Blessed, Honored Pioneers

Oh, sure. Stick the cynical convert with Pioneer Day, why don’tcha?

Let me warn you right off: if you’re here for a feel-good message about blessed, honored pioneers, you’ve come to the wrong blogger. (See the guy who writes on Tuesday.) It’s not that I don’t bless and honor our common Church heritage. I do! I even happen to be sealed to a half-dozen early pioneers through my husband’s sterling lineage. Therefore, I’m truthfully not sure why the “world-wide” celebration of the early Saints’ arrival in the Salt Lake Valley annoys me, but it does.

Of course, any excuse for a parade is good – especially if it inspires hundreds of hours spent carving beautifully intricate sailing schooners from pink foam. (After all, it’s not it’s not like the most intelligent, gifted Saints around have anything better to do in these latest of Latter-days.) I guess I just supposed that after the mega-inspiring Faith in Every Footstep Year, our own beloved Zionists would get over themselves and move on. (This was said fondly, I swear!) At the very least I thought we’d expand the celebration to acknowledge LDS pioneers in Ghana, Columbia, Russia, Japan, and practically everywhere else on the globe. Granted, none of them pulled handcarts (as far as I know) but, my gosh, what incredible testaments to raw courage and unshakeable faith. They count too. Right?

No, I’m not going to tell any of their stories. I am no longer inspirational, remember? This is a diatribe.

I well remember being in the first council meeting in Arizona at which a “trek” was proposed. I was incredulous. “Say we pull handcarts this summer. What will we do next year? Board a cholera-infested boat and sail across Lake Mead? Find a fetid catacomb and/or lion-filled arena to reenact the struggles of the former-day Saints? Wander forty hours in the wilderness, lost, without food or water?”

The trekkies did, of course, prevail. Watching the boys load rented, state-of-the-art carts onto a flatbed truck while girls wearing long skirts recently crafted from ridiculously expensive fabric boarded an air-conditioned bus, I couldn’t help but think of Brothers Willie and Martin in the after-here, shaking their faithful heads and marveling over what some folks will do for recreation/inspiration.

I have been testified to repeatedly that treks build character and community. Okay. (Granted, even.) But don’t try to tell me they teach what it was like to be a pioneer. We wannabes might go hungry for a morning, but we know darn well we won’t starve. (Nor will we have to hunt for and/or gather our own provisions.) We may develop painful blisters, but there is no doubt that if something really bad happens, the trek doctor will be there in three minutes and the helicopter will arrive soon after. Even when the trail is uphill and at its longest, we know full well we can count the hours until it’s over – until we’re back home with soft beds, electricity, running water, and Wii to keep us fit. All along the way of the finest trek there is little uncertainty and no real despair. (No matter how many plastic dolls we bury in a field, we will not – cannot – understand.) My heart tells me there is a point to it all, but my intellect wonders where.

NOTE: This is the point where all you Faithful hit “comment” and respond with outrage. I never get outraged letters from The Faithful. (Outrageous, sometimes, but never outraged.) I’m excited.

Not that I’m not a team player. Our ward is having a Pioneer Celebration tomorrow evening at the church. As the newest member of the activity committee, I was invited to the planning meeting. “It’s going to be a traditional pioneer picnic,” the chairman told me in advance, “so think of ideas.”

Ever faithful, (if with a small f) I did some online research and was prepared. The first thing the chair asked at the meeting was who would set up chairs.

“Every family should bring a quilt and sit on the ground,” I suggested. “The pioneers didn’t have racks of folding chairs.”

Everybody agreed and I felt almost . . . Faithful.

Next she asked who would set up the volleyball net.

“I don’t think the pioneers played volleyball,” I said. “Maybe horseshoes?”

“Horseshoes would tear up the lawn,” the high priest group leader pointed out.

“And they’re dangerous,” the Primary representative responded with a shudder.

I’ll spare you a transcript of the rest of the meeting. We’re playing volleyball and having “traditional pioneer root beer floats.” (Of course, nobody likes the taste of homemade root beer and it is too risky to make homemade ice cream what with salmonella and all.) Despite all the rest of my ideas being summarily rejected, I nevertheless put my shoulder to the wheel and volunteered for the most pioneerish of assignments. It will be my honor on this Pioneer Day to drag a creaking metal handcart up and down the treacherous aisles of WalMart. (Walking and walking is a given, but I hope the singing is optional.) Along the way I will gather plastic bottles, plastic cups, plastic spoons, and plastic-y ice cream. I may even wear a bonnet.

While I don’t do treks, I can at least do this. I hope my husband's pioneer ancestors feel very honored indeed.