Baptists at Our Barbecue Read online

  Baptists at Our Barbecue

  Robert Farrell Smith

  © 2002 Robert F. Smith.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company ([email protected]), P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

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  Visit us at www.deseretbook.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Smith, Robert F., 1970–

  Baptists at our barbeque / Robert Farrell Smith.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-57008-822-5 (pbk.)

  1. Baptists--Fiction. 2. Mormons—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.M537928 B3 2002

  813’.54—dc21 2002001345

  Printed in the United States of America21239–6949

  Edwards Brothers Incorporated, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my

  brothers and sisters

  to my

  father and mother,

  whose lives have been

  selflessly devoted to their

  seven children­

  and to Krista,

  the most worthwhile and gorgeous

  person I know

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  The Final Straw

  Longfellow, U.S.A.

  Charity Suffereth Long

  A Place to Hang My . . .

  Charity Envieth Not

  Martin

  Charity Is Not Puffed Up

  The Beaver, Some Beagles, and a Bother

  Charity Doth Not Behave Herself

  “Welcome, Welcome, Sabbath Morning”

  Charity Believeth All Things

  Dim

  Charity Hopeth All Things

  The Convenient

  The Chapel

  Manufactured Zion

  Launch

  The Splitting Apart

  Singular

  Reaction

  Flame

  The Sanctity of Sunday

  Bumpy

  Fire on the Mountain

  Question on the Green

  Something to Talk About

  “Tragedy Begets Destiny”

  “MMM”

  A Ringing in Our Ears

  Very Mason

  Brass Tacks

  The Honeymoon

  Snowflakes

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The list of who I would like to thank grows each time I sit down to write it. I find myself wanting to mention everyone from my third-grade teacher who praised my poem about gum to the last kind customer who just read one of my books and found it to be more than a half-rate doorstop. But for the sake of time and paper I hope that it is sufficient to simply say “thank you” to everyone who has ever been kind, supportive, and patient with me. My life is that much better because of each and every one of you.

  Chapter One

  The Final Straw

  It’s not as if I didn’t like Utah; I mean geographically it is one of the most magnificent places on earth. But truth be known there are just too many Mormons—more specifically, too many Mormons trying to set me up with their daughters, cousins, nieces, or friend of a friend of a neighbor of a relative that only lengthy pedigree charts could connect.

  In my opinion, there are few things more painful than turning twenty-nine and still being single. The moment that happens, it’s as if everyone you know suddenly turns crazy, flying around in a frenzy, trying to help you correct your spiritual fate.

  If well-meaning ward members are not actively trying to pair you up with a chosen member of the opposite sex whom they believe to be “just perfect” for you, then they are spreading rumors. The kind of rumors about you not liking women, or . . .

  “He’s just too picky. There are plenty of available women out there. Take my daughter Heidi for example . . . ”

  Yes, let’s take Heidi for example. I took Heidi out once. Not having any background on her, I agreed to a blind date. Had the gods been merciful I would have been struck by a large cement truck well before the date actually came to pass. Apparently, mercy doesn’t apply to dating.

  The date went like this: Heidi picked me up, she dropped me off, and my back still doesn’t work correctly. The in-between details are inconsequential, except I looked at her sort of funny when I first saw her. But in all fairness, I think most people would find a twenty-five-year-old wearing a bonnet odd.

  My twenty-ninth birthday was a joke. I received more cakes than I would care to count. They were all given to me by women in the ward who had daughters who were slipping from the temporary status of unwed to the permanent station of old maid.

  “Felicity made it herself—the frosting matches your eyes.”

  “Thanks,” I said, eyeing my third angel food cake frosted with blue icing.

  “She’s in the car if you would like to talk to her.”

  “That’s all right. Just tell her thanks for me.”

  “Honestly, Tartan, you would think that a proper thanks would follow the delivery of such a cake.”

  So I spent the afternoon of my twenty-ninth birthday leaning into the car windows of girls who had made me cakes, thanking them for the trouble, and thinking of ways to get out of this crazy town.

  It’s not that I didn’t like women, no not at all. In fact I would have liked nothing more than to find a wife and settle down, but somehow I fell behind in the dating game. I am one of those sibling-deprived, one-parent-disabled, only-child types. My father, Jake, left my mom a couple of months after I was born. He had some sort of problem with responsibility. So that, and a list of other reasons I was never told, prompted him to leave my mom and me.

  But we survived.

  My mom changed my name from Jake to Tartan after my father left us. She was particularly fond of the Scottish and of the fabric they wore around their waist. And even though it is a unique name, I’m happy she gave it to me instead of her second choice—“Plaid.”

  Dad did return once when I was five, but Mom refused to let him see me, and so he left without incident. I received a card from him when I was fourteen. I guess he was trying to patch things up. The five bucks he sent did little for the reconstruction of our once family, and I was mad that he thought me to have such a low payoff price.

