I read an article the other day, one of about 600,000 thus far written on the topic, regarding presidential candidate Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith; will it work against him or for him; will voters accept a Mormon president; will this, will that, blah, blah, blah. Who cares?
I know some folks live and die by this stuff, but personally, I feel about politics the same way I feel about “American Idol”; I know it exists, but the less I have to hear about it the better I like it. That goes double for the private lives of the politicians running; I just don’t care.
If this disinterest makes me a bad American, I can live with that.
The only reason the Mormon issue is of any interest at all to me is that I used to know some. Mormons, I mean. They weren’t Utah-Donnie-and-Marie-Temple-marrying Mormons, but rather members of the Reorganized Latter Day Saints church, an offshoot of the “regular” Mormons. (Though, if you ask an RLDS congregant, they’ll tell you the regular Mormons are an offshoot of them. Again, I could not possibly care less, even if doing so resulted in a lifetime supply of free beer.)
I don’t know much about Mitt Romney, but because of my previous experience with Mormons, I’m inclined to like him.
My Mormon encounter took place the summer following my 17th birthday. I was hitchhiking — with my parents’ permission, which now seems to me utterly insane and irresponsible — from Grand Rapids to Phoenix, Arizona.
The entire trip wound up taking over two months, but I was only on my third or fourth day of travel when on a sunny Sunday morning I rolled into Independence, Missouri, home to the third largest pipe organ in the world and Galactic Central Point for the RLDS church.
Independence is a nice, little town, or was at the time; very Mayberry-esque; white-spired churches, neatly-trimmed lawns, litter-free avenues bereft of traffic jams. It seemed a friendly place.
No cops came running when I leaned my backpack against a small tree in the town square and set up my little camp stove to make lunch, Lipton Cup-a-Soup. It was all I had with me.
Water had begun to boil in my undersized aluminum sauce pan when church bells rang and, on the other side of the avenue, Mormons streamed out through the front door of a modest chapel. I made eye contact with a young, ginger-haired boy, maybe nine years old. I waved. He waved back, smiling lopsidedly from ear-to-ear.
A quick word to his mother and he shot across the street at full gallop.
“Hi,” he said, panting to a stop in front of my makeshift kitchen. “Are you camping?”
“Just fixing lunch,” I said.
“Y’wanna have lunch with us?” he asked.
Now, I had been on the road only four or five days by this time, but it was the height of summer and I hadn’t had a shower in nearly a week. No one would mistake me for a rose.
“Mmm…maybe you’d better ask your mom first,” I said, assuming the invitation would be rescinded by the management.
It wasn’t. Instead the whole Smith family (not related to the church’s founder, Joseph Smith) came over to my campsite and insisted I join them at their home for Sunday dinner.
Mom, it turned out, had grown up in England and was quite possibly the worst cook in the civilized world. Despite this, I wound up staying at their home for over a week.
I wanted to leave, and tried to every morning. And every morning the Smiths would convince me to stay just one day longer. I helped Rory, their red-headed, Huckleberry Finn son, with his paper route every afternoon. I mowed the yard. But mostly, I just hung around Independence, taking in the sites, enjoying the hospitality.
By the time the Smiths finally decided to let me mosey on down the road, we were like family. Mrs. Smith filled my backpack with food, Mr. Smith snuck a couple twenties into my wallet and they drove me a hundred miles further along toward Phoenix.
Mrs. Smith cried when they dropped me off, saying she would worry for me every day until I arrived safely home. I wasn’t sure whether she was talking about my home in Grand Rapids, or the Smith residence.
I have no idea if the Smiths were typical Mormons, but I can’t help but think more fondly of Mitt Romney because of his affiliation. Maybe if he’s elected, he’ll let me stay at the White House next time I’m hitching through Washington.
I hope the First Lady can cook.
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