A Word From The Bishop -- Keeping The Romance Alive

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Bishop Paul Zimmerman
Subject: Appreciating our wives

They cook our meals, clean our houses, do our laundry, mow our lawns, change the oil in our cars, re-shingle our roofs, lay concrete, chop firewood, and singlehandedly bear, give birth to, and raise our children. For those, and countless other sacrifices, the wives and mothers in Zion deserve all the pampering we can afford.

My wife Carrie was applying for a semester abroad in London when I swept her off her feet and changed her plans. Someday, God willing, I'll take her there. But right now, the pressures of family, work, tithing, and church callings make such a journey impossible. I know that many of you brethren share my dilemma. But don't despair, while we may not be able to swing the overseas plane fare, with a little imagination we can do the next best thing here in good old Abbottsville, California.

Believe it or not, this Valentine's Day, I took my sweetheart on a trip to Merry Olde England!

First thing in the morning, the kids and I served Mommy a genuine full English breakfast in bed!

Their Food Hall is Famous

After that, I assumed the roll of black cab driver, loaded the pram and diaper bag into the boot, and motored everyone downtown so that Mommy could get lost in "Harrods."

Book lover that she is, Carrie dreams of browsing the bookstores on London's Charing Cross Road. This week the Abbottsville Barnes & Noble stepped up to take their place. I dropped the kids off at the Harry Potter display, then escorted my sweetie over to the Shakespeare shelves. (To enhance the mood, I downloaded the soundtrack to Mary Poppins onto both our iPods.) Unfortunately, our literary experience was interrupted when our kids' impromptu quiddich match toppled over half of the American Girls section. -- Served me right for leaving them in the care of non-members!

Carrie seemed a little frazzled after the quiddich match, so I took her home and treated her to the best relaxer there is, an authentic English High Tea. Not being a whiz in the kitchen, I had a moment of panic when I couldn't find anything resembling tea in our cupboard. But my ingenious children saved the day by scooping up dead leaves on the lawn, steeping them in a mug of hot tap water, and assembling a plate of traditional English scones.

Why go all the way to the British
Museum?

Having been refreshed by the tea, we resumed our sightseeing. While I couldn't come up with a substitute for Stonehenge, I did discover that the illustrations in an old copy of The Pearl of Great Price bore a striking resemblance to the Rosetta Stone.

The clock reminded us of Big Ben!

Of course, no visit to Britain is complete without a trip to a castle. With all of our royalty residing in Salt Lake City, this presented a challenge. But I found a solution in the lobby of Abbottsville's new Holiday Inn Express. The desk clerk was super nice, and even let us tour some of the salons.

 Finally, we ended the day with a visit to the local pub for a traditional dinner of fish and chips.

While children are a Mormon mother's pride, joy, and entire reason for being, every sister deserves a little alone time with her eternal companion in their very own five star hotel. (I even changed the sheets!) During our trip to "Harrods" I had snuck off to buy Carrie some skimpy nightwear for the occasion. But prices were way too steep! Maybe it's just as well. My wife never looks sexier than when she's wearing nothing but my old BYU tee-shirt. So while she slipped into that, I slipped next door to the Harolds' to see if they could keep the kids for a few.

Turned out Brother Harold was treating his own wife to a similar Valentine's Day travel fantasy, and was in the kitchen rescuing a charred version of steak au poivre and pomme frites. He agreed to let my kids stay and watch the final half hour of Ratatouille if I'd take his back to my house for the next half hour.

Crickey! A whole thirty minutes? That left us time to snuggle after, and watch a little ESPN.

Then we gathered all the kids from next door, came home and hosted another impromptu quiddich match, this time in our own living room.

A perfect end to a perfect day. And nobody is more deserving than my little woman! She doesn't even need to thank me!! (And hasn't, come to think of it.)

Total cost of this vacation: $15.67. (+ $200.00 for damages to Barnes & Noble.)

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, we'll send over some of the Zimmermans' home grown tea leaves.