  I didn’t need his money. Mom and I were just fine.

  There were sacrifices, however.

  I had to get a job the moment I met age approval from the child labor laws. So my adolescent years were spent working much more than dating. In fact I did just about everything more than I dated. Which, according to my bishop, was a shame, seeing how I was such a “strapping lad.” Are bishops supposed to say things like that?

  I went on a mission late because I needed to earn the money myself. When I finally returned I was twenty-seven and counting. I dated a few nice girls, but never the right one.

  I finished school and began working for the forest service. It was what I had always wanted to do. It held the promise of exciting, rugged, and dangerous times in the wild outdoors. But in reality it turned out to be a lot of tree watching and form completion. True, there was that one time when a small sapling fell on a dog and I had to pull it off, and that thrilling day when a campfire broke free from its ring of rocks and ignited a garbage receptacle.


  But that was about it in the adventure department.

  I did enjoy giving lectures to school kids and working to instill a love for the great outdoors in others. But these opportunities seemed to come my way less and less these days. Provo was flooded with forest rangers who fought constantly for the best positions. I knew that if I were going to go anywhere with my job I would have to move on. I also knew that I wasn’t exactly making forward leaps and bounds in my personal and spiritual life here, either.

  All these things were brewing in my mind when my mother produced the straw that broke this single’s back and made it perfectly clear that change was needed—and now! We were eating corn, still frozen and right from the bag. There was also a lot of grape soda consumed that night.

  “Tartan, can I ask you something?” Mom said, suddenly very serious.

  “Sure, Mom. What is it?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure how to say this,” she hedged, “but I think as your mom I should know.” Mom put some corn in her mouth and crunched loudly.

  I took a swig of soda before responding. “What is it, Mom?”

  “The women in my book circle have been talking, and they are sort of saying that you . . . Well, that you are . . . You know . . . ”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Gail says that you are too attractive not to be married.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I questioned.

  “I was reading in People magazine about a makeup artist who had chosen an alternative lifestyle.”

  I couldn’t believe it! What was Mom saying? My mind instantly began packing my bags and thinking of places I could move to get away from all of this. I wanted a wife, and I didn’t want to have to sift through the selection that Provo had to offer anymore. I wanted to be somewhere where twenty-nine was still young and people didn’t feel inspired to run my love life for me. I had felt compelled in the past to stay around for Mom, but she had her book circle friends to keep her company. She didn’t need me around anymore, and I needed to get out.

  “Mom!”

  “Well?” she said.

  I got up from the table and kissed her on the forehead. I could feel her jaws clicking as she ground her corn. I could also feel my inner compass shifting from north to south as my life slipped from complacent to something well outside my comfort zone. I was going to move.

  I took the very next transfer that came through at work.

  Chapter Two

  Longfellow, U.S.A.

  My first thought was that I should have waited for the second transfer. Longfellow was the laziest town I had ever set eyes on. Situated deep in the mountains it sat comfortably isolated from the outside world. The nearest big city was about two hours away, and between here and there was almost nothing. It did have a paved road that started all of two miles before town. There was a bar with a packaged liquor sign that looked like it was installed in the early sixties, a post office, a library, and a grocery store the size of most big-town convenience stores. There were two gas stations, but only one that sold gas. The other one had a large particleboard sign leaning out front that read:

  SLUSH SHOP

  NO GAS!

  SLUSHES AND BAIT ONLY

  There was a video store larger than the Baptist church and a small shed with the words “Longfellow Police Department” above the door. Houses were scattered around like loose change in a kitchen utility drawer, and the surrounding area was impressively lush. Trees taller than the ones I was accustomed to stood everywhere, looking stiff, rigid, and slightly majestic. It was as if they were upset to be rooted where they were but still had to perform their duty with some honor. The giant mountains that surrounded the town all wore what looked to be white, snow toupees. Only a couple of the smaller ones had enough self-esteem to sit there bald, their rocky foreheads shining in the afternoon sun.

  I couldn’t seem to find the road I needed, or the map I had been given, so I pulled up to the police shed to ask for directions. Inside I found a short man with large eyes sitting at a tiny desk completely free of papers. In fact the only thing on top of it was a small red notebook that was lying open and appeared to be filled with ­doodles. There was a large industrial-size trash can in the corner and a big, square, cork bulletin board on the wall. The bulletin board was crumbling from too many pins having been pushed into it over the years. A large piece of canary yellow paper was the only thing pinned to it now. It said, “When in doubt—Don’t!” There was a big, bulky radio in the corner that had two sets of rabbit ears on top and a microphone dangling from its metal belly.

