In My Father's House

Page 35

in my father's house/ 17 My palms were wet. My mother smiled. "Don't worry, honey." But my father chattered on. "Look, that cliff face has the features of an Old Testament prophet." Then he showed us the difference between spruce and pine needles and pointed out a deer and two cottontails. "He isn't watching," I whimpered. "We'll get hurt." "Now, hush," my mother said firmly. "Don't you trust your daddy, dear?" my father smiled. He turned and winked at Brother Musser. "I would if you'd watch where we're going," I piped. Brother Musser chuckled from the back seat. "You're going to get trouble from this one, Rulon." My father flushed, and for a moment the car was very quiet. Then my father carefully turned the car around. I hung, white-knuckled onto the door until we were safe against the mountain and headed for home- When we arrived at the white house, stuffed celery, dishes of cranberry sauce and baskets of hot rolls thronged. Namecards set at each place included everyone, even the children. I sat beside my mother and begged for a sip from her red goblet. "You wouldn't like it." "Please...." I wheedled. "It's wine. Good Mormons don't drink liquor or wine." "You're drinking it!" I accused. She flushed. "The Word of Wisdom is a law of moderation.