The Mission Angels

January 2014

The Mission Angels

Nihon: Part I

 

By Marc Alley

 

At this very moment, "I Wanna Be Sedated", sung by the Ramones is playing in my mind.  It is the fifth day of vacation and I have been sedated, enervated and satiated by too much food, long walks on the beach, fun times with kids mine and theirs, and at least 8 hours of Disney's California Adventure.  Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.  I'm clearly aging, and I used to be quite a bit more spry.

Back in 1988, Japan hit me like a ton of bricks... in an unexpected way.  For some reason it had never crossed my mind.  I had always wanted to go on my mission to Australia.  I don't know why, it was just different.  Maybe I had listened to one too many Midnight Oil songs.

In those days, we actually filled out a piece of paper, with all of the necessary medical stamps, bishops and stake president interviews and then mailed it in.  I remember it taking at least 4-5 months to get it.  With trembling fingers, I read, "You have been called to serve in in the Tokyo North Mission".  It was quite shocking, and as I mentally plumbed the depths for those I knew within my relatively small network who knew anything about Japan, I came back with only one name.  Uncle Lynn Alley.  I was in trouble.  Looking back on it, I approached my mission wrong-headed, but natural to a typical 18-year old.

Lynn's contribution to my mission consisted of several self-recorded tapes which he entitled, "Nihongo corner", in which he would announce the Title, play a disharmonious, minor tune from a windup music box.  They were actually pretty entertaining, but I think he petered out after three.  My favorite one included a lesson on the Nakigoe or crying voice of animals.  He taught the concept that animals in Japan "cry" and don't "say" as they do in English.  According to Lynn, I had basically traveled to Narnia and would be speaking with animals all the time, while being pursued by the White Witch.  I learned that dogs don’t bark but naku wan wan. Pigs cry bu bu.  Roosters cry Ko ke ko ko!  Doves cry as well, but I don’t really want to get into explaining to my parents how there was a really famous artist in the eighties named Prince, who made this movie…. oh well, we will just stop there.

I saved much of the money in a 3-month Elko sojourn removing asbestos with other Navajos at a youth prison in the desert.  No this isn't the latest plot from a Coen Brothers film... you can't make this stuff up.  This story has been described in other Christmas stories, but I digress.

I was a bit worried that I wouldn't cut the mustard in the mission field, but the MTC gave me a great start.  Leaving your family in that whitewashed cinderblock room as you walk through a hidden exit wasn't too hard for me, and was quite appropriate to me, absorbed into the MTC womb/matrix, representing the world left behind.  Some families just couldn’t bear for their son to not have their favorite pizza or cake, and those days they allowed families to drop it off at the front desk, then a slot, then the USPS, and then nothing.  There’s always one guy who figures out how to get his girlfriend UPS’d to him and ruins it for everyone. One of my angels was a danish adopted Aunt Maria who made me the most delicious butter, almond and sugar cake and mailed it to me.  I even had it with me entering the mission home, but I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut about how good it was and some evil mission homer ate it.  

Separating home life from mission life is harder for some then others, and its a tough switch when you’re brand new at the MTC… you have to switch gears fast, going from girl cruising to japanese and gospel learning.  Sometimes, while living at the MTC for three months, I'd wish that the many pretty sister missionaries would have been left behind, as I would often get distracted by a pretty face while eating my Captain Crunch, somewhat a first for me.  I got over it though, and I was able to focus in my "district".  I roomed with three other missionaries in a small orange dorm room which held two bunk beds.  The most memorable characters in the group were Kim Orton, whose father was a Professor at BYU Hawaii and whose mother was 1st Generation Japanese, and a very affable David Chamberlain, whose father was a former member of a the Provo Jet Set, a former church film actor and former owner of a Mormon Nanny Service Company.

We would spend at least 4-5 hours a day studying Japanese, but it seemed very pleasant and seemed to go by fast.  I particularly loved the Tango bang game which resembled the basketball shootout game Dynamite.  Class members would study a list of about about 30 words, and we would try to quickly memorize them.  The district class members would then form two standing lines of about 3-4 each, with competitors heading the line and facing each other.  The teacher would look at us expectantly, and then yell out one of the words we'd just memorized in English.  The first missionary to yell back the correct equivalent in Japanese and then a shouted bang! with the accompanying pistol shaped fist would "kill" the competitor who would have to rotate to the back of the line as it continued.  I would usually do pretty well, grinning in satisfaction as district members would mope with hanging head to the back of the line as I shot them down.  But my smiling would quickly vanish as I faced down the dreaded champion of TangoBang, Kim Orton.  Kim was light years ahead of all of us and absorbed Japanese like a sponge.  