Mother's Visit

To: Donna Banta
From: Mark Crawford
Subject: Mother's visit

Dear Donna,

Most of the week went fine. Mother seems to have  come to terms with the fact that I'm no longer Mormon and that I live with a man. (Although she still asks where Byron sleeps, and when I tell her she still smiles, shakes her head and says, "Oh p-shaw!") We did the usual. San Francisco, Carmel. In the evenings Mother filled me in on the family in Salt Lake City and taught Byron how to cook "Utah Style." (Believe me, Donna, the man's a saint, and I don't mean the "latter-day" kind.)

On Sunday Byron and I planned to drop Mother off at church, go for brunch, then pick her up after. We made a slight detour to collect her friend, Sister Hickey, who is no longer able to drive. We parked and escorted the elderly sister into the building, as it took three people to manage her walker, oxygen tank, scriptures, and bag of medications.

Once she and Mother were safe in their pew, Byron and I raced for the door, only to be confronted by Bishop Zimmerman and a young member of the Aaronic Priesthood. The bishop's tie was askew and his lapels were covered in Post-it notes. He answered e-mail on his Blackberry as he spoke. "Mark! Thank goodness you're here! I need you to run to the store for the sacrament bread. Give the loaves to Dallin here when you get back." He pressed a wad of cash into my palm and disappeared. I looked down at Dallin. He was in desperate need of a bar of soap. "Listen kid," I said, "why don't you run to the Safeway on the corner and get the bread?" "I can't," he replied. "Why not?" I asked. "Because it's a sin." As the ward's token reprobate, I was the only candidate capable of breaking the Sabbath to provide the Abbottsville "saints" (including my mother) with their holy communion.

After Byron and I delivered the bread to Dallin, our exit was again hampered, this time by a commotion in the foyer. Bishop Zimmerman blocked our path, panting. One of the Post-its had attached itself to his earlobe. I tactfully returned it to his lapel. "Mark! Thank goodness you're back! Sister Turley's water just broke. I need you to sit with their kids during Sacrament Meeting while Brother Turley takes her to the hospital." Mother moved into my range of vision, her eyes imploring. "It's only an hour," said Byron. "We'll still have time for brunch." (As I said, the man's a saint.)

The Turley brood, a foursome ranging from age two through eight, sat on the second row from the front. While former Stake President Taylor waxed sentimental about his genealogy, Byron engaged the twin girls in what he thought would be a game of cat's cradle, but looked more like the bondage scenario in a DVD we recently rented. I might have been turned on, if I hadn't been so intent on dislodging the Cheerio one of the Turley brats stuffed in my ear.

Needless to say, we wasted no time ferrying the kids to Primary. We handed off the two year old to a wild-eyed nursery leader. "I need more help!" she cried, and grabbed Byron as well. I vowed to rescue him after I unloaded the other three, but upon entering the Primary room, Sister Zimmerman called out, "Mark! Thank goodness you're here! Sister Turley was supposed to play the piano, only now she's in labor. Will you fill in?" "Um, OK. Where's the music?" "I don't know. Can't you just wing it?" Sure I could wing it. I wing it all the time for my music students at Grafton College, but the Primary Songbook was not part of my repertoire. I fell back on The Eensy Weensy Spider, Puff the Magic Dragon, and Hey Jude.

After the better part of an hour I announced, "Any more singing will have to be done a capella." Sister Zimmerman thanked me, then asked, "On your way out would you mind tending to little Missy Skousen? She needs to pee." I drew a breath. "All right, I'll fetch her mother." "She just passed out from morning sickness." I refused to be rattled. "Fine, I'll find her father." "He's in the Elders' Quorum." Missy and I walked hand in hand to the Elders' classroom where we were greeted by a chorus of, "Mark! Thank goodness you're here!"

Some forty-five minutes later, I left the Elders, confident I had taught one of the best lessons of the year. (Good thing Brother Harold had that deck of cards.) Saint Byron waited for me in the foyer, head to toe in glitter. We loaded Mother, Sister Hickey and the portable ER into the car. Then as we left the church parking lot, Sister Hickey took a long pull on her oxygen tank, and wheezed, "Where are we going for brunch?"

I'll close for now, as Saint Byron is heading to the bar with our martini pitcher. God knows I need one.

Regards,
Mark

P.S. Do you know how to get off the Fourth Ward mailing list?