Chapter 1: Miracle in the Outhouse

Who would ever have thought going to the outhouse in the dead of winter would become a mystical experience? Because my indoor plumbing was frozen when I came home from a polka party and I got tangled up with Hosmer Q Hogben, a smelly self appointed representative of "God, Jehovah, Attila and all them other gods too numerous to mention" and a whole slew of other weird people. For instance, some murderous Baptists up from Texas wanted me dead because their preacher told them I was an agent of the Devil.

Here at home some of the big shots in the Mormon Church wanted me to sing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and perform miracles as a part of the regular Sunday services. Then there were the people who wanted me dead, others who wanted to put me in prison, and even some evil old men who tried to have me kidnapped for their own evil reasons.

To think, it all started the evening I took Rachel to a polka party I didn't even want to attend in the first place.

Before that night, the height of my ambition was to get Rachel Nelson alone and do guy stuff with her, either with marriage first, or to just practice up for the honeymoon. Rachel was (and still is) my main interest in life. The Mormons have more than their share of beautiful women and Rachel is a Mormon. What more can I say?

Like I said, it all began the night of the polka party that almost broke us up. She asked me to take her and I told her flatly, "Rachel, I don't want to go to some dumb party where people get all hot and sweaty because they jump up and down in time to stupid tuba music. Let's spend the evening at either your place or mine and watch TV or something. Let's go to a movie. I don't care what it is we do so long as does not include a polka party. Who needs it?

"I never been to a polka party before in my life. I don't want to go to a polka party. I know nothing about polkas. I mean it."

She gave me the superior look she gets some times, "Forrest, dearest one, you hate television and you walked out of the last movie we attended because it had no plot." She did have a point there.

"Well, I hate polka parties more than I do humorless TV and movies without plots,"

"Sweetheart, how do you know you don't like polka parties if you have never been to one?" She fluttered her eyes at me and kissed me oh-so-softly on the lips. "Please?" she whispered. She was using unfair tactics on me again.

As usual, I gave in, especially when she pressed her front against my front. "All right. I'll take you to that stupid polka party, but I will not have a good time." Whenever she kisses me like that I turn all quivery inside and my firm resolve sends its firmness elsewhere.

The polka thing started when a family of homesick transplanted Minnesotans in her church ward decided to share the high spirituality of Polish folk music with we culturally deprived unfortunates who have never heard a tuba used as the lead instrument in slow dance music.

Mister Pilsudski announced he and his wife were going to, "Trow da goldangest polka party dis here town ever saw."

You have not truly lived until you dance the Kentucky Waltz to the low, mournful sounds of a tuba. In the middle of one slow waltz I realized a tuba makes a beautiful sound. The longing, mournful tones of the tuba emphasized the sadness of the waltz.

Oh yes, you have listened to "Dueling Banjos," probably. But you haven't lived until you hear "Dueling Tubas" played to two fat guys wearing lieder hose, cheeks out and red facer blowing their hearts out.

Like I said, I didn't expect to enjoy myself. To be honest, I tried hard not to have a good time. Rachel Nelson, my one romantic interest in life insisted. Usually I'm a pretty quiet sort of person and hated the idea of attending a noisy party where I knew no one except Rachel. She kept insisting and wheedling until finally, of course, we went.

We came early and stayed late. We danced those goofy polkas and schottisches until I was ready to drop. Rachel never ran out energy. The more she danced the more excited she became. Her eyes flashed, her skirt swirled and she showed a lot of leg as she urged me to dance one more dance and then another. Halfway through the evening I was ready to call it quits. I wanted to sit on the sidelines while all the other guests wore themselves out. My legs ached and trembled from all the exertion.

That was when I realized how much fun it was fun to dance to music in a coordinated way and didn't worry about looking cool or flip or hip or whatever. Schottisches and polkas and old timey waltzes kept us out on the dance floor until almost midnight. By then we were both ready to drop. We sat and sipped our last mugs of hot, spicy, apple cider and thanked our hosts for what turned out to be the greatest evening we had enjoyed together in a long time, perhaps ever.

