The Adventure Continues

So, after a 45 minute flight I landed at the Ilopongo International airport on the outskirts of San Salvador. I don't remember what time it was but it was DARK. Like a well-digger's shoe sole dark. Two missionaries met me at the gate and helped me collect my luggage and carry all my worldly goods to a bus stop. They had introduced themselves as the zone leaders one of whom was a short, fat, balding guy who said he was Elder Monroe. After several busses passed by we hauled ourselves and my stuff onto a bus headed for San Salvador Central. We rode forever-and-a-half then got off and got on another bus. More riding forever-and-a-half and switching to yet another bus.

Finally we got off of that bus and began to walk. And walk. And walk. Then walked some more, all the while hulking all of my junk. Eventually we turned down a rather poorly lit street that was lined with one-story buildings that were just one continuous building with doors and windows every so often with a step up to each door. Somewhere in the middle of the block they said, "Here it is" and knocked on the door. It took a bit for someone to open the door, then they took my stuff inside and invited me in.

When I walked in this is what I saw: four missionaries (I assumed they were since they were wearing white shirts and ties, this was before name tags) sitting at a table playing poker with lit cigarettes in their hands and drinking what looked like beer. A couple of others were looking at a Playboy magazine and discussing what movies they planed to see that week. They all had several days growth of beard. Elder Monroe showed me to my corner of the room where there was a blanket on the floor for me to sleep on and a bowl of chicken soup with the chicken foot sticking out of it. He said that I was quite lucky because they had saved the foot for me since it was my first day in the mission. I said thanks anyway but I had already eaten chicken at the mission home so I was not hungry.

That was all they could take and they all began to laugh and say it was all an act to welcome me into the district. They thought it was a real hoot and kept asking me if I believed what I saw. Of course I did because I didn't have anything to compare it with. For all I knew that was what missionaries did. It turned out that neither Elder Monroe or the other guy were zone leaders and Monroe had only been in the mission for two months. They had been the top baptizing district in the mission that month and had earned a trip to the Mayan ruins in Copan, Honduras. That was why they hadn't shaved for a week. Imagine how pleased I was to have supplied them with even more entertainment. It turned out that the "Playboy" was just the cover with an Era magazine inside (that was the church magazine before the Ensign).

I believe word got back to President Clark and hazing of new missionaries was forever banned. When I started working in the Mesa temple last January I ran into a guy who was there at my welcome. He is the coordinator of the Spanish session on Saturday. He apologized profusely and was quite happy that I was still active and hadn't been ruined by that experience.

Welcome to the Mission Field Elder Howe (August 13, 1968)

I left the Language Training Mission in Provo, Utah around 3:00 in the morning (without my plane tickets. Yes, it was a mess) on a bus bound for the SLC airport. I was with several other missionaries including my companion, Elder Babbit, none of whom were going to my mission (Guatemala-El Salvador). This unfortunate circumstance (no companion for the trip) came about because I had finished the 12-week Spanish course in eight weeks and he, being from the Mormon Colonies in Mexico, completed it in six. He was on his way to Mexico City I think. Being way before 9/11 my Mom, my sister Lorna, my girlfriend Jane-the-Older, and Elder Babbit were able to be with me at the gate. I gave him my camera and he snapped a picture of my last kiss with Jane before the two-year famine then he tossed it to me as I walked out to climb up the stair thingie onto the plane. I don't know if the kiss was a no-no or not but I'd seen it happen elsewhere that morning. Carrying all my earthly possessions that didn't fit in my two suitcases, to include three copies of the Book of Mormon in Spanish, several pamphlets, my scriptures, a raincoat, and a bleeding umbrella (this was before the collapsible kind) up those stairs into the waiting Frontier propeller-driven plane I went. Let the adventure begin...

