I am just recovering from my temporary astonishment, having concluded in my own mind that I have heard incorrectly, and I am wishing that I had not said anything at all. If Henry wants to read from the book of Zechariah, who am I to interrupt?
Henry looks directly at me, and I kind of look at the floor. “Sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay,” Henry says sincerely. “Perhaps you haven’t heard of the book of Mosiah?”
“I … ah …” I want to tell him that I am a Mormon and that I have actually read the entire Book of Mormon more than three times already. I also want to say, “By the way, how did you hear about the Book of Mormon?” but Henry continues.
“Well, my family has heard me tell about this book a couple of dozen times, I’m sure …”
“Or more,” Annie says, rolling her eyes and huffing a little.
“… so I will be brief,” Henry continues. “The Book of Mosiah is part of a larger book of ancient scripture called The Book of Mormon. Each book in The Book of Mormon was written by a prophet of God, and is named after that prophet. Mosiah was one of those prophets and was also king over the land of Zarahemla.” Henry pauses for just a moment. “So, with that introduction, Elizabeth, would you read a paragraph
[34] and then pass the book to the next person? We left off right here,” he points with his finger as he hands her the book.
Elizabeth takes the book and begins reading, “And it came to pass that King Mosiah granted that sixteen of their strong men might go up to the land of Lehi-Nephi, to inquire concerning their brethren.”
[35]
Elizabeth reads on. I know this story, I smile to myself as images of ancient prophets form in my mind. It is when Ammon meets King Limhi. He teaches the king and his people the gospel of Jesus Christ, I remember. It is also part of the story of wicked King Noah and the sacrifices of the prophet Abinidi who cries repentance unto the king and who is eventually put to death by fire.
[36] It is the story of the faith and courage of Alma the priest of King Noah,
[37]who believes the words of Abinidi and leads many of King Noah’s people to the waters of baptism. I have heard these stories many times in seminary class and in priesthood quorum lessons. They seem to be part of me. They are part of what I believe. They are true! I want to stand up and tell everyone in the cabin how I feel, but the Spirit is strong in the room and I know that I should sit quietly and not interrupt.
When George finally hands the book to William, Henry stands and asks William to offer the family prayer. William prays for safety and health and that we might have the courage to follow Jesus Christ. I privately pray quiet thanks for families, for prophets and for the witness of the Holy Ghost.
Everyone says, “Amen,” and in a moment Elizabeth hands me a stack of blankets for my bed. I make my bed on the floor and crawl in. My feet are sore. My arms and shoulders are sore. I wonder if I will be able to sleep, but it feels good to close my eyes.
Chapter Seven
New Boots
Saturday
Like an old television set, it takes my mind a few moments to warm up. Gradually I become aware of my surroundings. A cooking pan rings metallically from the kitchen, and my mind puzzles over a new but familiar aroma that seems to fill the house.
Oatmeal, I decide with enthusiasm. Oatmeal is a good thing. Better than grits, anyway. My eyes open and I crawl reluctantly out from under my blankets. I wince the first time I put weight on my stiff, sore shoulder muscles. As I rub my shoulders to lessen the pain I think, I’ll be okay. I’ve had muscles more sore than these from running cross country workouts. Six to ten miles a day during practice can make a guy sore for a few days. Being sore is a good feeling, in a sadistic sort of way, knowing that my muscles will be stronger because of the workout.
I fold my blankets and then pull the table out away from the wall just as Annie comes into the room with a stack of bowls.
We have mush for breakfast with milk and a slice of homemade bread. For a split second the thought flashes through my mind. Of course it is homemade in 1866. Even bread from the store would be homemade by someone.
William pulls me outside as I stuff the last bite of bread into my mouth. “We need to hurry,” he explains. “We’ve got a lot to do before leaving for work and we don’t want to be late again.” William points to a stump of wood next to the house. “There is the axe, and you can chop five logs into lengths about this long.” William holds up two hands and I estimate the distance to be about two feet. Don’t make them longer or they won’t fit into the stove.”
I nod.
“Remember, we need some cut for Sunday, also.”
“Okay,” I say heading for the axe. “What wood do I chop?”
“Over by the corral,” William points. “We hauled it here from the next valley over by wagon last week.”
I just shake my head as I grab the axe and head for the small pile of logs. That valley is probably as bald as this one from over harvesting lumber!
It feels strange chopping wood while not wearing any shoes. This can’t be a very safe thing to do, I think. I may have to relinquish my Totin’ Chip
[38] after this!
I do not chop my toe off, though, and while I finish chopping the last log, Tom finishes milking Spot. William and Tom carry the cut logs over to the cabin and stack them in a neat pile ready to use.
Elizabeth kisses us both goodbye and hands us a lunch tied up in a small bundle as William and I hurry out the door.
“Are we going to hitch a ride like we did yesterday?” I ask William as we reach the road.
“What do you mean?” he looks at me puzzled.
