The Past Decade - It's a Wrap!

New Years is always a time for me to get contemplative. I always make a brief commentary on the previous year in my journal. I thought it would be a good time to do it here:

2000
1. Really my first year in plural marriage, because when the New Year hit (along with its phony Y2K scare) I had only been practicing polygamy for 4 months.
2. So this was really an adjustment year for me.
3. Spent my honeymoon in January in Phoenix with Temple while she miscarried

2001
1. Started getting used to having a plural marriage
2. My daughter Sara born the same day the first Lord of the Rings movie came out. (Hey that was a big deal to me.)

2002
1. My son Aidan was born.
2. My dad died. (Very significant and life-shaping event for me.)
3. I am diagnosed with diabetes. (Another life-shaping event.)

2003
1. Why don’t I remember much of this year?

2004
1. I start feeling driven to defend and discuss plural marriage on the Internet (in place of trying to find wives on the net the previous few years).
2. Siobhan and Alex are born.
3. I travel to Kentucky on a missionary trip – the first of several.
4. I quit my job of 9 years as a social worker with the State of Arizona.
5. I take a construction job in Connecticut.

2005
1. I spend three months working in Connecticut
2. I spend four months working in San Diego.
3. I am laid off in the summer and resort to odd jobs for the rest of the year.
4. I am very active on the Internet.
5. Missionary trips to California, Utah and Missouri

2006
1. Missionary trips to Utah, California, Missouri, Florida, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and New Zealand. Some more than once.
2. There is a sad division in our community.
3. My daughter Jerusha is born.

2007
1. Back to construction – I work most of the year in Tucson, Pittsburgh, and Vegas.
2. I have the most spiritual experience of my life.
3. I am contacted by Incubator TV.

2008
1. I work in Albuquerque for a month
2. I am accosted by Channel 3 in regard to my brother’s divorce.
3. I contact a former member of Incubator TV in regard to how to deal with the media.
4. We negotiate and Dawn Porter comes and films a segment with us in April, 2008.
5. The next day, Texas raids the YFZ Ranch.
6. I start this blog. Lol
7. I travel on the fair circuit at the end of the year.
8. Dawn Porter: The Polygamist’s Wife airs on C4 in the UK in October.
9. The show airs as Forbidden Love: Polygamy on TLC in December.
10. My son Avery is born.

2009
1. I travel to South Carolina and work there for 3 months.
2. My son Israel is born.
3. I spend the summer in Montana on the fair circuit.
4. I develop DVT in my left leg while I am there.
5. I spend a month and a half bedridden.
6. I return to South Carolina to work for a few weeks.

A FEW RECENT DETAILS
1. Temple and I just had our 10 year anniversary – 10 years as a polygamist.
2. Martha and I shared our 17th anniversary.
3. My oldest daughter Sophie just turned 16. Getting old, man!
4. A mountain lion was prowling around our house a few weeks ago. We were gone at the time, but I’m sure it was watching us. The kids now don’t go out alone when playing or doing their chores.
5. I am now wearing special medical compression socks to treat my DVT. They are like pantyhose. Now all I need are heels.

Happy New Year, everyone!

French Reporters & Class Reunions

Okay, here are a few updates:


LEG

Regrettably, I am still suffering from Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT). I spent the entire month of September in bed with my leg propped up on a pillow. The pain diminished, and the swelling went down. At the beginning of October, thinking that my leg must be better, I ventured out to work at another fair in Willcox, Arizona. The drive alone caused my leg to balloon up again with edema.

That is how the month of October has been. I am feeling much better, but every time I try to get around normally, my leg winds up putting me back to bed. The doctor says that it could take up to six months before I am totally over this. I am spending a lot of time reading. But there is no TV watching, because the generator decided to spit out a valve. There is also no writing, because my laptop was sitting in a corner, collecting dust after taking a dump in Montana.

Thank God for my BlackBerry, otherwise I might have gone insane.

BUT… I did recently repair my computer, which is why I am able to blog on this fine Sunday morning.


CLASS REUNION

Last year, I missed my 20 year class reunion. Ten years previous, I had gone to my reunion where I almost won the “Most Changed” award. (I wasn’t always this fat.) When the 20 year reunion rolled around, I seriously considered going, but there was a fair going on that weekend. I was faced with the choice of: 1. Going to my reunion and spending money, or 2. Working the fair and earning money. Obligation to my family won out over nostalgia.

