Dreams from My Father, Okay? by John Sedgwick

Author:John Sedgwick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: unknown
Publisher: John Sedgwick

VI

My French Years

27. The Letter

If you’re lucky enough to be a Mormon, at some point you get a letter. It tells you where in the world you should go to save people from whatever religion they might have, if they have any, and bring them into the warm, milky bosom of Mormonism, which will make them happier and more fulfilled than they would ever have imagined a religion that proscribes alcohol and limits sex could ever do. But it has done this for me and Ann, now that she has converted and had the extra-digitization surgery, as we call it, my five handsome sons, and every other Mormon I know. It’s a service that we Mormons have been providing mankind ever since our holy founder, Mr. Joseph Smith, thought it up that brilliant summer afternoon in 1847.

Incredibly enough, many people, even after they read the brochures and watch the video, don’t want to become Mormons. I don’t know why, quite honestly, and our marketing people are working on it. I’ve looked at it from a business standpoint, and I’m convinced there is absolutely nothing wrong with the product. Even if we can no longer offer polygamy, we do guarantee eternal life, and that is a pretty sweet deal. Again, just look at me and Ann and our five handsome, well-adjusted sons and all the houses we have. Who would not want to be us?

There is the little matter of the two years of missionary work, however. I was a little worried when I opened up my Stanford mailbox and saw the fat envelope from a Richard. T. C. Lankton, Chief, Missionary Division, Mormon Church of Latter Day Saints, Salt Lake City, Utah. I held it in my hand for a little while, staring at it, flipping it between thumb and index finger, since my future was inside. I could be sent anywhere on earth—outer Mongolia, Zagreb, Dubai, San Francisco.

But no, I shut my eyes, ripped open the envelope and—France! Ooh-la-la, as Timothy L. Brisbane told me before he disappeared into his bedroom for one last round with Mab before Frisbee practice. I didn’t know what to think. I’d never been to France, never been out of the country at all except on ski trips, cruises, and grand tours of various continents. I spoke a few words of the native tongue (I recall one: wee, which is French for yes), all of them with a Mormon accent, which is a little flat on the A’s, and I knew all about French culture—the Moulin Rouge, Napoleon, Crêpes Suzette, za vay zay zay zis and zat with two fingertips pressed against their opposing thumb-tip like a chef who is going on about the vichyssoise. But after I looked up France in the encyclopedia, three things troubled me:

1. They did sex

2. They did cigarettes

3. They did wine

There comes a time in the development of every potential world leader when he is tempted by pleasure. It’s true. I speak from experience. How could this be,

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