I had never been on an airliner before and all I knew was my itinerary said: Frontier Airlines to Los Angeles, 2-hour layover there, Pan American Airways to Guatemala City then on to San Salvador if necessary. No problem getting to LAX. No idea how to find Pan American Airways once I got there. Every time I asked where the PanAM desk was, I was told over there. So I would go over there, ask the location of the PanAm desk and again be told, over there. I went through several iterations of this without locating the aforementioned desk when a kind gentleman came out from behind the evidently wrong desk in front of me and led me out the door, pointed across the parking lot that was the size of New Hampshire, and said, "see that little blue dot on the horizon?" "That's the PanAM sign.

Off I trudge across miles of steaming pavement in my dark blue three-piece, non-vented suit carrying 87 lbs of paraphernalia when, indeed inside was the PanAm desk! I checked in and the nice lady said, "You need to hurry to your gate." "Where's that?" I ask. "Over there" she says. Same as before I keep going "over there" until someone says "There you are!" "We've held the plane for you, go right on board." Perspiring rather profusely, I made it to my seat, shed the raincoat and such, then settled in for the trip. We took off out over the ocean and it was quite pretty and way joyous to be on my way at last. So much for the 2-hour "layover".

We had been in the air for quite some time and had been given lunch (this was back when they actually fed you real food) when the captain announced that we were over El Paso, Texas. EL PASO BLEEDING TEXAS?!! I'm on the wrong plane! I should be flying down the coast of Mexico! What the heck are we doing over El Paso? I had my sweaty fist on the stewardess' call button so I could have them turn around or throw me out the window or something when I heard the captain continue that we would be turning South to fly over the Gulf of Mexico on our way to Guatemala City. Phew! Crisis averted. In reality, which had little to do with my young geographically challenged brain, Guatemala City lies due South of New Orleans, Louisiana.

I had struck up a conversation with my seat-mate who was a monk on his way to serve in a monastery in Costa Rica. We had a fine discussion about the gospel and I gave him one of my Spanish Books of Mormon. We traded addresses and corresponded a few time then lost contact with each other. It made for a pleasant trip once my heart started beating again after the El Paso scare.

We landed well in Guatemala City where I was met by the APs and whisked off to the mission home to meet the president, David G. Clark. We had a nice interview then a very good chicken dinner. In the interview he saw that my ticket was good all the way to San Salvador so he said that's where I'd begin my mission; San Salvador 4th Branch with Elder Bruce Blaser from Boise, Idaho. Back to the airport I go and, once again I'm leavin' on a jet plane all by myself headed for the great unknown.

To be continued...

Three Days Before My 18th Birthday

March 10, 1967. It was my Dad's first day back to work as a diesel shovel mechanic. He had spent most of the previous year working in Australia for more money than we'd ever seen before. He had made so much money he couldn't afford to work without it all going to taxes so he didn't. It was a Friday and we were going to Pocatello that evening for a neighbor girl's wedding. I was a Senior at Snake River High School, some 30 miles from Atomic City where we lived. I was sitting in our living room watching for the school bus to go by a block away so I could catch it when it came back around in front of our house. The next thing I knew, it had gone by us and I had missed it. My Mom was not to pleased because that meant I'd have to drive to school, but there was no other choice since she had never driven a car in her life. I went to school but felt quite blah around 1:00 so I decided to ditch the rest of school and go pick up my girlfriend from her school. I was on my way there when I found myself 30 miles away and about a mile from my home. Weird, I thought, but figured I must have been daydreaming or something. I went in the house and my Mom said she was so glad to see me because she had had a bad feeling all afternoon and thought that I'd been in a car wreck. I told her she was looney and I was just fine. Less than 15 minutes later two men drove up to the house and asked to come in. Then they told us to sit down because they had bad news. My Dad had died of a massive heart attack at work around 1:00. My Mother would have been all alone if I hadn't felt "blah" and then come home instead going to see my girlfriend. My sister, Bonnie, was a Freshman at Idaho State university in Pocatello and we were supposed to pick her up for the wedding. We didn't want to tell her over the phone so we decided to tell her when we got to her apartment. When we got there we asked her how she was doing and she said she was fine except that she started feeling bad around 1:00 and ditched her afternoon classes to go home. Then she asked where Dad was... Dad was 57 years old when he died. He had smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes since he was 15 and drank more than his share of beer. He drank EVERY day. He seldom was drunk but he drank beer every day. One of the best things I have ever done was to go to the temple the following May and be proxy for his endowment and sealing to my Mother. Then I was sealed to them. Almost two years later I was serving the Lord in Guatemala when President McKay died. He had been the prophet for as long as I could remember and I always knew he was a prophet. I knew I needed to know for myself that Joseph Fielding Smith was a prophet so I fasted and prayed to find out. One night I had a dream. In it I was seated in the Salt Lake Tabernacle for General Priesthood meeting. President Smith was conducting and was doing something that they don't do in that meeting. He was naming individuals who had been found worthy to receive the Melchizedek priesthood and having them stand for sustaining. As soon as he spoke I was filled with the absolute knowledge that he was a prophet of God. After a couple of names, he said Clarence Joseph Howe, my Dad's name. When Dad stood he was right in front of me. We embraced and wept. I learned two things from this dream. President Smith was a prophet and that after someone dies and has the necessary temple work done for him, it still takes time for him to overcome the addictions that kept him from temple blessings while living. It's all true.