Several months ago, the Class of 89 announced that, in lieu of a 20 year reunion, they would have a reunion with FIVE classes, encompassing 1985 through 1990. Such an event is unheard of, and only a once in a lifetime event. I promised myself I would go.

I have spent the last several weeks listening to 80s music, looking at old pictures, etc. I have really been looking forward to the reunion. I have really been thinking of those days when I grew up in Casa Grande. It seems as if the young people in that community were very close knit. I have been thinking about the people I knew and associated with. This has been enhanced by my participation on social networks like Facebook. I have recently connected with many old friends there and have pleased that they have not been lost to me in the haze of the decades.

But also, I think I liked myself a bit better back then. Certainly in some ways, I was more of a dumb ass. But I was edgier, more laissez-faire, more devil-may-care. I wasn’t hampered by the mistakes of life. I wasn’t dulled by health issues or tamed by domestic responsibilities. Don’t get me wrong. I am still the same person. But there are a few moments when I look at myself and ask, “What the hell happened?”

So as I prepared for my class reunion, I looked at the few clothes in my closet and wondered what I would wear. My wives speculated which one of them would go. Long had I entertained a fantasy of walking into a reunion with a wife on each arm. But I made it clear to my wives – none of them would go. After having been on TV, I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself. I would be going alone.

So last night was my reunion. I didn’t go. And here is why…


66 MINUTES

At the end of September, as I lay in bed with my illness, I frequently wondered how in the hell I was going to provide for my family. I couldn’t work. My wife Temple was pounding the pavement, looking for a job. I prayed for an opportunity to come my way.

Then one afternoon, I got a phone call. I looked at the Caller ID to see way more numbers than the standard ten digits. Definitely an international call. I stared at the strange number and wondered whether I should answer it. I decided not to. A minute later, the phone rang again, and I decided to take a chance and answer it.

It was a reporter.

In the days after our show with Dawn Porter, it seemed as if I was being contacted left and right for similar opportunities. A company that produced reality programs wanted to come into our home, another British production company wanted to send a woman to live with us for one month, and someone even pitched me for Survivor. But it has been five months since anyone had contacted me.

I had thought that the proverbial fifteen minutes promised to me by Andy Warhol were over (although Dawn Porter had only given us ten minutes.) It seems I was wrong.

It was a journalist named Morgane from France. She represented a program called “66 Minutes”, and she wanted to come into our home to film us. Already it sounded better than our previous venture. Dawn Porter was a brightly-colored flower set in the middle of the simple peasants. Morgane would not be on camera. It would just be her and her cameraman, and she would ask us questions. But it would not be so much an interview as it would be filming us interacting with each other – such as filming Martha and Temple cooking in the kitchen together.

I told Morgane how the girls would not be keen to do another show, because their interviews had been cut from the previous program. They were still a bit miffed about that.

“Actually, we are more interested in filming them,” she responded. “We want to see this from a woman’s point of view.”

Mmmm. Not bad…

“If you are looking for polygamists where the women wear pioneer dresses and the men wear button-up shirts, then you would be better off going to Centennial Park,” I told them. “There is nothing stereotypical about me or my family. We don’t fit the idea of what people think polygamists look like.”

“Actually, it is our goal to show that there is no stereotype that fits polygamists,” she said. “They are just normal people.”

I am liking this more and more. Now for the coup de grace…

I explain to her how I kind of made my daughter Sophie participate in the last shoot, and that she had had a hard time with it. I understood the desire of a journalist to get the opinion of a teenage girl on the topic of polygamy. As valuable as I think Sophie’s opinion is, I was not going to force her to go through this again.

“I won’t make her do another shoot,” I said. “I am going to let her make the decision.”

“That’s fine,” said Morgane. “She does not have to participate. We can even digitally alter the footage so that it will blur out her face.”

Sounds good.

I took a couple of days to discuss it with the wives. Neither of them was pleased. They did not relish the thought of bringing the media into our home again. But things are tough. We did not get paid much for doing the last show. But we did get paid a little. This was ultimately the factor that made us decide to go ahead with it. It would be nice to get a little chunk of change at the end of October when we have very little in the spare change department.

