3 June 2007

Last Sunday found us far from New England’s happy shores in the midst of the inexplicably populous desert of Utah’s Dixie where we attended the missionary farewell—excuse us, where we attended a sacrament meeting during the course of which Lia’s sister, Jini, who, as it happens, is to enter the MTC on the sixth of this June in preparation for service in the Germany Munich Mission, gave a talk. It was a fine talk, whose only drawback, so far as the literate universe is concerned, was that it occasioned a distance of some 2,600 miles between the editors and the magnificent laptop computer of one of them (the laptop of the other is an irredeemable fossil whose powers, sempre diminuendo, make the thickest molasses seem swift by comparison). And this distance, alas, left a disappointed world without an installment of this illustrious blog. But the sacrament meeting formerly known as a farewell also provided the occasion of a Collings Family Adventure in our home state of Utah, the manifold marvels of which are recorded in the scrolling screen that follows. We proceed.

Saturday (May 26): What better way to celebrate the conclusion of finals and the passing of Justin’s first year of law school than to embark on a prodigiously stressful and discomfiting journey by air across the width of this venerable Republic, all in the face of screams of howling protest from the two shortest (and the one tallest) member of our family, ending in a post-midnight MST arrival at the Vegas airport and a collapse into bed in St. George after 3 a.m. topped by an hour’s further protest from a despairingly fatigued and hence inconsolable Eli? Finding no answer to such a question we did just such a thing. And what a day it was.

Sunday (May 27): After a refreshing night’s sleep of about seventeen minutes, we bounded out of bed for the spiritual, physical, and musical preparations for the day of “farewell” to follow. These included, respectively, morning scripture study (enjoyed by Justin only; Lia, preferring not, on this particular morning, to read the Good Word, soundly slept on); a hearty breakfast of eggs and sausages and whatnot (Eli truly enjoyed the whatnot); and a rehearsal for a sacrament meeting rendition of “Lead, Kindly Light” involving some of Jini’s friends, her mature siblings (in the temperamental rather than the chronological sense of the term: Chari, 14, was included; Davy, 16, was not), and two magnificent soloists who happen also to be the editors of this illustrious blog. The “farewell” was a wonder: Jini spoke bravely and well; Justin sang boomingly and Lia sang well. After church, the helpful members of the assemblage of Jini’s well-wishers joined hands in the preparation and grilling of some of the world’s most delectable shish kabobs. Not numbered among the “helpful members” were such luminaries as Justin, Trevor, Dad Suttner, and Davy. Frightened by the spectacle of Jini’s male friends (read suitors) who gallantly donned aprons (some with unmistakably pink bordering), this foursome, their masculine sensitivities imperiled, fled to the front yard, took refuge in the shade of a truffula tree, and formed the He-man Woman-Haters’ Anti-apron Polysophical Society, Cotton Mission Branch. To his credit as a father, Trevor brought Jace with him, sparing his infant son from a likely devastating blow to his neophyte masculinity. Justin, no misogynist he, justified his abstention from the kitchen on the doubly-charitable ground of providing Jini’s suitors with an occasion to impress and of sparing one and all the unfortunate experience of eating a meal prepared in part by him. In the event, the meal was glorious, and those who helped not to prepare it rounded their shoulders and took more than the lion’s role in devouring it. After the meal Dad Suttner led one and all in a brief devotional service, after which Jini’s friends and suitors departed. This latter class numbered in what must have been the hundreds, and the experience of watching them inhale an enormous meal before departing by caravan in droves left quite an impression. “Perhaps we should call you Sister Penelope?” cried Eli to Jini with an amiable grin?

Monday (May 28): We had been induced—duped, the cynical among you might say—to come to Utah for Jini’s farewell with the understanding that the farewell was to be followed by a boating trip to Lake Powell (this was of course no inducement to Justin, inveterate in his puritanical opposition to all things fun and daring). However, consistent with an expansive tradition that has left its automotive mark on the occasions Eli’s baby blessing, our Christmas trip to Utah—indeed the last seventeen or so instances in which the fact could have conceivably been relevant—the Suttner family suburban was broken down and there was no means of towing the boat to the famous lake. Justin ventured circumlocutionarily to suggest to Dad Suttner that the same merciful impulse that leads a tender-hearted cowboy to shoot a beloved steed with four broken legs might lead a car owner to tender an offer to the kidney foundation, but Dad Suttner could only respond with a plaintiff, “But I love that car . . .”, before his emotions got the better of him. The promised trip to Lake Powell rendered impossible, it was collectively determined that we should visit the newly fashioned Sand Hollow reservoir. Dad Suttner, who helped make this collective decision, unilaterally determined to skip the outing altogether and took a resounding nap while the rest of us played. By some accident of carpooling—and the editors have since futilely invoked Thomas Malthus, patron saint of carpooling, to find out why—Justin rode to the reservoir in an aged truck driven by Davy with Davy’s indefatigable companion Mikey riding in between. Justin soon remembered what it was like to be seventeen.

