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Show in my father's house/ 31 wailing and gnashing of teeth that went on today, it's taken a fit. I simply must learn that you can please some of the people some of the time, but not all the people all of the time." "Come on, Rulon," Aunt Helga said, standing. "Lie down on my bed. You should rest for a few minutes -- at least until home evening." He followed her down the hallway to her room. At our weekly home evening, something for everyone was offered -- from religious lessons to fairy tales, from card games to hymn singing. It was the one time when only a matter of life and death could coax my father from the white house parlor where all his families gathered at seven o'clock sharp. My mother dried her hands on her apron and untied it as we all crossed the yard. Other mothers stood in the white house kitchen, pajamaed babies flung over an arm or being nursed to sleep as the mothers chattered. Eventually the little ones would be eased into one of the bedrooms where they'd sleep, wedged between other babies on the big double bed. As usual, we began by singing a hymn, "In Our Lovely Deseret, Where the Saints of God Have Met," one of my father's favorites. Although pale and shaky from the ulcer attack, he stood with the rest of us and sang loudly. When we were seated -- the mothers on the long sofa against one wall and we younger children clustered around our father, on the arms of the second-hand easy chair losing its stuffing, |