As I have said before, I am such a whore. Would I drag my family in front of the cameras again for a few shekels? Hell, yes, I would.

I contacted Morgane and let her know that we would do the program. We set the date for Saturday, October 24. I was leaving Friday, October 23 open, because I at least wanted to attend my class reunion.

But we would do things a little bit different. We got such backlash from our friends and family that we decided to NOT tell anybody. It was really painful to experience the derision and disapproval of people close to me. So, in short, I would tell them squat about my plans. The day of the shoot, they would see a strange house parked at my house, but they would not know why until it was all over. It would be “none of their damn business”, as they say.


I’M NOT A WHORE

At the urging of my wives, I shot off an email to Morgane about how much they intended to pay us. It would be nice to have a dollar amount. The response I got was surprising:

“I do not know how it is in US but we never pay for interviews. It is against the principle of journalism, otherwise I pay you and you tell me what I want to hear. So I am sorry but it is not possible.”

At first, I thought she was surely pulling my leg. But I have a couple of friends in Belgium who are journalists. I emailed them, and one of them wrote back and told me this:

“I'm afraid your friend is wrong and that you won't get money for being part of a news story. When we're reporting on a story, we never pay the persons we interview, at least in Belgium and France. There are exception, like in the UK, where they pay to get exclusive interviews, but it's a totally different situation here.”

I went back and gave the girls this news. “I have NO DESIRE to do any show unless there is money involved,” I told them. “I’m not going through any of that unless there is some sort of compensation. We are not doing this show.”

But that night, I was bothered by my response. I couldn’t sleep. I thought about my love for their French language and my love of the French people. Ever since I was a small child, I wanted to learn French. For two dollars, I bought a small booklet on the French language from a grocery store. I took four years of high school French. I went to Belgium as an exchange program, and I volunteered for the same exchange program for six years, taking Belgian students all over Arizona. I taught French for five years for various continuing education programs. I worked for Holiday Inn as a French reservation agent.

What if the whole reason I felt driven to learn French was for this? Who better to represent Mormon polygamy to the French than me??

I emailed Morgane two days later and agreed to have her come into our phone for free.

The next step was to take Sophie aside and tell her our plans. A relative recently had told me that Sophie had mentioned in confidence how much my decision to make her do an interview had hurt her. I would not make her do it again. As predicted, she did not want to participate. So we arranged for her to be somewhere else that day.


THE QUEENS OF CLEAN & THE NO-SHOW

Three days before the shoot, we started cleaning the whole house. We bought supplies. We scrubbed the walls and doors. We organized the shelves. We got on each other’s nerves, because the cleaning was not happening as fast as we would have liked. It became obvious that we were not going to be done on time for the shoot.

So I made a tough decision. I decided not to go to my class reunion the day before the shoot. The plan had been – drive to my reunion and attend the mixer, drive home all night and be ready for the shoot. I did this, because the girls really needed my help with the cleaning. It was a hard decision. I had really been looking forward to the reunion and seeing all my friends. But this was more important.

As the date grew closer, I was concerned that I had not heard from Morgane. So I emailed her. She didn’t respond. I told my wives that the French crew was probably going to be a no show. We were all immensely relieved. But a couple of days before the shoot, I got an email. Everything was on schedule.

The cleaning continued. The day before the shoot, Morgane called me from San Diego. The crew was in the States already. She asked if we could move the interview to Sunday, instead of Saturday. I agreed. Although I was a little annoyed. I could have gone to my class reunion after all. I asked Morgane if we could go over the schedule. When should we expect them? What could we expect? She was actually quite anxious to get off the phone.

“I will email you the details,” she said.

I was starting to get a funny feeling from this response.

Saturday came, and we recruited all the children to finish cleaning. They cut weeds outside and piled them to be burned. They all scrubbed the kitchen down and got their rooms organized.

The whole time, I was motivating them by telling them that we would have some special visitors the next day. I bought some steaks to grill for our company. The cleaning was done by noon, and to reward them, I took them to a picnic at nearby Woodland Lake. As the sun set, I was getting concerned that I had not heard from Morgane. What time were they going to get there?

I finally called Morgane. I was getting really, really frustrated. I wanted my message to say something like this:

“Mais qu’est-ce que tu fous? Ça ne va pas, non! On vous attend en Arizona!”