“’Hitch a ride’ is sort of like … ah … hitching a wagon, I guess, only instead of hooking up a wagon, you are hooking up your ride on someone else’s wagon,” I try to explain. Instantly I can tell that my explanation is really lame. “It is slang,” I say shrugging my shoulders. “It just means to get a free ride with someone who is going your way. Where I come from, if you hitch a ride with someone, it is called hitch hiking. People do it all the time.”
William looks at me like the summer heat has affected my brain and he just smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re going to hitch a ride, if we can.”
It takes us a while to hitch a ride, but even so we arrive at the brickyard a few minutes early.
“You ready to work, today, Jared?” Mr. Roworth asks as he checks me in. “I see you still have no boots.”
“I ordered my boots, sir,” I reply. “They will be ready today. And even without boots, I worked really hard for you yesterday.”
“Yes you did. That’s why I’m letting you work for me today with no boots.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say. “But I think I should be paid two dollars an hour like some of the other guys.” How could he say no? I think. I have never been paid so little, even for mowing lawns in the heat of the Arizona summer!
Mr. Roworth laughs. “You are a hard worker, boy, but not that hard. No one gets paid that much!”
I am ready to walk away. It is bad working for so little when I know I am worth more. But to be laughed at besides is hard to take. I am about to give him a piece of my mind, or cry. One or the other. I know crying would not be a good thing. Then he really would laugh, and so would everyone else.
I take a deep breath. “I …”
“Look, son,” Mr. Roworth says seriously, “I can pay you two dollars a day, and that is all. And you better work hard.”
I am confused. Didn’t I ask for two dollars an … an … Holy cow! I did ask for two dollars an hour! I realize with embarrassing horror. No wonder he laughed. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sir.”
“You will be working as the Off-bearer
[39], today. Go with William. He will show you.”
“Good job,” William smiles as soon as we are out of earshot of Mr. Roworth. That was clever asking for two dollars an hour. When I heard that, I
thought that you had gone crazy on me. But it worked. He gave you a raise. Congratulations!”
“Thanks. I … ah …” I am going to explain that where I came from we get paid by the hour, and in a brickyard I would probably get paid ten or twelve dollars per hour, but I do not get the chance.
“What was that thing you did with Annie?” William asks. “Give me five, or something?”
I hold out my hand, palm up. “Give me five,” I say. William slaps my hand with his and we both laugh.
“So, what is an off-barrel?” I ask, trying to change the subject from how cleverly dumb I am.
“Not barrel,” he answers, smiling. “An Off-bearer. That’s the guy who takes the mold off the bricks and moves the bricks to a place to dry. It’s going to be a lot of work.”
William is right. It is a lot of work and I have never been so glad to see five o’clock roll around. It is sort of the same feeling that I get when the bell rings to let us out of Old Mrs. Harris’ English Lit. class. I am really happy to get two dollars pay for my work, too.
“Jared, you’re a good worker,” Mr. Roworth says as he hands me two dollars. “Someday you will stand in front of my building and you will proudly say, ‘I helped make that building.’”
“Yes, sir,” I say politely, but truthfully I hope that I will not be around long enough to do that.
“And do you know why bricks are something to be proud of?” he asks, speaking more to all the men, and not to just me.
“Because they don’t burn,” I answer, feeling like I am back in school.
“That’s right,” he turns back to me. “They are fireproof. When you construct a building out of brick, it becomes fireproof, too.”
“I hope you never have to test your bricks against a real fire,” I say solemnly.
A general murmur ripples through the group of men. Jack, standing next to me, nods, “Amen,” and several others do the same.
As soon as William receives his two dollars pay we head for Mr. Jenkins’ Mining Supply store. We walk north on Roworth Street, then Spring Street and turn onto Main Street. The clock on the right, across the street from the Bookstore
[40] says 5:20. I check my watch. It says almost 5:25.
Holy cow! I think. I nudge William who is busy looking through the wavy glass storefront window of the General Store. “We have to get going! Doesn’t Mr. Jenkins close at about 5:30?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” William glances up at the clock on Main Street. “Come on.”
“We can come back if you want,” I say apologetically. “I just don’t want to miss picking up my boots.” I dig today’s pay out of my pocket and hand it to William as we round the corner to Eureka Street.
“Well, how are you boys today?” Mr. Jenkins smiles as we enter his store.
“A little tired,” William replies, taking a deep breath. “We just got through working at the brickyard.”
“I see,” he nods. “William Roworth
[41] really works you boys hard, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, he does,” William agrees. “But thank you for staying open for us. Jared is looking forward to those new boots, I think.”
“I sure am,” I say quickly. “I’ve never had such sore feet!” Except one time when the tops of my feet got sunburned while at the lake waterskiing, I think. But I am not going to try to explain all that.
“Well, your feet will be feeling better soon,” Mr. Jenkins says while reaching down behind the counter. He lifts up a new pair of brown leather boots and sets them gently down in front of me.