When I first met him, I thought him a bit of a simpleton, with his Pidgin English, fart jokes and spot on Bruce Lee impressions.  He was somewhat short, but an incredibly lean and muscular surfer, who spent every night blasting his calf muscles on two-by-four stands on which he would slowly lower the back of heel to the floor a full 12 inches from the part he'd perch on.  Kim basically described Hawaii as a paradise in which virtually every bikini clad girl was Mormon and surfed every day, including his girlfriend.  Having grown up eating Bentos and hearing Japanese from his mom, Kim was way ahead of the curve, and he quickly became a favorite of mine, prized for his schoolboy humor, self-effacing comments and amazing Japanese.

David Chamberlain was his total opposite, with blond hair, about six foot three with a shuffling gait and quick smile.  But David was an incredibly loyal friend.  While we never shared the same mission field, David went out of his way to meet me countless times in Japan, even though his brother and sister lived far away in another prefecture teaching Japanese.  One evening, David waited for me for six hours, sleeping in the bed of his pickup in anticipation of my arrival.

In many ways, David's character symbolized the best parts of Japan, a nation of strangers whose courtesy and loyalty were easily forgotten by a naive and spoiled 19-year old missionary.

While I don't wish to fully describe it due to its sacred nature, I had a monumental spiritual experience as I took on the challenge of Enos, praying all night not for forgiveness, but to know that I am a son of God.  Even now, I cannot remember why this was so important to me, but maybe it is because of this experience I have persisted in a testimony that we were all with each other in the premortal life and God's children.  That night, after at least 4 hours of prayer I received an incredible manifestation of God's love and presence through the Holy Ghost.  It is this experience that I have fallen back all my life whenever I have been tempted to challenge any aspect of my faith or testimony, and have become part of a group of millions who cannot deny its existence because of this formative event.

I will always remember how strange it was to fall asleep on a wide-bodied Boeing 747 and wake up in another country.  Narita airport just smelled different.  Upon arrival to the mission home to meet President Kiyabu, another native Hawaiian, I remember my first dendo, walking the streets around the mission home, speaking to the frozen faces of the hundreds who were unfortunate enough to live so close to the mission home and had probably been approached by missionaries a hundred times.

The very curbs that we rode by were more blocky, and narrowly secured the keystone blocks that held the secondary water from Tokyo kitchen sinks.  In the distance, I could see the familiar blaze of a 7-11, but upon entering, it held a unappetizing, grey soup of floating Oden, with shelves of iced coffee instead of mounds of Nacho blister packs and Slurpees.  Could I of just woken up on the wrong side of Japantown, Los Angeles?  My mind could not comprehend the thousand differences, and nothing seemed remotely familiar to me.  The sights, scents and sounds were completely alien and totally exotic Eastern.

The language was a challenge, to say the least.  While seemingly ahead back at the MTC, I really was challenged in one of my first areas, Kita Senju, a somewhat cheaper version of Tokyo than Shinjuku, where the Mission Home was located.  4 missionaries in a very tight 500 square foot apartment was somehow not bothersome to me as a 19 year old.  I found Kita Senju to be very endearing.  From the fish-hawking mobile vendors who would play a bouncing, bubbly song that loosely translated into, “ Cu-ute fish, CUTE little fish, they are so delicious that you must buy them now!” to the public Sento bath right across the street, this place was “cheap” in a cozy, yes even cute, way.

The church was memorable in that it was the 3rd floor of a skyscraper a good bike ride from the apartment.  I guess the local area presidency figured that if we couldn’t get our own building for the ward, at least we could have the 3rd floor with all of it’s “we come in threes, witness in threes” symbolism.  The former firm allowed their workers to smoke so much that the members decided to just peel off all of the white, now dark yellow wall paper and start over.  They did a great job of cleaning and the church finally smelled like one.  Some experiences really impressed on me how many people were concentrated all around us.  You’d ride down the narrow, clean streets and people always knew those at the neighborhood pub or convenience store.  I will never forget the late nights at the church, after finishing an after dinner teaching appointment, we would turn off all of the lights on the floor so that we could watch them turn on the lights at the nearbydanchi or super sized apartment complex.  It had about six floors, and a timer would turn on the flourescents at night.  Click, and the one quarter of the horizon to your left would turn on,

 click and another fourth until your entire horizon would be lit up by this massive complex that took up almost the entire ku or at least seemed like it.