But it was probably something a lot more polite, knowing me.

I got a call from Morgane an hour later. She cancelled the visit. They were also in the States to do a piece on health care. That story quickly became more important, and her producers wanted her to pay more attention to that one. So they would not be coming. She apologized profusely.

I shared this information with the girls, and we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief. We do care about being a good example. But this is a tough time of the year for us. We are not doing so hot financially. I am out of work with a serious illness. The schedule revolves around getting the kids to and from school. Things just feel a little too chaotic right now.

Still, there is a part of me that really wanted to share this with the French. I really feel like it was a missed opportunity.

And, as I looked at the photos from the class reunion on Facebook, I really feel like I missed out on it all for nothing…

Slow Recovery

So after I got back from Montana, I spent an entire week on my back, trying to recover from DVT, or having a blood clot in my calf.

I went to the doctor, and he took a blood sample to see how thin my blood is. Then he instructed me to stay off of my leg as much as possible.

Within a couple of days, the swelling went down. It seemed as if the swelling acted as some sort of barrier to the pain. Because as soon as the swelling went down, the pain increased. It was almost more than I could stand. The doctor had instructed me to only take over the counter ibuprofen. I was downing a cummulative 1200mg a day. Also, I was sleeping several times during the day. It seemed like sleep helped with the pain.

A week later, I was not feeling well, but the next event was upon me - the Coconino County Fair in Flagstaff, Arizona for the Labor Day weekend.

I was pleased to see my Muslim friend Ali there. I was also pleased that my friend Joy, whom I have known since high school, allowed me to stay at her home. Having a comfortable bed to go to after work helped.

The fair in Flagstaff was busy (but rainy). I sat behind the booth in a camp chair, with my leg propped on a pillow while I took orders. But leg started swelling up again anyway.

On Sunday, my wives and some of my younger children made the two hour drive to the fair. While I worked, they had a fun time at the fair. We also had a fun time visiting with my friend Joy and her husband, and we took the long drive home the next morning to see some other dear friends in the Verde Valley (and introduced them to Temple for the first time.)

The next day, the swelling had spread up my thigh. It was all the driving. After consulting with my doctor, I made a tough call. I was due to leave the next morning for the Utah State Fair. That was a ten day event. But the weekend in Flagstaff showed me that, even with my leg propped up, my leg was going to swell as long as I worked. The driving was also not good on me. Logic dictated that traveling to Utah was going to make my leg worse, rather than better.

So I opted not to go to Utah.

I don't know if you are aware of what a tough decision this was. Utah State Fair was my last chance in the foreseeable future where I will make any money. The fair season is ending soon. I don't know what I'm going to do after that. Going to Utah, I would have made enough money to take care of our bills for September and some of October. Not going, I won't have any means to pay my bills. At all.

But I knew that my leg was not going to get better unless I stayed down with my leg elevated. So I decided to stay home.

And I have been going stir crazy! I love being with the kids. But all I do is lay in bed, reading. That is fun for about three days. When I want to watch a movie - which is not often, as we are trying to conserve gas for the generator - I have to rely on my own DVD library.

But the most frustrating is not being able to go out and provide for my family. I can assure you - this is anathema to the self worth of a man, not being able to bring home the proverbial bacon. Worse still, Temple has been out looking for work. Because my research has shown that blood clots can take MONTHS to dissolve. And there is a real chance that this could be permanent. In other words, who knows when I will be able to next go out and work?

And there is a part of Temple that resents this, I know. Years ago, there was a couple of months when she was the only one with a job, and the only one working. She has never let me play that down. There is a part of her that understands that I have a life-threatening condition and should not work. But there is another part of her that only sees the lazy bum, unshaven, in the same pajamas for a week, crashed out on the couch...

What woman wants THAT for a husband??


.

Kalispell - Fun With DVT

The last week in Montana, we drove to Kalispell. What a beautiful drive it is - right up on the Canadian border, close to Glacier National Park. You have to drive around the enormous Flathead Lake to get there. Jagged peaks reflected in the glacial water - it is indeed what most people think of when they imagine Montana.

When we got there, we checked into a hotel. It was nice to sleep in a bed after a month of sleeping in a tent.