  I had to duck as I went through the door. It was obvious there were not many cops who were 6’2’’ around here. I nodded hello, stepping all the way inside and shutting the door softly behind me.

  “Can I help you?” the short man asked, sounding slightly standoffish.

  “I hope so. The name’s Tartan Jones.”

  I paused, hoping that my name might mean something to him. Obviously it didn’t.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “I’m going to be hosting the lookout station up on Flint’s Peak.”

  “Oh, you’re Clark Stucki’s replacement,” he said, finally coming to life. “Too bad about him. Nice guy, just a little too curious I guess. He left so suddenly that none of us got a chance to find out who would replace him. I’ve been trying to get ahold of your supervisor for days. I just can’t stand not knowing; it drives me absolutely batty.”

  That didn’t appear to be too long a drive.

  “I’m Bob Evans and I’m the law around here. You got a problem, come to Bob.” He stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it violently. “I’ve been helping folks for over thirty years and plan to keep doing it for at least another two.” Bob pondered what he had just said as he chewed on the end of his thick mustache and looked towards the ceiling.

  “Actually I could use some help finding Flint’s Peak. I can’t seem to find my map,” I said.

  “No problem,” Bob chirped, “let me get you one from my office.” He jumped up from his chair and pounced through a back door that appeared to lead outside. I heard a car door shut and then he came back in. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a Xeroxed map of the area. “That spot there is Flint’s,” he pointed. “This X here is us.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. I hope you like it here.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said, lying. “Looks like a nice town.”

  “It is, and you’ll do well as long as you ain’t a Baptist or a Mormon.”

  My countenance quivered.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Bad blood between the two.”

  “Over what?”

  “Well, since you’re interested . . . ”

  Had I indicated that?

  “Our town was settled by a Mormon named Wally Longfellow. Old Brigham Young himself sent the poor stooge out to settle this place, but crazy Wally never really did too well. He did build a few things, but he eventually drowned while swimming up in the Beaver. Stories say it was a full stomach that killed him—you know, cramps after eating. I, like a lot of other folks, believe it was a couple of his polygamous wives that did him in. They got a little fed up with old Wally and held him under longer than his lungs would allow.

  “After he died the town just sort of fell apart. A couple of his wives went back to Utah, a couple stayed here. Then a few years later a fire destroyed just about everything Wally had built up.” Bob made a little crackling fire sound for effect. “That’s when the trouble began. A Baptist preacher by the name of John Boot stumbled upon this place and took it upon himself to rebuild our town, to breathe life into its wheezing lungs.

  “John worked hard, got the numbers up to where there were only ten more Mormons than Baptists; then he made his fatal mistake. He wanted to change the name of the town to Boot instead of Longfellow. Well, even the Baptists didn’t like that. Can you blame them? I mean who wants to live in ‘Boot
’?

  “The Mormons started preaching against pride and claiming that John was vain by wanting to name the town after himself.” Bob stopped, waiting for me to say something.

  “What happened?” I obliged.

  “Well, John did get the ‘boot,’ just not the way he wanted.” Bob laughed to himself. “He left town one night with the Baptist custodian. Word is they wed and had two kids.

  “To this day the Mormons and the Baptists still can’t stand each other. Too many differences in doctrine for them to be compatible. The population of our town is exactly 558. Two hundred and sixty-two Mormons, two hundred and sixty-two Baptists, ten Catholics, eleven Presbyterians, nine Methodists, three atheists, and Fern.”

  “What religion is she?” I asked innocently.

  Bob looked around nervously as if someone could possibly be hiding within the 150 square feet of the police department. “If I were you I would never say that again.”

  “Say what?” I asked confused.

  “Fern is a he, not a she, and he don’t like anybody to say different. A little touchy about the name thing.”

  “I can see why,” I said. “What parents in their right mind would name a boy Fern?”

  “Yeah, me, too. I like a good solid name like Bob, or John . . . What did you say your name was?”

  “Tartan.”

  “Or Tartan,” Bob said, trying to be kind.

  “So what religion is he?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Fern,” I replied.

  “Fern’s got no religion; he’s just easily swayed. He owns the bait and slush shop and holds the honor of possessing more Books of Mormon than any other town member. I think every single Mormon has given him at least one. He committed to baptism once. Then Loni, the Baptist organist, made him a couple of apple pies and a pair of felt trousers, which convinced him that just maybe the Mormons weren’t right. The Baptists blew it, though. They threw a swimming party up at Beaver Lake and invited Fern. Well, while Fern was underwater the parson said a prayer and baptized Fern into the faith without Fern knowing. Fern was pretty upset. The Baptists act like Fern is one of theirs now. The Mormons say it ain’t so ’cause of Fern not giving his consent. I think right now Fern is leaning toward the Mormons, but that will change with the next home-cooked meal someone puts in front of him.