 

On the way to the church everyday, where we would meet our appointments with investigators, we would pass by the same group of rowdy 9 year old boys who would greet me with the same sentence ever day, “Oi tomodachinko!”.  I could never figure out what they meant.  And I didn’t want to bring it up to my companion who always laughed and smiled at them, so clearly he understood.  I knew that Oi was some sort of familiar/rude greeting like, “Hey!” and that tomodachi meant friend.  What was the meaning of the weirdchinko on the end?  This puzzled me for a full month until I finally got the courage to ask Sister Tanaka, a 50 year old, but still striking wife of a doctor, who was not a member.  She and her daughter who were converts, and the literal soul of the ward.  They were very kind to the missionaries and seemed constantly concerned about the poor quality of food we would eat or drink and the ridiculous items we continued to bring from home.  “You’d best be taking better care of yourselves, I’m so worried about what your mothers will say when you return home.  And that’s not really the best way to show our hospitality, is it?”  

While eating one of Sister Tanaka’s famous lunches right after church in the communal area, I asked her what tomodachinko meant, adding that some local boys yelled this at us on a daily basis, so I knew that it must be pretty significant.  Luckily, she was in between bites, and Sister Tanaka was from the old school, practically royalty being the wife of a doctor.  She screwed up her face as if it would burst, barely containing polite ho hos that were emanating from her mouth, turning into full on ha has, one hand covering her mouth in feminine politeness.  She was barely holding it together, and I’d never seen her laugh so hard.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she stammered, in between giggles, “Well you know, it’s really amusing, and really more of a … you know, a little boys … um… a combination of friend and a little boys private thing”.  I was a little embarrassed, but just kept grinning like an idiot.  I vowed to somehow turn this little joke into a way to ensnare other unsuspecting greenhorns like myself.  You were completely clueless about the language, so there was no way to avoid these little pitfalls.  I remember, in my first area, being constantly asked by street contacts and investigators, Nenrei nan desu ka? Turning to my companion, having no idea what Nenrei meant, he simply translated, “What is your age?”.  On other occasions, another older man would ask, O-ikutsu? or Nan nen? and then I would turn, dumbfounded, to my senior companion who invariably would translate, “How old are you?”.  How come no one ever used the phrase we learned in the MTC, nan sai desu ka?

I remember asking all around Tokyo where Mcdonald’s was, since I had saved a couple of bucks for a cheeseburger.  Mcdonald’s wa doko desu ka? would come out of my mouth, and everyone would look at me in wonderment, and then shake their heads.  No one could understand me, but I knew I had the phrase right.  After about the tenth time, one kindly man figured it out.  Ahhhh! Makudonarudo! Kono chikaku in arun daro.  I just could not pronounce the Japanese version of the word for Mcdonald’s, Makudonarudo.  I practiced for about a month until I finally got it, and I swear that it really helped me pronounce my verb conjugations better after that.

Well the story is far from over, but we had better wrap up part I and I’ll continue this next year, and maybe the year after.  

The U.S. Army

The US Army - A Refining Fire

It was snowing, big white fluffy crystals at least as large as a quarter in diameter.  This is the kind of snow that falls in the Spring in Utah; it piles up quickly, but melts away even more so.  The sound of flakes colliding with the windshield at freeway speed was almost audible; little explosions decimating each snow-puff at the moment of impact.

I focused on one of the larger flakes as it began to instantly melt on the warmed glass before the wiper swiped it away, leaving a clean, pristine surface behind.  I was grateful for this small distraction as Dad and I made our way along the recently plowed Salt Lake City streets to the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) at Fort Douglas, Utah.  I’d be lying if I denied the palpable anxiety I felt, expressed by my stomach doing flip-flops.  He didn’t say, but I think Dad felt anxious as well, making small talk that didn’t require much effort to stay engaged in.

We arrived and I took my two small bags of clothes and toiletries out of the rear seat of the Explorer after a brief goodbye.  I had enlisted in the US Army a month earlier and was on my way to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri for Basic Training.

The last year of my existence in Hermosa Beach, CA had been filled with ups and downs.  A series of tickets, including a speeding ticket issued for going 82 mph in a 25 mph had certainly not helped my situation.  I wasn’t focused at school either and my sub-par grades proved it.  In fact, I’ve often said that I hit rock bottom at this point in my life; a 36 hour stint in the LA County Jail was further evidence of this.  I was definitely ready for a change.

After three and a half years in Los Angeles, I was heading back to Utah.  I was certainly unsure about what my future had in store for me, but it felt right. I vividly remember driving across the Nevada Desert, on the 16^th of January of 1991.  It was late at night and I had an AM radio station on which blared news of the conflict in Iraq.  The first air attack had been launched against Hussein’s Republican Guard (incidentally shortly after I began my drive) and the bombing had continued into the night.  My drive was accompanied by live coverage from network reporters and faint but unmistakable thudding sounds which manifested US missiles exploding in Baghdad.