But my leg was really bothering me.

Back in Missoula, we had hiked to the "M". The hike had been strenuous for someone out of shape like me. When I got down, my legs were sore from the exertion for several days. After several days, the soreness went away in my right leg. It got progressively worse on my left leg.

The night we arrived in Kalispell, I went to Wal-Mart to get some quarters for laundry. As I stood in line at the customer service desk, my leg was causing me so much pain, I could hardly stand at all.

The next day, we set up our booth at the Northwest Montana Fair, which was a disorganized mess. To make matters worse, the parking was literally a mile away, and every day I limped a mile to the booth, and every night at midnight, I limped back to the car.

I was pleased to find the same Romani that had been our neighbors in Missoula to be our neighbors again in Kalispell. We made the an airbushed banner for their booth. They promised to pay us by feeding us everyday. This is the way they fed us:

"Here, I brought you some yogurts from the breakfast buffet at the hotel where we are staying. There is also some free popcorn in that building right there. Go, and get some!"

It's a good thing we weren't really depending on them.

One morning, Rose, one of the gypsy psychics brought me a gift - a stone egg with remnants of the tag still attached to it.

"I had a vision last night to give this to you. It will bring you good luck and good health. Keep it with you always. I want you to have this."

The following is the story of what happened the day I got the egg that was supposed to bring me good luck:

The pain got so bad that I couldn't stand it. Over the past few days, I had noticed vericose veins popping out on a leg that had never had them before. This same morning, I noticed swelling in my leg, and I could barely walk. Something was wrong. It was more than just soreness from the hike. Something was really wrong, and I knew it.

I talked to my brother in law. He thought I should tough it out. Soreness was good for you. I was sore, because I was out of shape. Soreness meant that I needed to hike more often.

I called my wives. They wanted me to go the ER. I limped to the EMT tent. They told me to go to the ER. I hesitated. Going to the ER, I would abandon my brother in law to the busy crowds by himself.

The fair got out at midnight. I limped back to the truck, exhausted. My wives called me and asked if I was going to the ER. I told her I would go in the morning. All I wanted was a good night's rest. Martha started to chew me out, saying that I needed to go to the ER. So I conceeded.

The doctor ordered a ultrasound. I had deep vein thrombosis (DVT) - a blood clot - in my left calf, and a smaller one in my thigh. They put me on blood thinners right away and told me to see my doctor as soon as I got back to Arizona.

The problem was - there were two more grueling days of the fair. I worked 13 hour days, and hoped that the 6 hours of sleep I was getting would be enough. At night, I would lay in bed, wondering if I would die in the night. After all, that is how my dad died - pulmonary embolism brought on by DVT.

When we finally packed up and left Kalispell, I was filled with a sense of relief. As I felt the warm sunshine on my face and imbibed the tranquil beauty of Flathead Lake one last time, I was happy to be going home. It had been six weeks since I had seen my family, and I felt that I had been through an ordeal. I felt like I could fight this from home.

We stopped in Salt Lake City to stay the night at my sister's house. I was alarmed to see that my foot and leg had swollen to twice its normal size. It looked like I had a Flintstone foot. But I had to keep going, I had to get home. The drive was uncomfortable. I could barely bend my leg as swollen as it was. My toes were tingling, and I kept a pillow propped under my leg.

The problem with getting treatment - I don't have insurance. I haven't had insurance for years. I called my doctor. I had a leftover bill from my hospital visit from last year. I called and tried to schedule an appointment. The receptionist pointed out I still had a bill. I told her that I was aware of this. I was willing to pay half of my bill the next day. She went and talked to the doctor and this was his answer:

"I talked to the doctor, and he is willing to treat you one last time. Then he wants you to get a new doctor. We are dropping you as a patient."

"Even if I pay my billl?" I demaned.

"The doctor feels that it has gone beyond that," she answered. "Do you want to shcedule an appointment?"

"Why?" I responded bitterly. "I need ongoing care. Why would I see him only once. I'll find a new doctor."

The truth is - I know why the doctor dropped me, and so does he. When I was in the hospital last year, we had a little conversation. Don't ask me why I did it. He asked me how many kids I have. I told him, and then I told him how many wives I have. The doctor is LDS, and I literally saw the hate in his eyes after that. He finished treating me, but even as he discharged me, he looked at me with hatred. This was not a case of my delinquent bill, as the receptionist lef me to believe. It was plain discrimination. I know it. And the doctor knows it.