The outing began pleasantly enough, with Davy and Mikey joining forces in charity to buy Justin a monstrous ball of kiwi-flavored snow for the slender price of one dollar. The group then made our merry way to Sand Hollow, carrying in the bed of the truck a beleaguered kayak in an advanced stage of dilapidation. Arrived at the Hollow, They immediately embarked in the aforementioned kayak. That is, Davy and Justin embarked only fleetingly before the boat was capsized by an exuberant Mikey, who thought it expedient to board the kayak by means of a flying and misguided leap from the distant dock. After the three successfully bailed the boat, and after Davy pronounced an imitable blessing in the Scotch tongue on his shortsighted comrade, the trio embarked anew. The kayak fits two comfortably; it fits three decidedly less so. The rowing of the intrepid triumvirate, unlikely to win an Ivy League championship any time soon, at length brought them to an island from the rocks of which they planned to jump into the water. But the rocks were too low for Davy’s ardent tastes, so the hapless crew turned an about face and headed for another, distant island in search of sheerer cliffs and steeper falls. They soon found what they searched and Mikey and Davy immediately took the proverbial plunge into the depths below. Justin, a creature with some pretensions toward rationality, at first demurred when it was suggested that he too take a flying leap into the blazing blue beneath. But in a fit of adolescent reversion our hero, vowing he would ne’er consent, consented. Contrary to popular predictions, he survived.

Not finding the rest of their group at the nearest beach, the threesome piled back into the aged truck and headed toward another beach in the hopes of finding them there. On the way Davy drove 43 mph in a 25 zone and engaged in a brand of fishtailing that was calculated to impress his peer. Whether or not Mikey was impressed, the park ranger following just behind was not. Davy was pulled over and found himself with no shirt, no license, and no excuses before the long arm of the law. While the ranger dilly-dallied in his truck—it being the practice of law enforcement officers from time immemorial to punish speeders and other traffic violators by wasting their time—our park pass flew out Davy’s open window, and the bare-chested teen was forced to race across the road in a mad dash to retrieve it, leaving the befuddled ranger to wonder whether Davy was making a quixotic attempt to escape citation or simply engaging in bizarre behavior as the product of some unnamed teenage angst. Whatever the case, the manifest pathos that emerged in the visual combination of the kayak, the truck, and the driver was enough to arouse pity in the bosom of the goodly ranger. Davy escaped with only a warning and an injunction that Mikey, who had his license with him, drive the rest of the way. But the drama was not over yet, as Mikey managed to get the truck stuck in the sand—twice—before the good-hearted ranger was reduced to chaining the aged truck to his own and towing it in reverse back on to the road. Justin veritably howled with merriment all the wall; this was high entertainment, a sharp contrast to the doldrums that inhere in the heady and monastic environs of the Yale Law School. At length the three found the rest of the group and spent a happy afternoon, as Ariel put it in Disney’s immortal ditty, “warm on the sand.”

Not everyone enjoyed the day in the sun, however. Julia was terrified of the ocean and doubly terrified of the port-a-potty that was its alternative when she informed her parents that she needed to go terribly. Refusing these and other options, we were reduced to putting our obstinate child in a diaper, immediately after which concession she promptly peed with a will and informed all passersby of her proud achievement. But this isn’t Rosalyn’s blog, so no more on that line. We did get to go out on the kayak by ourselves—without the girls—and, Lia’s wrongheaded steering notwithstanding, had a peaceful and relaxing row.

In the evening, Justin did what every red-blooded American should do on Memorial Day, namely, join with the rest of the male contingent at the Suttner estate to watch the Jazz-Spurs followed by Tora, Tora, Tora! and The Great Escape. The women of the house alternatively showed their patriotism, oddly, by watching Evita which, more oddly, happens to be Chari’s favorite movie (something about the story of a power-hungry second-rate actress seemed to resonate in the being of that fourteen-year-old princess of sport—much the same impulse that led Americans twice to elect Ronald Reagan with overwhelming majorities).