Seminary...Rhymes with Cemetary

I'm three weeks into being a seminary teacher and haven't died yet, though I came pretty close. Early morning really is EARLY. There are rather beautiful sunrises here...who knew. Pretty soon they'll be happening on my way home. I'm a very old dog and this is an exceptionally new trick. I don't know how long it's going to take my body to get used to this but I do hope it's soon. Now and then they expect me to be awake work. My feeling of absolute inadequacy caused a melt-down the evening of my second Tuesday teaching. I was DONE, FINISHED, KAPUT. I was certain they had called the wrong guy. It's not that the kids are bad or anything like that because they are amazing. There's no way I would have gotten up that early for seminary when I was their age. Not on a big bet. I was just overwhelmed by the enormity of the calling. After much convincing by Babs that I could indeed do the job, she suggested I get a blessing from Bishop Ben. She is such a smart woman. I hated to bother him because I know I wouldn't have called our old bishop under the same circumstances, I would have called Ben. Of course the blessing made me feel much better and I realized that I needed to quit trying to be like the other teachers and be Brother Howe. I still feel like I'm doing tons of stuff wrong, but it gets better every day and I may even miss having class on Monday since there's no school or seminary because of Labor Day.

Olympic Dreams

The XXX Olympics are almost over now so here are a few of my musings about them and Olympics in general. For me, the only redeeming social value of the opening exercises was the torch at the end. So what that it can't be seen from outside the arena. Wah, wah, give it up. The last Olympics in China will forever be the standard by which all other opening ceremonies will be measured...and they will come up short. There were outstanding examples of true Olympic sportsmanship, especially the kid that traded his name bib with the guy from South Africa with no feet. The runner from Granada who won gold is the epitome of class. Not so much for the gringa vaulter who should have won gold but landed on her butt and didn't have the class to congratulate the winner. She was embarrassing. Ussain Bolt is not human. The biggest drawback of the Olympics is the fact that I'm so distracted by shiny objects. Every night when I came home from work with every intention to do the million things I need to do in order to be ready for seminary next week I'd park my fat butt in front of the TV to watch "just a couple minutes". Blink, blink. It's midnight and time to go to bed. Those poor, poor seminary students. Another good thing is that I /we watch things we'd absolutely never pay to see unless we are related to a participant. Ping pong, badminton, gymnastics, track, water polo, rowing and anything else in the water, volley ball, etc. OK, maybe beach volleyball. Rhythmic gymnastics is as much a sport as poker or checkers or breathing. Probably the very best is that there are winners and losers. You don't, as an editorial writer in the Tucson paper suggested, get a medal for participating. I'm as happy as the rest of us gringos that we won the most medals, but I'm a bit happier for those countries that one their first. Especially Guatemala. Way to walk fast buddy! You should have won gold because the Chinese guy was JOGGING! I'm just saying...

