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The Newsletter >
In Conference
October 6, 2009
It is the custom of my people to attend a worldwide gathering of others of our kind. We call it General Conference. It is our way, and because it “is our way” and qualifies as our culture you have to respect it, because everything cultural has to be respected these days—even the cultures of folks that stone the occasional woman to death, you know, because they were naughty.
In the General Conference of my people we are counseled to, among other things: serve one another, strive to be self-reliant and self-disciplined, love God and each other, speak kindly, stand for truth and righteousness, take care of our children, try to be better people today than we were yesterday, control our anger, throw no stones in glass houses and, of course, tell our spouses that we love them—every single day. You know, kooky religious talk.
After General Conference many of my people often report experiencing strong feelings of good intentions to try and do all of the above and some stuff not even on the list. These feeling often occur in the evening on the Sunday of General Conference.
Then Monday comes.
And the lawn mower that cost four hundred dollars to have tuned, repaired, and the belt replaced the preceding Friday, throws the brand new belt, like a horse throwing a new shoe. This mechanical drama causing the blades not to rotate, the machine not to function, and the grass not to be mowed leaving the yard still looking like a raggedy sheep meadow, sans sheep. This sequence of cascading failures has the unfortunate result of blowing all our newfound, hard won General Conference intentions straight to hell and gone. I mean that literally. Hell comes a’calling in the form of fiery phone calls between Saint Cloud, Florida (home base, where the yard is raggedy) and Detroit, Michigan (where the weather is starting to turn ugly and the work happens to be this week.)
I started the conversation of death by saying, “Honey, hold on to your hat.”
My husband didn’t answer, but I can clearly hear the soft sound of moaning. We’ve been married thirty-one years. He knows.
“You know how you asked Person X to finish mowing the yard?” The sound of moaning increased. “Well, he had bad luck.”
The words sighed out of him like a death rattle. “How bad?”
“The lawn mower’s busted.”
He said something that sounded like, “Argyle Socks!”
“Hey!!” I said and then something that sounded like, “Cha-Cha vomit water!” followed by, “You can just sho . . .”
Click. Click.
The phone rang again. I picked it up and let my verbal bazooka fly, “Why did you ask Person X to attempt this in the first place without a net?”
I always like to try and get the root cause of all unpredictable, unnecessary, pointless trouble. “He didn’t know that having approximately six bales worth of grass jammed underneath the mower might, just might, cause a loss of efficiency. He just kept riding.”
My husband said something that sounded like, “Argyle socks worn by marauding raccoons!!!”
I would have replied but the spitting got in the way.
Click. Click.
The phone rang yet again. My husband is no sissy; I’ll give him that.
Wiping spit from my chin, I said, “What?”
A moment of silence followed. I waited.
My husband said, “Did you know that this very morning, I asked Heavenly Father to help me be more patient and loving?”
“How’s that going?” I can be kind of a stinker. I’ll admit it.
He sighed. “Well, I’m thinking that someone knows how to put me to the test.”
I sighed, took a breath, and said, “Yep. Me too! I prayed not to want to kill anybody today.”
“How’s that going?”
“You know,” I said.
“Would you mind calling?”
“Yea, sure, I’ll do it.”
“Sorry.”
“Yep, me too.”
“Love you.”
“Love you back. Call me later.”
I called the riding lawnmower emergency hotline and one hundred and thirty dollars later we were back in action—lawnmower-wise. It should also be known that no argyle socks were harmed in the writing of this account—all’s well that mows well.
This is what I know. General Conference Sunday is a fine day to think good thoughts, have wonderful intentions, and dream peaceful dreams. It’s Monday that’s the real booger when the plumbing dies, the brakes fail, and the world wants to shoot swine flu up your nose. Sigh.
Linda (Happiness is knowing you can mow!) Zern
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