Tuesday (May 29): We spent the afternoon playing racquetball. Mom Suttner distinguished herself as the finest player of the bunch, losing only one (thrown) game against Lia and overcoming a 9-3 deficit to beat Justin 11-9. Davy, not particularly adept at striking the ball, threw all his vociferous energies into the “racquet” portion of the game; easily edging Mikey for the title of the day’s noisiest player. Justin and Jini proved an unstoppable doubles team. In the late afternoon, Justin took Gabe to his penultimate little league baseball game of the season. Justin stayed to watch Gabe distinguish himself on the field and behind the plate as a formidable base runner and catcher. The rest of Gabe’s team was less distinguished, losing a hard-fought game 13-5. In the evening we held a small, grossly premature (thirty days!) birthday party for Julia, who gracefully embraced her present of Winnie the Pooh books about friendship and relationships.

Wednesday (May 30): This day Dad Suttner accompanied us on the long drive to Provo, giving us a guided historical tour of I-15 along the way. It is astonishing—really almost incredible—to think that one man could experience so many misadventures on one highway in one lifetime. No wonder the Suttner suburban suffers as it does! Julia and Eli were both happy to see Grandma Patti and Grandpa Bruce, but they were also very tired, so we put them to bed early before sneaking out of the house for a rare night alone. We headed first to the Towne Center Mall to try the ice cream at the gelateria there that we never got around to visiting when we lived in Provo. But alas, tempus fugit and so do stores: the gelateria was gone. Never ones to waste a trip, we looked for and found a present for Hadlie Ballard, newly arrived daughter of our dear friends Shawn and Kate. We then made our solitary way to the quasi-celestial haven of Wymount Terrace where we spent a lovely evening visiting with the Ballard and Ritchie families.

Thursday (May 31): In the afternoon we went with Grandma Patti to Temple Square where we met up with our old and beloved friends, Jordan and Alison Johnsen, and their son Isaac. Temple Square was a rich experience, punctuated by Julia’s informing Grandma Patti that she, like the devil, does not pray (she’s in the midst of a heathen phase). We really enjoyed the exhibits and had fun at the Church Museum of Art as well. In the evening, Justin’s parents gave us tickets to see “You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown” at BYU’s Pardoe Theater. The film was a Shangri-la of Zoobie excess, swelled with saccharine song and earnest dialogue drawn from the strips of Peanuts® themselves. It was all great good fun, rendered the merrier by the young fellow sitting (alone, unsurprisingly) next to Lia who sang heartily, if softly, along with many of the songs.

Friday (June 1): In the morning Grandma Patti, Lia, and the girls went to Jeni’s house where the girls bounced on a “big blow-up thing” and where Julia and Jacob variously giggled with unbounded glee. Justin, meantime, was haunting around the BYU campus, where he visited his mentor, John Tanner; his mission president and the man who introduced him to Dante, Madison Sowell; and his and Lia’s Joseph Smith Papers supervisor, Kay Darowski. Thereafter all parties met up at the Deseret Towers pool where we joined the Ballards, the Ritchies, the Evanses, and the Diehls from our Wymount ward for a swim and a traditional bucket of chicken (together with other fixings, provided generously by the Ballards). It was a wonderful afternoon, even if Justin lost miserably in his bout of water basketball with Cameron Ritchie and Shawn Ballard. In the evening we had dinner with Grandma Patti and the Tolleys at La Dolce Vita, an Italian place of middling quality in downtown Provo. In the evening, we decided to do something really crazy after the girls went to bed, so we each settled down with a book and read quietly for a time before going to bed ourselves.

Saturday (June 2): A generally miserable day spent packing; driving; flying; sleeping. We pause, however, to record again the honored names of Shawn and Kate Ballard, who very graciously gave us a ride to the airport, rendering smooth and easy a process that would otherwise have been complicated by the fact that Justin’s parents left for Kentucky on the high and dramatic adventure of grading AP statistics exams several hours before our own flight. The Ballards are, as it happens, two of the finest people in the brief history of our little universe. The flight was not as painful as it could have been; the girls were really generally good. The highlight of the adventure was Julia’s declaiming to flight attendants, fellow passengers, and other uninterested parties, with great earnestness, that “Callie does not share Dora with Eli.” Our readers can imagine how much such a seven-word indictment might mean to the uninitiated stranger. We arrived in Hartford after 11, in New Haven around 12:30. As we drove home we resisted the forceful temptation to doorbell ditch the houses of our friends as we made our winding way back to 517 Prospect St. #2. In the end, mother, father, daughters, and the faithful bull fell eagerly asleep, glad to be back to what we now call home.