 My appearance in Utah sparked a short, but logical soul-searching session of “What next?”  I wanted and needed to continue my college studies, but was faced with the question of how to pay for it.  The GI Bill and SLRP (Student Loan Repayment Program) seemed to be the right answer to the question.  Before the month was even out, I had enlisted, taken the ASVABS (Armed Services Vocational/Aptitude Boards), and qualified for my chosen MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) of Combat/Still Photography with a score of 98.

From Fort Douglas, I traveled via a short bus ride to the SLC International Airport and boarded a flight to St Louis.  In St. Louis, another bus took me approximately 135 miles southwest straight into the jaws of hell, Fort Leonard Wood (aka, Little Vietnam).  Just like the oft-disguised temptations of Satan, it wasn’t immediately apparent that I had arrived in hell.  The weather in mid-April was pleasant enough.  Upon our arrival, we were ushered into somewhat shabby, but ammonia clean barracks.  This was our holding company.   It was necessary to wait for three days for the rest of our company to arrive before we could begin our 10 weeks of training.  We cleaned, raked leaves, pulled weeds, and picked up garbage 12 hours a day, but it was certainly bearable.  Having been gainfully employed and cut off from financial support since the age of 13, I was accustomed to this kind of work.  This kind of hell was familiar to me - I used to have to rake the forest!

After the three days had expired, we were transported on cattle trucks to another part of the base and ordered to exit when the transporter had rolled to a stop.  We were greeted by no less than a dozen screaming drill sergeants barking orders which couldn’t be heard above the din of their own combined voices.  In vain, I decided reading lips was my best option and finally determined that they wanted me to hold my duffel above my head for some reason.  I complied and others in my company quickly followed.  Before long, we were all high-stepping in place with our army duffels high above our heads.  Ultimately, our effort was futile and, like a fine cigar, we were “smoked” by our drill sergeants; this was physical discipline that utilized a combination of up/downs, pushups, and sit-ups done at a feverish pace until muscle failure.  Little did we know, this would become at least a daily ritual.

I was in hell.  I was Shadrach being tossed into an Industrial Grade Electric Arc Furnace and there was NO ministering angel to deliver me.

A psychotic training cycle of at least 18 hours a day ensued.  If you pulled Guard or KP (Kitchen Patrol) duty, that would require an additional 3-4 hours, leaving only a couple of hours for sleep.  We spent our days learning how to march, identifying wounds, learning first aid, physical training, memorizing our chain of command, reciting general orders, how to properly wear our uniform, cleaning the barracks, conquering obstacle courses, BRM training (Basic Rifle Marksmenship), map reading, communications, bayonet training, preparing ourselves for NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) warfare, cleaning our weapons, throwing grenades, firing Anti-Tank weapons (AT4s), braving the gas chamber, hand-to-hand combat, night fire exercises, tactical strategy, squad movement, uniform inspection, and everywhere we went we RAN; and when we ran, we yelled cadence.

During the first week of training, I couldn’t even begin to finish my meal.  We were fed enormous quantities of food three times a day at the mess hall.  Not finishing your meal was punishable by extra pushups, so we resorted to stuffing uneaten rolls and potatoes into our “empty” milk cartons.  However, after 3 weeks, I was asking fellow soldiers for their extra food.  Even considering this huge caloric intake, I was losing weight at the rate of 2-3 pounds per week.

With only two weeks remaining, the climax of our training was an FTX (Field Training Exercise) that dragged on for 6 days.  During this period, we would live in the “field” (aka, The Jungle) and conditions would simulate combat as closely as they safely could.  We slept on the ground and used our Kevlar helmets for pillows.  Sleep was rationed in small doses; we would be dismissed at 2:00 a.m. and be awakened by 3:00 – 3:30 a.m.  Showers weren’t available and relief could only be had by changing into clean socks and underwear.  To make matters worse, it was 90 degrees every day and close to 100% humidity.  One example of “training” we experienced during this time was to march through the jungle in the heat wearing all the layers of our chemical suits until one of us puked in their gas mask.

All good things must come to an end and we were told one early morning that our FTX was over; we had passed and would be returning that day.  Furthermore, we learned First Sergeant McCutchen, a tough old Vietnam Vet, would be leading us in a 10 mile forced road march back to the barracks.  Even though this wasn’t good news, most of us were excited at the prospect of finally taking a shower.

