Boys Without A Door, But With A Flag

I was in the WalMart parking lot in May 2018 when I noticed a car without a door. My first thought was that I hoped it had a secure seatbelt. My second thought was, "Why are those two young men taping a flag to their antennae?"

So I asked them both questions.

First of all, they were AWOL from school, since "There wasn't much to do."

I remembered late May at my own Utah high school, and had to agree that there wasn't much readin' writin' or 'rithmetic going on at that time.

In the minds of these two friends, who prefer not to be named (would the principal really come after you now, in the SUMMER?) it was more worthwhile to get an American flag for their ride. They each had a grandpa or great grandpa who fought and even died in U.S. wars. So the flag meant something personal to them.

As for the door?

It fell off.

They planned a near-future junkyard excursion to find and attach a replacement.

I have not often found youth who have such appreciation for the American flag.

I salute you, unknown young men, for carrying on the legacy of patriotism.

And for fastening your seat belts really tight.

Leprechaun traps

I was headed home from yet ANOTHER day of substitute teaching at Ephraim Elementary (if the kids like you, you're as good as a rock star!) when I found three little boys setting a leprechaun trap. They showed me how the loop worked to tighten so they could catch the leprechaun by the ankle. They showed me their method of burying the end of the rope under a handful of snow so he wouldn't be suspicious. They gave me the sobering information that they'd caught him earlier, but he escaped when they were in class. Their little faces brightened when I told them that leprechauns were still out, because it was still St. Patrick's Day.
With determination borne of youth, two of them climbed up into the spindly bush where the end of the rope was tied. The third boy cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "We're giving up and going inside! We're not trying to catch you any more, leprechaun, so you can come out now!"
Then he made a dash for the spindly bush and ducked behind its skeletal branches, his excited blue eyes peering out for any flash of green.
I got out of there quick. After all, I was dressed in green from my shoulders to my feet, and those boys were so determined, they might decide I was a king-sized leprechaun!

The Haunted Dog

By Shirley Bahlmann
Bibs was just four days old, a little black weiner with a small white dot between her shoulder blades, like she'd been touched by a ghost. (Just look at her spooky eyes!) I didn't really want a Border Collie, I was more interested in a cute little whisker dog like my cousins, Guy and Janette Rallison, have. But Bob and the boys would have none of that. We weren't sure Bibs was our puppy until we did "doggy tests" at five weeks old. All three boys chose her from the litter, and that was good enough for me.
When Bibs came to our house, she was too scared to sleep alone, so the boys hunkered down in their sleeping bags in her dog run. When the weather turned cold enough, they came inside and she stayed out.
When she first met our cats, they were all about the same size, but they wouldn't play nice. Sometimes our white-as-a-ghost cat, Dusty, would trot away to find a sunny spot and Bibs would happily give chase. Our black cat, Slick, never turned tail to Bibs. Even though Bibs grew to ten times his size, Dusty's the one who makes Bibs run.
The ghost touch has done other damage to Bibs' bravado. She's afraid to go in our living room, is afraid of the bathtub, blinking lights, and being behind closed doors. But worst of all, she's afraid of her dog feeder.
It's a terrific feeder that holds a whole bag of dog food with a lid to keep it clean and dry. We knew she wasn't fond of pushing open the little hinged door with her nose to get at her food, so we propped it open with a rock and thought we would live happily ever after.
Wrong.
Last month, Bibs was in our house when Bob asked, "Does she have any food?"
"I saw some in her feeding tray," I said. "Why?"
"She acts likes she's starving," he said.
It was true. She was doing more than vacuuming the kitchen floor, she was trying to root in the garbage can and stand up to the counter when she thought we weren't looking and attempting to open cupboards with her nose. So when I took her back outside, I inspected the feeder more closely. I found spider webs woven across the feeding tray. Was she scared of spiders, or had they set up shop there because she never her nose in to eat her food? When I opened the lid, it was chock full of dog food, clear to the top.
"Bibs!" I said. "I can't believe you're scared of your feeder!" She lowered her head between her white-spotted shoulders and wagged her tail in apology.
I took pity on the ghost-touched dog and scooped some food out for her.
I think we're going to dress her up as a werewolf for Halloween.

Under Son

by Shirley Bahlmann
I just finished a week and a half long stint at the Mormon Miracle Pageant in sunny, mosquito-infested Manti, Utah. My routine was pretty much get up at 6:00 a.m., clean the alternative high school in readiness for Summer School classes, feed and water our pets since that's the only way I could be certain they'd remain alive, then be in my Craft Fair booth by 10:00 a.m. (I didn't have to go except when it was my turn to take the till, but more people bought books when I was there to threaten them with paper cuts if they didn't.) I stayed among the paper and glossy covers until it was time to do my part in the Pageant, which started at 9:30 p.m. (I was a wicked Shaman who led people astray from Third Nephi.) Home by 11:30, I was in bed soon after, unless my restless 8-year-old made it later.
Later, rinse, repeat.
I met some interesting people in my book booth. One fellow who appeared deceptively young had a double super hero cape velcroed around his neck. On one side was the Superman symbol, the other side showed Batman. One lady who shared my booth asked the young hero which super dude he was. "Are you Batman or Superman?" was her innocent question.
The boy fixed her with deadly laser beam eyes. "I'm Under Son," he declared, clearly irritated that she did not recognize him by sight. (How could she have known his real cape was at the cleaners?)
"Under Son?" the lady asked, unaware of the mortal danger she put herself in by questioning his identity. Her life was saved by the lad's older sister, who obviously had super powers of her own. She grabbed Under Son's shoulders and held him fast.
"It's like Under Dog," the girl explained. "Only he's Under Son."
Ah.
That boy has a big future. I could tell by his cape-swaying swagger as he left us without a backward glance. (Under Son never glances backwards.)
I'll tell you what... if I'm ever in danger, I'll run to the nearest kindergarten class and call for Under Son, the hero of limitless creativity.

Bad Red

Since we're studying Book of Mormon history history in Sunday School, it was only natural that the subject of the New York Sacred Grove came up. As our teacher talked about the miraculous feeling in the grove, my mind skittered backwards to my childhood days when I visited the grove with my family. While we were there, looking up into the heavens and wondering about the events from so long ago, my two brothers had their eyes on the ground, and each one managed to catch a small snake from those sacred grounds. I don't recall if they asked our parents or if they smuggled them in their pockets, but those snakes made it home.
My younger brother's snake was a mild gray color, and eventually had a batch of teeny little baby snakes which we discovered wrapped around the vents on the back of the old black and white TV set. (No, I don't know how they got onto the TV.) When I first saw them, I thought they were little black wires and I touched one. It was soft and it squirmed. I don't remember exactly what happened to them, but I believe my mother gathered them up into a shoe box, and then my memory fails me.
My older brother's snake was a dusky red color, and with a fiery temper to match, was aptly named, "Bad Red." My brother would hold Bad Red's mouth up to his ear and let the snake bite his earlobe, then walk around the house to show off his snake earring. I thought he was terribly brave.
Then, one day, Bad Red went missing. We looked for him, but had no luck until my mother went downstairs to get a load of laundry out of the washing machine. Her scream rose three stories, and brought my brother running. "Did you find my snake?" he asked. She had, right with the clothes flattened to the side of the tub by the spin cycle. The miracle is that Bad Red was still alive, and very much in the mood for biting earlobes. If you think a boy and his dog are a touching sight, you haven't seen a boy and his snake earring.