Mother drank juice for breakfast, covered her white shoulders, & practiced celibacy—all in preparation for the Mormon life as a Mormon wife.
We were Yankees mired in the South, trying to become like the Mormon pioneers of the West—the Saints of Latter Days.
Mother was like a born-again Christian, not a person who was going through the degrees of conversion. Mormonism had saved her from something I could not name.
As there was no man of the house at ours, we had to sit outside in the Florida summer to feed the elders, as if we were Southern Jezebelles.
Our picnic on the patio was laid out as proper as an Emily Post luncheon. We drank lemonade out of plastic goblets—this afternoon “tea.”
Like a collection of china dolls placed on white wicker furniture, we looked like a replica of the Old South in a dollhouse.
There was a war of words with the Mormons & the “born-agains,” the Catholics choosing neutrality in our town of Green Haven, Florabama.
The Pentecostals covered their calves, the Mormons, the shoulders, but the Catholics hadn’t any dress code, yet their sect was as old as time.
The elder missionaries spoke of the opposition they faced from the Baptists & the Pentecostals here, & yet, I saw them all as Christians.
“We’re finally going to be a family again,” David said, & I wondered when had we ever been, but unbeknownst to me, we were the bricks, Mormonism, the mortar.