First Sergeant McCutchen set a brutal pace that was only possible at a run.  All of us were carrying full packs and weapons at ready.  The poorly maintained gravel road was felt through the non-cushioned, thin soles of our combat boots.  At the 3 mile mark, I could feel large blisters developing on both my heels.  I compensated for this pain by attempting to land each footfall on the balls of my feet.  At 5 miles, the pain was unbearable; my blisters had burst, lending to a sticky wet feeling in my boots.

I was desperate and began to plead silently in my mind, “God, please help me,” over and over.  After earnestly repeating this phrase about 20 times, a wave came over my body.  Starting at my head, it coursed through my body, bringing relief.  My body was completely renewed; I no longer felt any pain, I wasn’t sweaty or hot, my breathing was normal and not labored!  My attention turned immediately to those of my platoon suffering around me.  I grabbed two of their arms and dragged them along, encouraging them to continue.

Five miles later, we arrived at the barracks.  Most of us were in ragged shape and the First Sergeant knew he’d put us through a serious pace.  Taking pity on us, he gave us the order, “At ease!”  Next, he commanded us to lay down on the ground and put our feet on our packs in front of us, elevating our legs.  I felt fine, but followed the order anyway.  After about 5 minutes of elevating our legs, he ordered us to put on clean, dry socks.  As I unlaced my boots and pulled them off, I was shocked to see that my socks were soaked with blood to the top of my boots.  At that moment, my pain, my weariness, and all my suffering returned to me.

It was then that I recognized I had the Spirit of the Lord with me.  He had protected me, strengthened me, and buoyed me up when I needed Him most.  My prayer had been answered!  Later, I considered my worthiness to have His Spirit with me.  I had not attended church in years and had many unresolved sins.  In no way was I worthy of this blessing.

However, I know that He knew my heart at that moment.  Since then, He has blessed me to know that when we are physically weak, we can best receive guidance from Him.  I have a strong testimony of this.

Furthermore, along with other experiences during this time, I learned to identify when I felt His Spirit with me.  This was monumentally important to me because I could remember this familiar feeling in my childhood and in my early teenage years.  Like a bamboo plant that takes 3 years to develop its root system before growing shoots, my own testimony had developed similarly and was ready to grow.

I couldn’t deny that I had felt His Spirit and slowly began to take steps to repent and return to church; I was converted!  Most people that don’t know me well assume I went on an LDS mission.  When they ask me where I went, I just reply, “Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.”

Oscar, the Toyota Landcruiser

Oscar

We had just returned from Window Rock, Arizona.  A week spent in a bleak, windowless (but air conditioned) conference room; lined with tables.  The Quality Inn had played host to a number of new employees of Navajo Allied Asbestos for the purpose of training to receive their OSHA certification; Marc and I included.

In 1988, it was adventure enough for us to be on our own, away from the parental units, regardless of the nature of the coursework we endured; understanding the fibrous element of asbestos, how to prepare to handle it to minimize exposure, historical application of asbestos and identification of it, etc.  Sufficient incentive in the form of a promised $18 hourly ($27 hourly overtime) wage guaranteed our diligent studying of the material – we earned high marks.  At other times in our youth when proper motivation was absent, we would often stray.  I’m reminded of a time when free tickets to the Utah Symphony somehow landed us at a nearby downtown movie theater for a screening of the much acclaimed “Beverly Hills Cop.”  However, that’s another story altogether…

At any rate, we were only too happy to be walking away with OSHA certification in hand and leaving Window Rock.  A short tour of the local, government-run grocery store to obtain some forgotten and much needed toiletries confirmed that; we contemplated the locked cabinets with clear glass doors that housed the mouthwash.  Marc posed the question, “Why would they lock up the mouthwash?”  We scratched our heads, puzzled.  Hmmmmmm…

Now, two weeks later, we were hitting the road in our trusty 1974 Toyota Landcruiser, affectionately named Oscar (taken from our prepubescent days gone by of Sesame Street and the uncanny similarity of Oscar the Grouch’s green fur and the green paint on the Cruiser).

A side note about Oscar; it had already taken its trip down the gully across the street from our house on Fawn Lane.  With its parking brake failing, Dad had left the Cruiser idling at the top of the driveway while he ran into the house to get something.  The parking brake let go and Oscar rolled backwards down the driveway, across the street, over the curb, and down the steep hill.  Providence kept it from flipping over when it struck a small tree and kept it upright.  The dent from the tree in the driver front fender was the only casualty from the mishap.

