The Things of This World

When I arrived home from my mission to Germany, it was the third week of May that year and I was blessed to be able to spend the rest of that summer before school started being home with my Mom and Dad. There were many fun memories I have from that season at home: my first date after my mission, a couple of trips to Nauvoo, shaking hands with Spencer W. Kimball, working a number of jobs, fun times with old friends, my adventures in moving to BYU, etc., but one experience stands out above all the rest.

Living on "a farm" as we did, there were always plenty of projects to get done. We had four outbuildings that we used for various purposes, mainly storage: The White Shed (which by then was painted yellow--but still called The White Shed), The Yellow Shed (which was also called The Festina Lenta--a Latin term meaning to make haste--it had once been a very nice "outhouse" or privy), The Silver Shed (yes, these are very original names) and, finally, The Barn. One of Mom's projects that summer for us was to clean out The White Shed (that was painted yellow).

The White Shed was full of treasures, everything imaginable--a fly-fishing pole and gear that belonged to my Grandfather Proctor (whom I never knew), pictures of my Mother from her youth (she was a knock out), boxes of memories, a couple of hamster cages, odd things hanging on the walls and stored in corners. This White Shed was, to me, like that proverbial attic that you always wanted to explore. This cleaning project of Mom's was major--it was time to be absolutely ruthless.

In those days we burned all our trash. We had a fire pit area and a burning barrell. Kirk and I used to have the job of burning our trash each week--we loved that. You can't imagine how many experiments you can do with a burning trash fire, but that's another story. Mom and I had mounds of things we had taken to the fire pit area. I was a little reluctant in my heart to see some things go into the flames. I have a tendency to hang on to things for sentimental reasons, thinking they will end up in a three-dimensional scrapbook some day or become a treasure for generations yet unborn. Things were happening quickly this day and the flames were being fed almost faster that I could manage.

At one point Mom took our family's ice cream maker and was about to toss it into the fire. This was the ice cream maker that I grew up with. We used it every 4th of July to make the best home-made ice cream in the world. Each person in our family had taken turns cranking the handle over the years, Dad, Mom, Paul, Lane, Kirk, Nina and Darrell Ownby, Nord and Joan Gale, every missionary who ever served in Rolla, Missouri. We used it on so many occasions, why, this was sacred to our family and especially to me. It was one of those kind that was made with wooden slats and metal rings that fastened around them and held them altogether. It was a classic. As Mom went to throw this priceless treasure into the fire I said, as I reached out to intercept the toss, "Mom, not the ice cream maker!" As I did so, I blocked the throw and the ice cream maker went crashing to the ground and it broke all to pieces. The wooden slats were rotten and the metal bands had become terribly rusted. The treasure was now a heap of rubble. We both froze in place. At that moment Mom said, "That, my son, is where moth and rust doth corrupt." Wow. It was a life-changing moment for me (how did I ever get such a Mother as this?). I have never forgotten it. My grasp on the things of this world, from that moment, became a little less firm. This was the highlight of my summer.