We never make it to Nebraska. Instead, we head for Montana, as my brother thinks Montana is on the way home. Marian rolls her eyes, as she’s been married to him for 50 years. I’m somewhat suspicious as to the whereabouts of Montana, but think it a fine idea, as I also want to find the ranch our grandfather gambled away. After Montana, we hit Utah.
The only disappointment of our three weeks was that, after driving for sixteen days in the car, the Mormon Family History Library is closed on Sundays, the only day we had to spend there. Of course.
“WHAT? We’ve driven almost 4,000 miles to come to THIS library and you are closing in THREE HOURS and won’t be open TOMORROW? How can that BE?”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” the greeter says kindly. “The library is not open on Sundays.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“For religious reasons.”
“Religious reasons? What does that have to do with anything? You’re not Catholic!”
Marian and Gordon wheel away from me. Dejected, I try not to cry as I join them in the elevator. They pretend they don’t know me.
The next morning (since the damn library is closed), we set out for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, which I have wanted to hear forever. During the hour-long rehearsal, the usher standing five feet from me natters brightly, “Watch your step, watch your step,” through the WHOLE performance. Like the lights aren’t on? Like everyone is blind? Like 200 people haven’t already walked down 50 steps to get to her landing and not one has tripped and needed to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital? I was aggravated enough that she yapped through the entire concert, but when she pulled out a piece of cellophane-wrapped candy – oh my God—the woman is lucky she’s still alive. I was close to caning her. But it didn’t get ugly until we left.
The three of us actually made it back up all those stairs without falling. When we reached the lobby, one of the white-haired ushers observed me foaming and twitching and had the temerity to ask me how the concert was. I latch onto his gray lapel and get so close our noses almost touch.
“How was the concert? You want to know how the concert was? RUINED, that’s how the concert was!” Marian and Gordon have peeled away, acting like they’ve never seen me before in their entire lives. As I wind down my rant regarding cellophane wrappers and lack of usher training, I notice how wide this man’s eyes are. Taking a deep breath, I unpeel my fingers from his lapel, pat it gently back down, and thank him for inquiring, murmuring, “I feel much better. Thank you.”
We came home a day early, bleary and stiff from hours of driving, every space in their-no-longer-new hybrid littered with crumbs and stuffed with stacks of information.
Was our trip a success? You betcha! Did we find everything we were looking for? No, but enough to satisfy us until the next journey. We discovered pictures we didn’t know existed, nearly a hundred newspaper articles that filled in blank holes, and several books about the family. However, we also discovered the best family legends WEREN’T EVEN TRUE!
Grandpa didn’t gamble away the ranch. They never owned a ranch. And if they had owned a ranch, it would not have been worth $150,000. Hell, in 1915, you could have bought the whole godforsaken state of Montana for $150,000. They were giving the land away to homesteaders – why would anyone pay for it? And not only was James Hoy not castrated for sleeping with a med student’s wife (turns out he had mumps as a baby), Henrietta Wilcox didn’t poison him either. Truth – the downside of research. The most interesting legends turn out to be just that. Legends. That’s why I titled our history Lore, Libel and Lies—so I could leave them in.
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