She snuggled up next to me in the car. "See?" she gloated, "I was right, wasn't I? You had a great time and don't you dare try to deny it, I know you did. Let's do this every week." She kept rubbing it in. Like so many women, Rachel has to be right, always. Even when she's wrong she has to be right.

It began to snow right after we left the party. The sky was overcast. More and more snowflakes fell and the headlights cut twin beams of light in front of us that seemed to stop about fifteen feet ahead of the car. We were alone in a world of falling snow, seeming isolated from everything else as two beams of light led us.

Then with no warning a soft green light shined down on the car. It had a white core and seemed to keep pace with us as we made our way to Rachel's house. This was stranger than strange.

"What is that?" Rachel asked.

"Damned if I know," I answered. "Maybe it's a flying saucer."

"Don't swear," she told me. Everything this side of "golly gee whiz and heck" is swearing to Rachel. It is a part of her Mormon upbringing.

She thought a moment and said, "I don't think it's a flying saucer because I don't believe in them." The unspoken message was, "And if I don't believe in them they can't exist." I didn't answer. I figured I would only get in an argument if I did.

When we arrived at her apartment, I kissed her at the front door and left. Not because I wanted to, but because I better. Usually I stayed an hour or so. We would sit and neck a little and make plans for after the some time in the future wedding ceremony. But not this evening. I wanted to get home before the snow was got too deep. As it was all that fresh snow on the road made it a touchy drive back to my place.

My old three-bedroom house sits on forty acres of land northeast of Salt Lake City a distance off I-80 on a narrow dirt road little more than a long driveway. It wanders past another small spread like mine then up into the foothills where it starts to peter out to become a game trail. Then it disappears completely. Rachel and I hiked all around the foothills up behind my place. The animals knew we were friendly. I always carried a baggie of dried fruit up there with me when we went on our walks and gave the deer treats they came to expect.

On that weird Friday evening, while Rachel and I kicked up our heels and lived the wild life, the temperature dropped way down and the first snow of the season began to fall, melted and froze to the black pavement. Then fresh snow fell and covered it. I knew my ugly old four-wheel drive Ford Bronco would keep me on the road so long as I took it easy.

I was not real worried about road conditions, just cautious. It was the early in November when we had our first snow of the season. I knew from past experience idiots would be out playing games on the icy roads only idiots with a few brews in them liked to play. I thought of Rachel as I drove and smiled. From the very first we knew we belonged together. We were not looking for romance, either of us, nor realized how empty our lives were until we met in high school. When we met, we looked at each other and knew we were us. It was that simple.

My early years were spent in a series of indifferent foster homes. I never knew who my father was and I barely remember my mother. Most what I remember I don't like. She was a loud drunken woman who cursed a lot and smacked me around whenever she was drunk, which was usually. Finally, one night when I was about five, she took me to a church building. She dropped me off and disappeared, never to be seen again. I sat there, huddled up and scared in the doorway of that old building all night long until a passerby saw me and called the authorities.

The only reason they knew my name was my birth certificate had been pinned onto the back of my coat. When I met Rachel, I had little idea what love, romantic or otherwise, was. I knew something was missing from my life and whatever it was. I wanted it.

On the other hand, Rachel had been raised a strict Mormon, taught from birth if a boy "took liberties" and she permitted it she could end up on State Street, one of those women. She was a junior in high school before she found out who and what those women were. She told one of her girl friends once she didn't see what was so wrong about hanging around on street corners just talking to people.

The friend was the daughter of Rachel's bishop. He told her parents what Rachel said. Her mom almost had a nervous breakdown. Her dad exploded, whipped her with a belt and claimed it was a Baptist plot to lead his innocent daughter astray. Then Rachel met me and we felt the same instant attraction. We were both lonely and from the very first filled each other's needs.

We were what they called "an item" in Mormon circles. Her parents disapproved of me from day one because I was not a Mormon. Of course, Rachel became defiant and clung to me all the tighter. In the beginning I was her sole act of rebellion against her restrictive parents.