I had my wife call the kids' pediatrician - an old Mormon, cowboy doctor. He agreed to see me.

After two days of traveling, I pulled into my house. It had been raining, as Arizona was in the middle of its monsoon season. So the ground was muddy. This didn't stop my kids from running out to see me. I limped inside, and let the girls put me in bed with pillows propped under my leg. My leg was huge.

I didn't know what was going to happen, but I was happy. If I was going to die, it would be at home and not in Montana.

Tomorrow, I will fill you in with the rest of my little tale...

Zombie Cats - My Time in Missoula

We left the rolling hills of Great Falls and headed west into the mountains.

Montana is so beautiful with its jagged peaks, pine forests and swollen rivers. It is not a cliche to see people flyfishing in Montana. Fishing enthusiasts are everywhere. A river really does run through Missoula...

After trading a couple of days in a motel for airbrush art, we found a campground where we pitched our tent - Jellystone Park Campground. No lie. It is a theme campground, complete with a wandering employee dressed as Yogi Bear, and a huckleberry ice cream social every night. It was a nice change from camping out on the fairgrounds in Great Falls. At least the bathroom was clean.

The only problem - we had an entire week until the next event, the Western Montana Fair. So we had some time to kill.

Missoula is a very pretty city. Home of Montana State University and the Grizzlies - they love their team. It is also located near the small polygamist community of Pinesdale. We did have an offer from a relative to stay there, but it would have been about an hour commute just to go back and forth. Plus, I am considered kind of an apostate by the people there (who are part of the Apostolic United Brethren.)

Still, I wondered if I would see anyone I knew there from that polygamous community. And at the Wal-Mart in Missoula, I did. I saw a married couple that I knew back in the day, about my age. I chased them down in the bread aisle, saying, "It's me. Moroni Jessop. You haven't seen me in almost twenty years." She was very sweet. He looked very nervous, like he couldn't wait to escape.

So what do you do when you are in Missoula, staying at campgrounds and have no money? You do what everyone else does. You go to the river. We took a nice walk along the banks, watching people kyak.

We also hiked to the "M" on the side of the mountain by the university. A trail zigzags right up the side of a very steep mountain up to the whitewashed letter painted on the slopes. It kicked my ass. I could only make it halfway up. (I'll talk more about this hike in another post.)

We also saw the Missoula Symphony play in Caras Park (for free), and got to see a beautiful hand carved carousel in the middle of the park. We explored a large hippie boutique, and had some of the best burgers I've ever eaten at the Missoula Club.

One night, we decided to go to a punk show at a club called the Palace Lounge. It was three hours of earsplitting screaming, drunken people spraying us with beer and trying to pull us into the mosh pit. As I stood on the edge of the crowd, with my arms folded, I wondered - did moshing always look this stupid when I used to do it as a kid?

The main act was El Zombi Gato, a conglomeration of local artists, most of them as old as myself. They were loud and grating and kind of obnoxious.

The best act was a band called Bird's Mile Home. They were awesome. Punk rock with a cello! Plus, the cello player was hot! The only thing I kept thinking was - why do they not have a record deal? They were that good.

With my ears ringing, we drove back to our tent.

The rains came, and there were several mornings when I woke up to a large puddle around our tent. There were some nights when I stuffed dirty clothes down my sleeping bag to help keep me warm. This is Montana! Why did I not bring a jacket?

When the fair finally started, it was quite busy. We negotiated a spot right by the carnival entrance. It was almost too good of a location. We were so busy, we could barely keep up.

A couple of notable things:

We met an 11 year-old kid named Evan Kirby. This kid is going to be the next Picasso, I swear. He does these images out of slices of duct tape. They are totally off the wall and random. He is going to be famous one day.

Our neighbors were gypsy fortune tellers from Spokane, Washington. We learned a little but about Romani culture, especially their ability to barter and negotiate. They could practically talk us into doing anything for them!

Once the fair was done, we packed up our booth, tore down our tent, left Missoula, left Jellystone Campgrounds and headed for Kalispell for our final event in Montana. Which is what I will write about tomorrow...

