I have a love/hate relationship in my life that I like to call my “Mormon Chronicles.” Anyone who reads me for any length of time will know that I take off after the “Saints” on a fairly regular basis, but become confused when I pen something praising their community, industrious nature, or basic faith. There are two reasons for this. First off, I really do love the Mormon culture. Brigham City reminds me of back when I was a little boy in Shreveport. When it snows the air smells like ice cream. You seem to settle down up there. Two, I’m covered UP with Temple Mormons in my family, and I’m their pet Gentile.
While Brother Theo and I did take on the powers that be up in Utah, we were in error when we thought the Church, and the Mormon people were behind what was happening in Lindsey park. We couldn’t have been farther from the truth. When we were contacted by people who spoke secretly with us, and they understood the real deal, the demographics flipped one hundred and eighty degrees.
These articles are ones that I’ve chosen from my roller coaster relationship with the “brethren.” I’ve met some of the most interesting people up there, and then I’ve met some scoundrels, too. I never argue religion with them because for all of my supposed knowledge, MY great grandparents may not have pushed one of those hand carts over the mountain behind Brigham Young, but Porter Rockwell was there, and his mother was a Witt. From Boston. I’m a Witt, whose family hails from Boston. Not hard connecting those dots.
Brother Theo tells me the Hindus believe your Karma must find you, you don’t find it. Sometimes it takes more than one lifetime to do that. He said it was as if we were drawn to Utah by fate. Maybe. I really did find something in Utah. I really felt charged to protect the children there. All the children. In the desert wind I could almost hear Porter’s voice, “What took you so long?”
The Butcher Shop