealing all the time.
Back in bed, I slipped off to slumberland.
[ill]
When Mandy woke up and went to her door that morning as she had every morning for three months, she was startled when, after pulling the door open, it leapt out of her hand and slammed itself shut.
Someone’s holding the door! She woke Sarah and told her to peek out as she tried to open it again. All down the hall, the drama of slamming doors and what-if-there’s-a-mean-ole-man-outside was played again and again.
Although I had tied the doors as securely as possible, using all my First Class Scout knowledge of knots, the twine had quite a bit of give. And so arms slid out and unknotted doors. Then the owners of those arms ran around letting out everyone else. The girls were ticked and out for revenge. Waterguns were loaded.
Somehow, I had managed to set my alarm’s time an hour early, so I was late for the 6:30 Parlor rendezvous to go see the sunrise at the top of Parley Street (where the Old Pioneer Cemetery is). Pebbles hit my window and I heard sweet voices gently calling me from the stairwell. I sensed retribution. But they had no evidence.
I rose and dressed and opened the door and all the attached twine just fell off. So much for tying myself in from the outside. All the same, I called to the incognizant Jared, “Watch out, the room’s been tied.” I said it loud enough that the armed lassies in the stairwell heard me (but not quite loud enough to really wake my deeply sleeping roommate). Surprised whispering followed. I came out to greet them and was shocked when sprayed with water. But their hearts weren’t in it.
“What’s all this?” I demanded. “Tying our doors shut wasn’t enough for you, eh?”
“What? You mean you didn’t tie the doors?”
“Why would we tie our own doors?”
“But—but our doors were tied too!”
“You don’t say!”
Ever the concerned gentleman, Theric prodded them for details, politely Hum!ing and Huh!ing as they told their miserable tale. As both floors had been tied in, we had much to empathize about.
“But wait, if the guys didn't do it and the girls didn’t do it—“
“How do you know none of you did it? Were all of you tied in?”
“Yes! Plus, whoever it was wasn’t a girl because they didn’t know which rooms were ours! All the empty rooms were tied too!”
“Hey! You know, some of our empty rooms are tied!”
“But, so if it’s not the guys or the girls then . . . my gosh! You don’t suppose—?”
And so it immediately became the prevailing theory that faculty had done it. But which? The Toones. It must have been the Toones. That settled, those going to the cemetery piled into the van, and those staying behind, um, stayed behind.
The cemetery was frigid cold, so reading of monuments and discovering dead Scovils swiftly proved secondary to huddling under blankets and frenzied jumping jacks. The second the sun rose, we snapped some pictures and ran to the van as if we were part of Robert C. Scott’s ill-fated Antarctic expedition.
We returned to the cafeteria just as breakfast started, 7:30. A shocking number of people were already up, and the conversation was animated. The big topic for discussion? Who did the twine? The Toone Theory was tempting, but many students were doubtful. But when the Toones appeared, their negations seemed as transparently dishonest as a three-year old with a chocolate moustache. Everyone saw through them immediately. Never had liars proven so inept at their craft! Their guilt was decided by unanimous consent, and the Toones' protestations notwithstanding, the question was settled.
Having eaten, there was a general migration to the Parlor where Elder Midgely, NRI’s UPS man, took our heavy boxes to be sent home. Mine cost me a whopping forty-four dollars, leaving me with a pathetic (and perhaps unlucky) thirteen dollars. Fortunately, my tax return arrived with the mail not long after. Thirteen dollars just ain’t that much to go a-touristing on.
Much of the rest of this day you have already read about. A group of us visited Brother Neff and the Expositor’s former place of publication and the Fudge Factory. Especially the Fudge Factory. Heh heh . . . crazy girls.
After lunch, I headed for the flats. I had not been much of a shutterbug to this point, so me and Mr Camera hit the town. The two of us took an hour break at Lands and Records, which is when I learned the dastardly skinny on Dr LeRoy. I decided that the maps of Old Nauvoo sold at Lands and Records would make nice gifts, so I purchased two. Immediately after leaving, I ran into Jeff who was carrying ten. At 50¢, maybe I should have gotten ten as well. . . .