Then, not long after we graduated from high school her father threatened to "beat me within an inch of my life" if I didn't stop trying to lead his precious daughter into the ways of the world. She became angry and left home after I told her about the threat.

She wouldn't move in with me like I wanted, but we spent a lot of good time together on weekends, usually at my place. She made it plain from her first visit she would sleep in the guest room and she would sleep all alone. Of course I wanted other sleeping arrangements but she stood firm so that's the way it was. "We get married first before we make babies," she told me in no uncertain terms.

Like I already pointed out, on the night of the dance, because of the snow we decided it would be better if I went straight home and didn't stay and neck and pet a little as I usually did. If the roads were plowed and salted by the next morning she planned to drive on out. By then marriage was definitely in our future. It surprised me when I realized how much I liked the idea. I liked it a whole lot.

I parked in front of the house and looked around. It had stopped snowing and the moon came out. My house, the surrounding field of white snow and the soft moon glow combined to create a Thomas Kinkaid painting.

From early spring to late fall the land around the house was covered with green, punctuated with flashes of red and white and yellow and blue. That evening, a soft white blanket of clean snow covered everything. There were shadowy, slightly darker mounds here and there. They marked the locations of the many rose bushes waiting for spring to come back to life.

The man who sold me the property two years previous had planted every type of rose imaginable, as well as many other plants and vines. They all thrived and gave the place a Fairyland look when in full bloom.

Rachel told me once she wouldn't have been too surprised to see a knight on a great white horse come riding through my front yard some day searching for a dragon to slay or a fair maiden to rescue. I told her I would buy her a horse and she could play Lady Godiva. She smiled and answered, "After marriage, my little stud puppy,"

Behind the house there was a half-acre of black berries and wild raspberries, as well as grape vines and even more roses and other flowers. Wild rose vines covered the storage sheds and the old outhouse in the back yard. All in all it was just right for me. I had my privacy and a beautiful place to work. For me this was the good life. Then everything changed the Friday night I came home from the Polka party...

I took one last look around the yard and started toward the house. All at once a greenish light just like the one we saw in Salt Lake City shined down on the back yard. When I ran around back the light was centered on the old outhouse. As I drew near I became dizzy and my head and body tingled. An electric shock ran through me, then it was gone and I stood alone in the back yard freezing my butt off. I shook my head to clear it and slowly went up the steps to the back door.

A blast of icy cold air greeted me when I stepped inside. My cantankerous old furnace had gone out again. Utah, especially around Salt Lake City, is plagued with more power outages than any other place I know of. Even a modern day Paradise has its serpents and sour apples. Perversely, the electricity came back on just as I entered the house. Quickly I hurried to check the plumbing. Frozen water lines are a nightmare to cope with when they burst.

The water pipe from the well under the house was wrapped in heat tape. It usually came on automatically when the temperature dropped down to near freezing. Even with the power off the tape had insulated the pipe and protected it. My big problem turned out to be the toilet tanks in both bathrooms. They froze and cracked. I placed a pan under each to catch the water as the ice in the tanks melted. I knew they would have to be replaced first thing in the morning. I grabbed a flashlight and went back down into the basement to close the water valves to the bathrooms and reset the furnace relay.

I hurried upstairs, undressed and dove into bed. I lay there and shivered a few seconds until the heat from my electric blanket warmed me. Just as I started to drift off to sleep I heard the furnace kick in. It was a reassuring sound.

The next morning I got out of bed and hurried to dress. The toilet tanks had to be replaced first thing. I wanted the repairs done and over with quick as possible because Rachel was coming. I hurried outside to answer the call of nature and make a fresh supply of yellow snow in the back yard. Then back inside to check the rest of the plumbing in the basement. Everything else seemed okay. This time I had lucked out. A quick breakfast of coffee and toast was enough to get me started for the day.

I had a second call of nature I could not do in the back yard. It meant a trip to the old antique outhouse in the back yard. I left the outhouse standing on a whim. I thought it looked "rustic." Let me tell you though, whoever invented drafty outhouses hated people. There is nothing gets your attention more and faster than to sit on the throne and have a great gust of icy air blast up across your bare backside. I hurried to finish.

