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Show in my father's house/ 97 News crackled over the radio. I listened to the deep throb of the announcer's voice, recognizing the names of some people and the place called Short Creek. From my father's suddenly grey face and the tight line of his mouth, I knew something was terribly wrong. I leaned forward to hug him so tightly about the neck that it must have been difficult for him to breathe, let alone drive. "Oh, Daddy," I whispered. "Don't be afraid or I will be afraid too." "All right, darling," his voice strangled. "If you'll let go of my neck, I promise not to be afraid." And I was satisfied to see that color suddenly rushed into his face. Later, my mother explained to me that the Arizona lawmen collaborating with Utah and Federal police had arrested some members of the other group. When the police arrived, they found the entire group assembled on the Short Creek schoolhouse steps, pledging the flag and singing "America." "They won't arrest Daddy, will they?" I asked. My mother turned away, her face set in a way that worried me. I loved Sunday school in the mountains, our voices echoing off canyon walls as though angels sent our music back to us. By the time Sunday school was over, the gnawing worry about my father had left me. The canyon was so beautiful, the day so sun-sweet. Surely God, who had made the trees and mountain peaks wouldn't let anyone arrest my father. Surrounded by nature, I |