So, we cruised (literally) south on I-15, merging carefully with the traffic heading west on I-80.  Marc shifted into the top gear (3^rd) and feathered the throttle to maintain a constant speed of about 63.  Because it only had 3 gears, freeway velocity resulted in the engine speed pegged at a mind-numbing 4,000 RPM.  The straight six put up a racket; I had the feeling that it was more comfortable climbing a steep hill in 4 low with low revs.  Because Marc was pilot, that left my responsibility as navigator and music man.   In an effort to drown out the engine wail, I reached up my left hand and felt for the cassette opening.  The stereo was mounted in a metal tray between the top front and middle roll bars (not mounted conventionally in the dash like most vehicles).  I found it, popped in a u2 cassette, and we roared off down the freeway.  Our destination was Elko, Nevada…

We were both excited about the opportunity in Elko; we could put our OSHA training to work and earn the high wages promised us.  Marc was saving for his upcoming mission and I couldn’t pass on the prospect of the financial windfall.  The general feeling was one of optimism and adventure.

As we approached an overpass just past Salt Lake City International Airport, I noticed a forlorn figure with his thumb stuck out.  I pointed him out and Marc dragged the wheel to the right as he pushed the throttle in to slow us down.  We met Joe and he explained he was on his way to Sparks, NV.  We consulted with each other quickly and decided to take him; we had an empty back seat with plenty of room.  Joe was in his sixties and gingerly climbed in the back seat of the Cruiser.  Although not very talkative, he responded to our questions and explained that he had been in Salt Lake City undergoing prostate surgery.  He had spent all of his money on his medical expenses and travel there.  We enthusiastically offered him some sandwiches in the blue Playmate cooler located next to him in the back seat and he gratefully accepted.

Four hours later we arrived in Elko and parted ways with our friend, Joe.  He thanked us for the sandwiches and we wished him luck.  We met up with the rest of the NAA crew (Charlene, Linda, Leo, Mark, and others) at the Red Lion Casino and sat down to discuss the  impending project over dinner.  It turns out there had been some miscommunication and the equipment wouldn’t be arriving for a few more days.  Everyone was disappointed that we couldn’t get started right away, but Frank agreed to pay us for the three days anyway.

After our equipment arrived, we were able to start work at the maximum security juvenile detention facility just northeast of town.  After a slow start to the project and working doing prep work all week, Marc convinced me to attend church that Sunday.  After priesthood, he excitedly told me, “Ben, I met a member that offered to let us stay in his trailer while we’re here!”  This was great news as we had been forking out $50 a night to stay in a barely habitable motel near downtown Elko.

Later that night, we followed the member’s instructions to his house and arrived after dark.  There, in his field, was parked an extremely small towable trailer.  About the size of a pop-up tent, there were two small sleeping bays on each side with thin foam mattresses.  But we didn’t care; we could pocket the money we had been spending on motel rooms.  We slid the windows open on each side of the trailer to create a cross breeze; as you can imagine, the trailer would get stifling hot during the day in the hot Nevada summer.  It would only cool off long after we had fallen asleep on top of our sleeping bags.  When it was windy, we would wake in the morning with gritty sand in our teeth and spit mud.

The project was poorly managed and went slow, but we enjoyed getting to know our Navajo co-workers.  Charlene taught me a decent amount of Navajo; now I remember only a few curse words and how to count to ten.  On weekends we would head up the canyon to the Humboldt National Forest to the southwest of town and camp with the Indians.  This afforded us two benefits; 1. We were able to escape the heat and 2. We were able to avoid staying in a motel for a couple of nights.  Most weekends, Marc also convinced me to attend church.  After one particularly late night, I staggered to Church with Marc, wishing I was still back in bed.  About 20 minutes into Sacrament meeting, I decided to go back and sleep in the car.  I only made it about halfway.  Just outside the front doors of the meetinghouse, I was found by an embarrassed Marc.  As people were leaving church, they actually had to step over me.

Weekday nights were spent cruising down Idaho street, eating a cheap meal at Taco Bell.  After paydays, we would splurge at the Red Lion Casino and have the buffet.  The Cruiser served us well during this time.  We were used to its idiosyncrasies.  When you turned right, the driver door would open wide.  We coped with this by threading a bunjee cord through the door handle and then around the vertical roll bar.  The door would still open, but only about 6 inches; it would then slam shut as the bunjee cord overcame the centrifugal force.

Only one mishap occurred.  One day we started the car and the throttle stuck open.  The engine immediately revved to its maximum and we were afraid we’d blow the engine.  We strategized and decided that we could start the car and put it in gear long enough to get us where we needed to go.  If we got going too fast, we could turn off the ignition and just let it coast.  This plan worked well enough to get us to the nearest mechanic, who was able to fix the stuck throttle cable and send us on our way.