A dried, brown wild rose bud hung on its brittle equally dried vine just outside the door. As I stepped out I touched it lightly and wished it were alive and growing. Suddenly I felt a tingling almost-but-not-quite electric vibration in my fingers where they came in contact with the dead vine. I remembered the light last night and the tingle I felt all through me then. Startled, I jerked my hand back and looked at my fingers. Nothing seemed wrong so I pushed it out of my mind and went back inside to remove the two broken toilet tanks before the water in them completely thawed all over the floor. I got in my old Ford and drove into town.

The hardware store was open by the time I arrived in Coalville, the nearest town to my house. I made my purchases and hurried home, anxious to get things fixed and back on track. I looked forward to Rachel's visit if the roads were clear enough for her to make it in her little old Metro.

We both loved the mountains and enjoyed walking along the old game trails. Not very exciting, but then neither of us were considered "exciting" people. We tentatively planned marriage for the following June in a simple wedding attended by our equally unexciting friends and her family. I had no idea where my mother was or if she was even alive. Sad to say, I really didn't care. How do you bond with a bad memory?

By the time I got home, Rachel's car was parked in front. I grinned as I carried my first load into the house and set it down in the bathroom. She came up to me as I headed out the door for the second load. "Forrest, what's going on out there?" she asked me without the usual greeting and kiss.

"Hi, babe, you just get here?" I asked her.

She ignored my greeting. "Forrest, what's going on back there?" She nodded toward the back yard.

"Uh oh, I have a propane leak?" I started toward the back door. Leaky propane tanks are bad business.

"No, I mean, what's going on in your back yard?" She frowned at me.

"Why, nothing is going on in my back yard as far as I know," I told her. "What are you talking about?"

"Forrest, I'm talking about that flower growing in the outhouse. How did you start a flower growing there, of all places?"

I looked closely at her. I wondered if she'd been eating yellow snow or something. "Flower growing in the outhouse? What are you talking about? What flower?"

"I think you better come see for yourself." She had a tense look on her face like I had never seen before. Rachel is not a hysterical person, which is why I began to feel uneasy. I figured if she was uneasy, I better be uneasy too, even if I couldn't figure what we were uneasy about.

She led the way out to the drafty old privy and pointed. I looked where she pointed and saw a rose blossom. It was the most delicate shade of soft pink I had ever seen. No big deal, so I told her, "So you put a plastic flower out here. So what? It's pretty. Am I missing something? What's it supposed to mean?"

She drew a ragged breath into her lungs and told me, "I-did-not-put-the-flower-there. And that thing is alive."

Okay, I figured, a joke's a joke, but enough is enough. Have you ever noticed how our minds seem to grasp at trite old sayings in times of uncertainty? I reached out to take it from the crack it was stuck in and got a real funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as I felt the same electric "tingle" again. The flower didn't feel like any plastic I ever touched before. I jerked my hand back and yelled, "It's alive!" Chills ran up and down my back and I stepped away from the open door.

"You didn't do this?" she asked. I numbly shook my head no and she said, "Oh my." Now there was the understatement of the year.

Somehow I hadn't noticed when she first showed it to me but the rest of the vine was green also. I wondered how I missed it, but was too numb inside to pursue the thought. "Let's go into the house and figure this out." Then I told her, not too originally, "Something's not right here. Flowers just don't come to life in the middle of the winter."

"Uh, yes, let's get away from here. This makes me nervous." She grabbed my arm and we stumbled through the snow in a beeline for the house.

We carefully negotiated the icy steps up to the back porch. As we stopped at the door I looked back. The green of the flowering vine became a train of color all over the outside of the privy. The vine was alive and seemed to grow by the second. She shuddered, I shivered and we beat feet inside.

My mind didn't function well right then. After all, how many times do you come upon a healthy climbing rose vine growing in the middle of the winter in near zero weather? My mind went into shutdown mode. "It really is alive," I said and hoped, desperately I hoped she would say, "April fool" or "Gotcha." She didn't.