“I make the best boots this side of Denver,” he brags. Tipping one boot on its side he points to the sole, “I put extra thick leather on the bottom to protect your foot from rocks.” His hand slides over the top of the toe. “I put soft leather on top for comfort, and I’m throwing in the leather ties at no charge.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say politely.
He points to a small bench. “Sit down. We’ll try them on.”
I unwrap the shreds of cloth from around my feet. Retrieving my dirty and extremely worn socks from my pocket, I pull them on. Mr. Jenkins slips the first boot onto my right foot. It actually fits! I let him slip the left one on, too.
Mr. Jenkins watches as I stand up and walk a little. “These feel great,” I say. “I’m going to love having boots again.” Into my mind flash visions of pioneers. Some of the pioneers had no shoes as they crossed the plains, pushing hand carts, or walking beside oxen pulling wagons. They probably had shoes to begin with, but they probably wore out quickly. I’m not sure that I could have been a pioneer.
I think my feet begin to actually feel the pain that the pioneers felt as they walked, but I am spared any real agony when William says, “Thanks again, Mr. Jenkins,” and my mind whirls back to 1866.
“I’m going to like them, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you.”
“You boys come any time,” he says as William pulls me out of the store.
“Come on,” William urges.
“What’s your rush?” I ask. But I think, There’s no Mutual, no school work. What could be so urgent?
“Mom’s going to worry about us,” William answers. “She always does. Not only that, but we have chores to do.”
Huh? I think. What chores? Elizabeth won’t even let me do the dishes.
“We have to haul water, again,” William goes on. “Only today is Saturday, so we have to get a lot more.”
More? More than yesterday?”
“Besides, I want to stop by the parlor and get some ice cream,” William says with some guilt in his voice.
“Ice-cream?” I say, doubtfully. “That will take up your whole day’s pay and maybe more!”
“It is twice as much here in Central City than it is in Denver,” William admits, “but even so, ten cents is hardly my whole day’s pay. Besides, I’m buying yours, too, so let’s go.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
William pushes open a wooden door that says, ‘Parlor’ across the front and I follow him into a small store that has two tables and a few chairs along the wall.
“What will it be this week?” a smiling, older gentleman asks from behind a polished wooden counter that serves as a table and bar.
I glance at William, “This week?” I thought maybe he would have said, ‘this evening,’ or ‘today.’
“Yeah, I come here on Fridays, usually,” William confesses in a quiet whisper. To the man behind the counter he says, “Two ice-creams with strawberries, please.”
Five minutes later I find out why William displayed addictive tendencies toward Central City ice cream. It is cold, sweet, and other than a few icy lumps, is smooth and refreshing. Fifteen minutes later we leave the parlor totally refreshed.
This is pretty nice, I think as I walk toward home in my new boots and the flavor of vanilla and strawberries still on my tongue. I really do not mind the walk, either. My feet feel good. I do not even really mind that we have a few chores to look forward to when we get home.
Elizabeth meets us as we open the front door to the log cabin and step inside. “I’m glad to see you boys made it home. You are a little late. She looks at William with that mother’s stare that means ‘you better have a good reason.’
“Yes, Mother,” William says quietly. “We stopped in Central City to pick up Jared’s new boots. We had to walk from there all the way home because by then it was already too late to hitch a ride.”
“Hitch a ride?” Elizabeth repeats.
“Catch a ride on a wagon,” William explains shooting a glance at me.
“Next time don’t be so late,” Elizabeth reprimands. “Now dinner will be late.”
“Yes, Mother,” we both say quietly in unison.
“Jared, how are those new boots?” Elizabeth asks cheerfully.
“Great!” I say. “They fit really well and my feet don’t hurt a bit.”
“Okay then, take those buckets from Tom and go fetch some water.”
We each
grab two buckets and head for the stream.
“So why do we need four more buckets of water? I mean, four is a lot of water for supper, isn’t it? Besides, someone already hauled some water recently because these buckets are wet.”
“We don’t need four buckets of water …” William begins.
I knew it, I think, feeling pretty smug about being a great detective and noticing the wet buckets.
“… we need twelve buckets,” William continues.
“Twelve?”
“Yeah, and we’ve got to hurry, too. Didn’t you see the blanket hanging in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t pay much attention to it though. Your mom sort of was mad at us for being late.”
“Well, my father was taking his bath. On Saturday everyone takes a bath even if they don’t need one. We get four buckets of water to wash with.”
“So, why are we fetching twelve buckets of water?” I quiz as I dip my empty bucket in the stream where the water is flowing quickly between two rocks.
“It’s for tomorrow. Father doesn’t like us to do any more chores than necessary on Sunday.”
I think about that as we carry our water up to the cabin. Keeping the Sabbath day holy is a good thing, I think to myself. The idea certainly is not new. During the creation of the earth, after the Lord created Adam and Eve on the sixth day, then he rested on the seventh day from his labors.
[42]
And then when Moses received the Ten Commandments, the fourth commandment
[43] was to keep the Sabbath day holy. I guess God wanted it that way.
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