Jeff kindly offered to make his load 12, and took my maps home, freeing Mr Camera and I to go to the only site I had never visited, the Blacksmith Shop. Leading the tour was Elder Browning. Elder Browning was an extremely personable gentleman who, when I first arrived, was terribly self-conscious about his Bell’s Palsy.3 When we first arrived in Nauvoo, he generally covered the unresponsive half of his face with his hand, and seemed to talk as little as possible. But now, three months later, he made a joke about it and roared on with his display of tongs and hammers and bellows and red-hot metal. To me, Elder Browning, at that moment, became not merely a gentleman I liked chatting with, but an icon of strength, perseverance, moving on and making the best.4 He stood there next to the forge, making miniature horseshoes, a hero.
A family visiting Nauvoo for the afternoon sat with me during Elder Browning’s presentation. I overheard them state they were going to the Seventies Hall next. Yipes! That’s where I was headed! This town was getting too darn crowded.
As soon as he was finished and I could politely go, I yelled a thank you to Elder Browning and sprinted out of the Blacksmith Shop and down the block to the Seventies Hall. I had long desired photographs of me standing at the pulpit, preaching hellfire and damnation—a three shot series, preferably—and a family who would want a tour was hot on my rutabagas!
I gasped through the front doors and croaked out my request to the sisters. They understood immediately, and one ushered me into the assembly room and placed my rantings on film. As we walked back out to the foyer, the family entered. Mom and Dad with their matching Cruella De Vil dos, and the kids.
My last two photo stops were Lyon Drug and Wilford Woodruff’s home. These more leisurely visits underscored what really had been the day’s theme (besides Toones:Bad). From Brother Neff to each missionary, the mention that today was our last day (save our passing through in a week on our way home), brought a sad smile to the face. A brief melancholy. That sweet sorrow. Our time in Nauvoo was a remarkable case of relationship building. Never have I had so many grandparents. Each goodbye was brushed with ephemeral tears.
I left the Woodruff home, considering the sister’s comments that she was glad I had never heard of her St Charles, Idaho family, and began walking as the crow would walk if crows ever took the time to walk anywhere rather than all that flitting about they do, towards the Sarah Granger Kimball home. I cut across huge mounds of dirt and a sometimes barbed, sometimes electric fenced-in field of long dead corn and dopey cows, determined not to let artificial geography get in the way of my shortest path between two points.
I arrived right at five, which I thought would be late. But it wasn’t. We were having dinner and a combined Family Home Evening at the late Sister Kimball’s place—or the barn next to her place, rather—to mark the end of our too brief time as Nauvooans.
We chose to do this by holding a testimony meeting after dinner. Testimonies, one of the most sacred of God’s gifts, are at their most beautiful when they are shared and allowed to mingle together in the open air. And the sharing and hearing of testimony are one of the best ways to feel that often too transitory focus that helps us creep through mortality. That night I felt that focus. I recognized the blessings of personal growth. I recognized the stark reality of prophets and apostles. I recognized my friends.
Why did I go to Nauvoo? Well, there is the Spirit of Elijah which I now much more fully understand. I gained a stronger sense of myself. I learned what it means to be endowed with power from on high. And so much more. I was much blessed of the Lord. I feel like singing a song, like Nephi or Ammon. But I’ll spare you the trauma.
When at last our meeting ended, although we wanted to linger, we rushed off to the Visitors’ Center where the missionaries were prepared with a good-bye set of songs. They sat us up on the stage and sang to us, ending with the Rendezvous closer, “Farewell Nauvoo.” Were there dry eyes in the room? I don’t remember any. I rather doubt there were. Spontaneously, the Rendezvous reprise began and we all sang along. And the room was full of the Spirit of Love. A Spirit that connected soul to soul and all to that God who gives us life.
Why the Lord loves us so much I can’t rightly say. But that He loves us I cannot doubt; it was the last impression he gave us of Nauvoo. What is Nauvoo then, I rhetoricize, but a town symbolic of God’s love?
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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.