The Insane Root That Makes the Reason Prisoner

25 June 2006

While the strident tones of political bathos thunder up and down our once-quiet valley; while Representative Cannon and Candidate Jacob heatedly debate whether illegal immigrants should be systematically mowed down with M-16s or AK-47s, or whether flag-burners should be dealt with via firing squad or lethal injection; while an anxious world waits for Shiloh Jolie-Pitt to come of age and save us from ourselves--amid all such turmoil and much besides, we sit contemplatively at the quiet of our desk, wrapped in the serenity of domestic felicity as we contemplate the passing of another week, the treading of a few more steps along the way to dusty death, to that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns...But lest we lose ourselves in an incoherent omnigatherum of quotations from the Immortal's plays, we interrupt these calm reflections and seek to give them some shape and substance in this, the latest installment of The Week in Review.

Monday (19 June 2006)
Today Justin attended the first session of a six-week seminar in the history of Mormon thought ("Dealing With Joseph Smith's Legacy: Mormon Thought, 1845-1890," the seminar is called) directed by professors Terryl Givens (University of Richmond) and Richard Bushman (emeritus, Columbia University). Justin is one of nine summer fellows who will, over the next six weeks, slosh through the primary texts from the Martyrdom to the Manifesto in a futile effort to map the contours of Mormon intellectual life during that formative epoch of our history.

Tuesday (20 June 2006)
This day marked the third anniversary of that magical night when, under the hypnotic moonlight of the Dixie desert, Justin dropped to a knee, told Lia he would brave an arena of lions in defense of her honor, and asked her to be his wife; and when Lia, in response, fell to both knees and wept without reprieve--not even reprieve enough to proffer a definitive Yes or No--for several minutes. Justin celebrated the anniversary by burying himself irretrievably in the Journal of Discourses, Lia by introducing Julia to the game of Hop-scotch and all its attendant wonders.

Wednesday (21 June 2006)
This day marked the third anniversary of the day after our formal engagement, a day when Justin was kidnapped by his future father-in-law and dragged against Lia's will on a quixotic hegira to Page, Arizona where, in theory, future father-in-law and future son-in-law were to repair a crippled automobile. Arrived in Page on that memorable day, David and Justin learned to their horror (well, David to his horror, Justin to his great bemusement) that the needed parts were unavailable at the otherwise trusty Page, AZ Autozone. Returned to St. George, Justin learned that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder; his newly affianced was glad to see him indeed. But to return to the present....
Emboldened by her crushing victory over Julia in the previous day's Hop-scotch match, Lia resolved to take on all comers at the tether ball pole in our driveway. In the fury of her first serve, Lia snapped the beleaguered rope and sent the capacious, leathery orb flying in the wind. The ball came down within two feet of Eli's head; a crueller fate may have left Lia triumphant in tether ball, but guilty of infanticide. Eli's survival of such maternal assaults, together with Julia's recent escape from the wrath of her aunt Jini on the baseball field, have convinced us that our dauthers are indeed children of destiny, preserved by the magnanimity of the gods to restore, ere long, the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome.

Thursday (22 June 2006)
Momentarily abandoning her more sportive conquests, Lia resorted to the more traditional routine of taking her children to the park. Arrived at Kiwanis Park, Julia proved a resolute ingrate, refusing to play on any of the playground equipment--even shaded equipment--with the incessant mantra, "It's too hot!" She then persuaded Lia that, unless held forthwith, she would die. So mother and daughters spent an unhappy hour in a strained embrace before Lia surrendered and took them home.

Friday (23 June 2006)
With the late, happy development of Eli's career as a first-rate sleeper, we commissioned Jini to guard the house while the girls slept and we crept out for our first real date in months. We had decided to hie to the Westridge tennis courts for a recreation of the 1973 "Battle of the Sexes" between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs. To accomplish our purpose, we needed to borrow tennis racquets from Justin's parents. The racquets, however, mysteriously turned up missing. Basketball was our Plan B, but even here we failed to procure a ball that wasn't flat. At length, we determined, as red-blooded Americans, to turn to America's favorite pastime (which, strangely, no one seems to like) of baseball. We got some gloves and a ball and played catch until Lia no longer had light enough to see--or until she had dropped more successive throws than her dignity could stand and the dimming light proved a ready excuse. Before heading home, Justin made a brief stop at the park restroom. While inside, by some malignancy of Fate, the park sprinkler passed through an inexplicably-placed window not once, but twice, showering poor Justin with a torrential Niagara that would have been better appreciated by the dying grass around him. We came home to lick our wounds over pair of popsicles, only to find Jini and the girls dancing to raucous music ("Wild Thing," we think, was playing when we entered) and imbibing whipcream spray as Parisians imbibe vintage wines. Justin, white with indignation, cried, "What is the meaning of this?!?!" Julia looked up from her bachanalian rumpus and quite matter-of-factly replied, "Daddy, if music be the food of love, give me excess of it." It is well known that no father can resist the charms of a daughter's adept allusions to the Immortal Bard. His fury subsided.

Saturday (24 June 2006)
In the afternoon we piled into the Big Blue Bull and headed to the Paris of the Rockies (Springville of course) to visit the Springville Art Museum. Julia showed signs of promise in the field of art criticism as she deftly recognized each portrait of someone "naked." For Justin's benefit (we suppose), Julia explained that such persons were preparing to "take a shower." Lacking his daughter's artistic acumen, Justin was baffled by many modern pieces, and most of the exhibit was filed under two great headings: the picturesque and the odd. A more penetrating critic, Lia waxed eloquent in her analyses, quickly cutting to the heart of each piece and assessing the value of its achievement (which Justin was able to do as well once he realized the adjacent placards served as price tags).
In the evening we made a trip to Macey's where we purchased some necessary items--cupcake mix, party hats, pink ice cream, etc.--for Julia's upcoming birthday festivities. After the girls went to bed, Lia fairly insisted on cutting Justin's hair. Hoping that lengthy locks might make him less conspicuous in the liberal atmosphere of the Yale Law School, Justin requested that Lia cut gently, limiting herself to some general trimming around the ears and a truncation of his nascent mullet (it was been wisely said that a mullet must be nipped in the bud ere it control and devour a man's neck).

Sunday (25 June 2006)
While it is not our custom to include the Sabbath in our illustrious Review, we do so now in order to relate the circumstances of our early celebration of Julia's birthday. We shall say nothing of the day otherwise--nothing of the magnificently dull high council speaker who droned away during sacrament meeting, nothing of the excruciatingly painful Sunday School lesson that trudged murkily through a dozen or so verses of 2 Samuel, nothing at all of that sort. At or about 6 o'clock in the evening we mounted the Bull's several saddles and made our solitary way to Grandma and Grandpa Collings' house to celebrate Julia's birthday with said grandparents, Uncle Samuel, Aunt Jeni, Cousin Jacob, Cousin Emy, Aunt Rosalyn, and Cousin Andrew. Julia was a perfect darling; she beamed incandescently as "Happy Birthday" was sung to her; she reveled in her pink ice cream and attendant cone; she rejoiced in her each and every birthday present and shared the lot of them with her eager cousins. She was a doll and, as you shall see dear Reader, we have the pictures to prove it.

Once more, slumbering Reader, we take our leave.