Tolerating Change

A number of times in my life I've had the experience of coming home and opening the front door only to have the horrible feeling that I'm breaking into someone else's place. The chairs aren't where they're supposed to be, the couch is facing the opposite direction from its position only 9 or 10 hours ago, the TV is momentarily lost altogether, and the lamps seem to be on all at once for no apparent reason. A lingering air of dust and sweat completes the strangeness of the new atmosphere. I stare in consternation until I am at last able to recognize a few familiar things which have always belonged in my world and are therefore sure signs that I have not entered the wrong house.

If the date is somewhere between 1957 and 1969, I'll hear my mother's voice asking me to put my books away and help her shove a couch or bookshelf a little further into its new place. If the day has fried my brain too much, I'll slip up and ask something dangerous like, Why did you do all this?" If I ask this between 1975 and 1992, the response will probably be " 'M'on, Mims! It's fun!" "What's fun?" "Change, Mims! Making things seem new!" "Oh. Uh, huh."

If I have stumbled into the scene between 1992 and 1999, the answer will be "Hi, Honey! Guess what Bruce Benson and I found under the carpet. Red oak!" That alone was sufficient to cancel all other plans until the last coat finished drying about a week later. True, the floor was gorgeous, but I was exhausted and the lady next door had become infected with the desire to do the same thing. This left me feeling oddly guilty for her husband, Red, who was a truly nice guy and deserved a little time to sit in front of the tube and watch sports.

These days, the change might be announced with the pitiful tones of "Help me!" coming from another room. These words are spoken by one who knows perfectly well that I'm writing something on the computer or loading cartridges in the garage or deeply involved in a program on the History or Sci Fi channel. But there is nothing sacrosanct about a man's hobbies. Men are just overgrown children, anyway, and they have to be taught constantly that what is important to them is, by definition, not really important.

I learned the other day that our car needs to be replaced. This came as a great shock to me. I still think of it as a relatively new car. It is paid for, since we got it by trading the first Dodge Magnum of all time straight across for the little Neon which Dodge said was painted "Orange Blast." It had seven miles on it, a standard transmission with five forward speeds, and better visibility than the Magnum for which I had written a check of total payment about 4 months before. The Neon got great mileage, the chief reason we had decided not to keep the Magnum. We were just finishing up our world record race through my one-lump retirement package, and, since the Neon was new, I thought I wouldn't have to even think about buying another car for about ten years. I smiled a lot.

Our tires are, admittedly, shot. Our brakes need work. The starter is making a funny little sound, although it still starts the car with absolute fidelity. On the basis of all this, I am told we need a new car. Personages of no less note than the bishop and the father-in-law have joined in the chorus. So I guess we'll be getting a new(ish) car.

We have been looking at the Subaru Outback and the Mercury Mariner and a few others of that general ilk. I have never tolerated change well. Changing girlfriends back in my single days was terribly traumatic to me. Changing wives is a torment which has been inflicted on me twice. I did not handle the process well either time. Indeed, the first time, I would much rather have been shot. The second time wasn't much better, because, in addition to losing a companion, I was losing the frequent companionship of a tiny and much-loved son. All these experiences have made me less, not more, a fan of change. The only time I don't mind change is when it means getting something new without losing something old or familiar.

For example, I have rifles in four calibers right now. I could be reasonably happy with these four for the rest of my life, but I could be deliriously happy if I were able to add just a few more. See? Not change. Just addition. That's the best way to go.

A Memorable Weekend; But Will I Remember It?

The CZ 550 in 9.3x62mm. Well nigh perfect.

I had fun yesterday. I taught both Sunday School and Priesthood today. All of this went pretty well. But will I remember it a few weeks or months from now? If the answer is yes, it will only be because of my journal and this blog. I was just mentioning to Mary minutes ago how great it is that she so often catches up her family blog. It will be a precious family history some day. Each child will want to have a copy, and they'll sit together as young adults and laugh over the pictures and stories about themselves.

We Latter-day Saints are a record-keeping people. Always have been. Always should be. So I'll record some details of this weekend.

Earlier this week, brother Rosen called and asked me to take his Gospel Doctrine class while he was out of town. I cheerfully acceded to the request, but, even as I put the phone down, it occurred to me that it was the second Sunday, always my turn to teach the High Priests. At first I was mildly worried. Then it occurred to me that for 20 years I had taught several classes per day, five days per week, 36 weeks per year, and hadn't come to any harm from it. So I relaxed.



The Sunday School lesson, on early missionary work in the restored Church, was a pleasure to teach and even allowed me to discuss some of the political climate of the day as the Members of the Twelve were leaving Kirtland to go on missions. It was the Jacksonian era. Other big names like Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun, Daniel Webster, Davy Crockett, the Alamo, Nicholas Biddle, and his Second Bank of the United States all crowded into the forefront of my thoughts. I briefly described the Bank War and the Panic of 1837, and two persons in the class mentioned the financial troubles the Saints were having right along with the rest of the country. I got to talk about "moving the deposits," the most controversial thing Jackson ever did. Even killing Dickinson, hanging Armbrister and Arbuthnot, and invading Florida had not made him so many enemies. But he was Andy Jackson, and he'd never been known to back down from a fight. And he won that fight, too. The Bank was destroyed, Biddle was the loser, and, when it all caused a financial panic the year after Jackson moved back to Nashville, it was Martin Van Buren who got the blame.



I regret that Jackson never met Joseph Smith. I think they'd have liked each other instinctively.



The Priesthood lesson on the importance of building temples and Joseph Smith's personal anxiety to see it get done was an easy thing to discuss with a bunch of old guys like myself. Many of them are much better men than me, though. I think that the majority of them never have those selfish tendencies to hanker after worldly goods that I live with.



Saturday was a delight. Sheryl miraculously found enough money for us to buy a marked-down scope for my 9.3x62mm rifle which had battered the old scope to pieces. It kicks a little.





When I rezeroed it at the public range yesterday, I finished with the 286 grain Nosler Partition going 1 inch high at 100 yards, the 286 grain Woodleigh round nose going 1 1/2" right of that, and the 286 grain Woodleigh solid going about 1 1/2" directly below the Nosler. So my hunting and stopping loads all go to about the same place, the mark of a fine rifle. And no one has ever put criticism of a CZ rifle in print that I know of.



There is something unutterably satisfying about knowing that one is in possession of a medium bore rifle that is accurate and is also the equal of any creature that walks on this continent. I just couldn't stop smiling yesterday evening. And this evening I got to talk with Joseph on the phone for about half an hour!



If I could be guaranteed that all weekends would go as this one did, I'd be perfectly satisfied.