Shakespeare Saved My Life

Back in the Paleozoic era when I was in high school, there was this thing called the draft. No, it wasn't a pleasant little breeze wafting along to keep you cool. Oh no, it was the way Uncle Sam maintained canon fodder for the rather unpopular war in Vietnam. They could actually force a young man like me into the army. That left us Mormon boys who wanted to go on a mission with a year of jeopardy since we were draft able at 18 but had to be 19 to serve a mission. We had four choices after graduation, go to Vietnam, go to college, go to Canada, or go to jail. I had seen both Canada and jail and wasn't much impressed with either one but really couldn't afford college since my dad had died that Spring and my grades, though adequate, were less than stellar. My seminary teacher, Brother Empty, rode to my rescue. He had seen my performance as Nick Bottom, the weaver, in Shakespeare's "A Mid-Summer Night's Dream" and wangled a drama scholarship for me at Ricks College in the frozen tundra of Rexburg, Idaho. That scholarship, coupled with $115 a month from Social Security allowed me to major in draft-evasion and minor in girls until I got my call to the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission. The scholarship was for $200 a semester which covered tuition and most of my fees and books. While in Guatemala, they came up with the lottery system for the draft. They put all 366 possible birthdates in a big fish bowl then pulled them out one at a time. When they drew the one with your birth date on it, that became your draft number. They drafted numbers 100 to 150 each year. My number was 256. They would draft women and children before me. Don't get me wrong, I'm no grand peace nick. I wound up joining the Air Force later and served for more than twenty years. I just wanted to serve as a missionary first. Thanks to Mr. Shakespeare and Brother Empty I was able to do just that.

Remembering Jobs

No, this is not going to be about Steve Jobs. He was a remarkable guy but this is, as usual, about me.

Some time ago, as I was trying to fall asleep, my brain fell upon the subject of jobs. I think it had something to do with the fact that both Pete and Danny were between jobs and seeking that elusive "career".

Men in general seem to be defined by what they do for a living whether it's CEO or HOBO. For most of us, or at least me, finding what that defining job was a very difficult process. I doubt many men know from an early age what they really want to be when they grow up.

My first remunerated employment (one that I got paid for) was as a 7th-grader working on a combine during spud harvest to the tune of 70 cents an hour. I think that had something to do with living in the county in Idaho known as the Potato Capitol of the World. Indeed, over one fourth of the potatoes in the world come from good old Bingham county Idaho.

We didn't live on a farm, thankfully, but they had us completely surrounded. I hauled hay, hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, shoveled cow poop, milked cows, harvested spuds, worked in a potato cellar and a potato processing plant. All of which taught me that I didn't want to be a farmer or have anything to do with things that grow from the ground other than to eat them. It was and is far too much like work.

I also worked at a service station. That's what gas stations were called before they became mini-marts and people pumped their own gas. Believe it or not, you would just sit in your car and tell the guy (me) how much gas you wanted and I would pleasantly ask you if you wanted regular or ethel then start the gas a pumping. While that was happening, I would clean your windshield, check your oil and tire pressure. I would automatically put any needed air in your tires (since the air was free) but if you needed oil I was required to show you the dip stick so you would know I wasn't just trying to milk you out of 25 cents that you really didn't need to spend. You would hand me the money and I would go get your change and bring it to you. They even had new-fangled things called gas cards (this was way before Visa or Master Card). They were only good for a single brand of gas so you had to have a separate card for Texaco or Shell or Utoco or whatever. There was no magnetic strip on the back of the card either. That's what those raised numbers and letters on the card were all about. We had a gizmo to put the card in, slap a multi-part form on top of it, set the numbers to the proper dollar amount, then run a roller across the form making a permanent record of the transaction. A return of your receipt, a smile and tip of my hat, and our business was complete and you were on your way. What a country.

I seem to have rambled enough for this installment and have only covered my employment up to high school graduation. I'll have to break this saga into palatable chunks. To quote Mr Jobs' last words, "Wow, oh wow."