Twelve children once crawled through this house and under the table, shooting marbles and getting splinters.
Others had stick wars, sometimes they bled.
On Saturdays some played soccer. On Sundays they all went to Church.
Probably not much different from what the kids were doing in my neighborhood, but then again, I am not sure.
Life in the small towns of Utah wanted to be elusive. I came in with my own stereotypes about Mormon culture. Multiple wives with multiple children. Strange things happening behind flaking wooden doors. Truth is that I did get creeped out a little bit, but I was not able to tell wether it was from my preconceived notions, the desolate and expansive landscape, or if the locals out here were actually giving us the third degree. One Truth is for certain however. And that is that when Rush's wheel went 4 spokes out of true who came riding down the road but a Mormon couple and their Saturday cycling crew. With matter-of-factness the man told us to follow along, that they were headed back to his house, just ten miles from here, and that he could help us out. Well, 3 showers later we were sitting at their dining room table with leftover spaghetti, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and fresh popcorn. Already Rush's bike had undergone a complete overhaul and we had been invited to see live music at a pizza joint down the road.
This is not to say that I agree with or even care about the beliefs that Joseph Smith cultivated, but I guess I sit here and realize that it does not matter. We were in need, they provided an answer, and we left, on smooth rides with full bellies, and appreciation for those who had been the butt of our (or rather my own) jokes for most of the state.