A total of about 5 weeks was spent in Elko, NV that summer.  Even though we didn’t know it, Marc and I would soon be traveling to Southern California – me to finish my senior high school year and Marc to continue working to fund his mission.  We made memories we’ll never forget, but most of all, we’ll never forget our Landcruiser, Oscar.

White Shag Carpets

White Shag Carpets

By Marc Alley

Christmas 2007 (i.e. January ’08)

The good memories of that room, the majesty and pure unadulterated “let the good times roll” (thank you Ric Ocasek of The Cars) feeling . . . a je ne sais quois of childhood bliss.  It was truly a room from a not-so-long-forgotten decade, the wild sixties, and who knows how it survived to 1976, in prim-and-proper Salt Lake City on the East Bench.  It was a psychedelic trip just looking at the wallpaper, a combination of pinks, oranges, golds, browns . . . If you stared long enough at the swirls, dots and wavy lines it was like you could visualize a Buddha or interpret some secret code. It was kind of like staring at the album cover of Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band  and trying to figure out the meaning of all the weird little things contained therein.  The sense of funkadelic didn’t stop there, as it was outfitted with the deepest ivory-white shag carpet that could easily swallow a small animal or snack.  Rounding out the combo was a couch that was a horrifically-close shade of the same colors in more of an august harvest palette. 

This room was very unlike the rest of our Mom-inspired “country Baron broadsides Euro 80s chic” décor that was the rest of our Sugarhouse bungalow.  But that was the beauty of it . . . Mom and Dad were too cheap to remodel any basement rooms, so it fit the logic that it was ours to destroy, by default.  Even so, we treated it with a fairly high degree of respect, even though it was only “unofficially” ours.  To vacuum the acres of carpet, though, was not for the faint of heart, a Friday chore I did even back then.  You had to really know your vacuum head height settings.  Only by setting it on the highest “Austin Powers” adjustment could you prevent the Farah Fawcet-long shag from sucking into the roller and burning out the rubber belt and motor assembly.

The stark white knobs on the closets and drawers looked so purposeful against the shockingly-bright colors, like touching one would unlock a space capsule from Space Odyssey 2001.  No, they just opened into closets full of well-used board games and “educational” toys.  By “educational” I mean “wooden”.  Mom thought that anything that you had to actually build or create from natural matter really broadened your horizons, thus she provided wooden blocks, Legos, indestructible puzzles and Lincoln Logs.  It’s pretty hard to build anything sinister out of Lincoln Logs, unless it was Lincoln’s wife Mary’s sanitorium.  And build and create we did. 

Sometimes the closet did reveal some amazing finds.  One time Mom found a pair of “mystery panties” in one of the drawers and accused us of procuring them. The great meaning or portent of this find was kind of lost on us as we had no clue as to why one would want them. We never did find out whose they were, but you’d think that from the motif of the room that Mom would’ve figured out that they probably belonged to the previous homeowner.

 It was a surprising long and deep room (almost the width of the front of the house), perfectly suited for quick rugby-like “Smear the Queer” sessions and a Nerf football.  You could really get good traction in bare feet and the deep shag provided quite a bit of padding for hard falls.  A little rug-burn on the face never hurt anyone and was totally unnoticed by the “injury cops” (Mom and Dad).  I can’t remember a whole lot of injuries, but I do remember Ben throwing a heavy steel Tonka truck at my head one time. The deep carpet absorbed sound well. Injuries and fights had a self-containment feature, as any revealed tradecraft or secrets to Parents would result in disciplinary measures by “the company”.

The room also had a great location.  It was far away from the much-frequented kitchen and parental bedroom areas, with a quick access stairway to an escape route front door and shielding alcoves on the side.  What the builders in 1930 were thinking for the purpose of these small hiding spaces I’ll never know, but Brandon was able to utilize them well during one of his special “missions” to run outside bare-ass naked, touch the Peugeot station wagon, and run back.  Alas, he was betrayed as we had locked the front door; although we eventually had to let him back in as he had completed his assignment well.

The room also had the advantage of excellent southward upper-ground placement & slope away from the dreaded “water bucket”.  The infamous water bucket was courtesy of Dad who decided that he really didn’t have the time/expertise to replace the air conditioning condensation pump, which pumped the collected water back up into the old cast iron plumbing.  Therefore, to demonstrate to us the frailty of mortality and importance of military schedules, an everlasting and hellish water clock was created.  It was a ticking time bomb, and failure to empty the bucket on your allotted hour meant a flooding of the grey commercial basement carpet, wet socks, mildew and chastisement from all “bucket crew” members.  We were like a doomed Sisyphus condemned by Zeus to roll the rock up the hill, only to escape our slippery hands and roll back again.  Sure, summer meant long, sweet outdoor nights, but it also meant the dreaded water bucket rotation and 7 pm bedtimes under a still blazing sun.

The shag carpet room offered a respite from these various tasks and served as our headquarters for many ventures and purposes.   Ben often would set up shop in the western area of the room on Fast Sunday, where he could ply his tempting wares at escalating and lucrative drug dealer-like margins.  Nacho cheese Doritos and bite-size Butterfingers started out at only a nickel, but as supply diminished and demand increased, that same Dorito might fetch as much as twenty-five cents.  We would curse his name, and then sadly pay out more of our hard-earned change, whilst Ben would lovingly pet his large collections of erasers, rocks and rolls of pennies.  Somehow I never had the gumption or brains to plan ahead and buy supplies from Emigration Market and transport them home via bike BEFORE the lean times occurred.  I somehow suspect that Ben had stolen his master plan from a certain Great Brain book in which Tom sells candy to all of the beleaguered boys at the Catholic Jesuit School and makes a fortune, hiding the booty and loot in a statue of a Saint. Although, Ben was quite an entrepreneurial capitalist at such a young age, and you had to admit that he had great strategy and commitment to his malevolent principles.

During the winters, we were generally in a calmer mood and we’d read or play games together. Monopoly was one of our favorite board games.  In terms of Monopoly, we never did follow the correct rules.  Somehow we misinterpreted the entire point of the game, and allowed any player to buy houses for any card that they had without owning all cards of that color.  It was a brutal way to play, and we actually went out to a game supply store and bought extra houses, hotels and money.  We didn’t limit how many hotels you could have either, and when you landed on Broadway with 10 hotels, the game was definitely over.

When bored with that, we even created our own games.  I remember starting a massive, months-long game of pencil war, although maybe it was a combined effort . . . I don’t exactly remember.  The game was a popular offshoot of a popular “church” game. We taped a large, circular piece of paper (about 2’x2’) to a small, round pine table.  Then, we used our plastic stencil sets to draw a “home base” on each side of the paper with “tanks” of various sizes and abilities. We also drew rocks and other marks to symbolize parts of the battlefield and terrain.  The rules of the game were pretty basic: You would pick a tank and announce your intention to either move or shoot.  You would then place the tip of the pencil near the front of the representative tank symbol and with one hand, place the pointer finger on the top of the eraser.  With the right pressure and skill, you’d gently push the top of the pencil and it would fall away, drawing a straight line, symbolizing the “shoot” or “move” turn.  If any of the line passed through an opponent during a “shoot” turn, your enemy would blow up, represented by scribbled lines, and be erased forever with one of Ben’s massive erasers.

With the masses of tanks we each possessed, and difficulty to navigate such a large area, rates of attrition were low. So to combat this, we devised an ingenious “smart bomb” limited to a few per player, per game. This meant you could drop the pencil from the air at a height of about a foot, holding the end, and if you did it just right a small mark from the end of the #2 would make a small dot.  From the center of this dot the stencil would be used to create a massive explosion, destroying anyone in the radius. The greatest faux pas was to push too hard and tear the paper, resulting in total destruction of an area of the battlefield.  But that was the genius of the taped-down, thick poster paper.  I don’t think we ever tore the paper or finished the game . . . it was such a large “tank world”.  It was really fun to play with such simple objects, and I can still perform a “pencil shot” to this day, and I’m sure Ben and Brandon can too.

Our modus operandi eventually became more sophisticated as the world entered the VCR/Betamax age.  Mom and Dad had a pretty strict policy on any non-Sunday, non-Disney TV watching.  Any requisitions for TV usage had to be submitted for approval.  Mom had ensured Dad had installed a hardened steel coaxial lock to prevent any unauthorized watching in our shag carpet room.  We devised a clever bypass that ran through a hidden cortex, while still displaying a dummy cable that passed through the lock.  All the Love Boat, Chips and Brady Bunch we could handle was full access, baby!  Provided Mom and Dad weren’t at home, that is.

We fought hard and played hard and we had a great room to do it in. Much has been made of our fighting, but I think it’s pretty typical for any family with three boys, now that I’m older and a bit wiser.  And I also think we all loved each other a lot and felt like we had a little slice of real estate to do it in.

It was our room, the White Shag Carpet room, and sometimes I wish we still had it. Smear the Queer or Pencil Tank, anyone?!