So Falls Great Falls...

Anyway, continuing with my Montana adventures...

After Bozeman, we went to Great Falls. Joe and I took this back road through the mountains. It was spectacular.

My friend Steve said that he always disliked driving to Concho (where I live), because - whereas the drive is spectacular - the destination is kind of mediocre. That is the way I felt about Great Falls. It is flat and grassy. The only interesting feature is the Missouri River that winds through the center of town.

We set up our booth at the Montana State Fairpark, and they let us pitch a tent behind the booth. The first few days of the fair were really slow, but the last few days were pretty busy. It was a ten day event. My daughter Sophie came to visit and stayed with us for the duration of this event.

The most interesting thing about Great Falls were the people, and I will talk about some of them briefly:

Ali - He was also in Bozeman with us. A tall, black man, he had an accent, and so I assumed that he was from some Carribean island. Especially since he sells reggae t-shirts, and such.

I finally asked him, "So where are you from?"

"Senegal," he answered. So we switched to French. He was very surprised to find that I spoke French, and this is how we communicated the rest of the time.

Since his name is "Ali", and since he is probably Muslim, I asked him, "How many wives do you have?"

After a brief hesitation, he held up two fingers.

"Me, too," I answered. Ali found it very odd that an American would live this lifestyle. I really liked Ali and found that I had something in common with him after this.

Brandon - He is a high school student who has taken an avid interest in airbrush art. He owns a local go-kart track, and we spent one evening doing laps. It was great fun. Brandon is a good kid, and he hung around us so much that he became a pleasant fixture.

However, eventually his mother put an end to him hanging around with us. I guess it seemed weird to his mother that a 17 year-old kid was hanging around grown men. We are family men, but still. Maybe she doesn't want him to hang around "artist types", or maybe his mother Googled my name, which would bring up a wealth of personal information. It wouldn't be too hard.

Jessie & Pete - They ran a t-shirt booth called Outlaw Embroidery. Jessie is a great guy with a beard of ZZTop proportions. Pete wears bermuda shorts and a cowboy hat. Since people watching - no, babe watching - is my primary activity at the fairs when things get slow, it was nice to have someone like Pete around, with an eye attuned like mine to aerodynamic beauty.

Tohni - There was actually a tattoo booth at this fair, and Tohni is an apprenticed tattoo artist. She came this close to convincing me to get a tattoo. She is Chippewa Cree and has an innocence about her. Technology is foreign to her, and she is baffled by the cellphone her friends insisted that she buy.

Tohni hung out around us a lot. She went clothes shopping with my daughter Sophie. I never talked to her once about me being a Mormon o a polygamist. Yet she could sense something different about us. She told us repeatedly that she felt like she had known us forever, and that I reminded her of an uncle. She is a great person, and I hope she keeps in touch.

Enrique - Next to our booth, the techno music would pound several times a day, and a short Mexican man with a pony tail would toss spray cans around like Tom Cruise in "Cocktail". He would use his spray cans to whip out space paintings in ten minutes, using crowd-drawing techniques like lighting his paintings on fire. He drew big crowds, but we didn't mind. He got the overspill business.

Enrique was so kind, and he would greet me enthusiastically every time he walked by the booth. It was nice to meet someone so genuine.

The people we met were definitely the highlight of our stay. Camping was alright, not so great. The only shower was half a mile away in the livestock building, and you were lucky if you got in to shower. Because there was only one shower, and all the carnies used it.

So eve though Great Falls is not the prettiest people, I enjoyed being there, because of the people there.

My laptop did crash while I was there. I have yet to fix it.

But tomorrow, I will post about our adventures in Missoula...


.

Montana, the Fair, the Hostel & the Lie

Yesterday, I told a lie. I told the same lie the day before, and the day before that. It wasn’t a big lie. It was rather a small lie. And it wasn’t really the type of lie that was a falsehood uttered aloud. It was more of a lie of omission.

But let me backtrack, and tell you what I have been up to.

At the end of April, I got laid off, decided to write a book, sat in front of the computer and mostly stared at it. I got a couple of odd jobs, mainly doing construction. Still waiting on payment for those.

But then I got a phone call. My brother-in-law, the airbrush artist, wanted me to go on the road with him to run his airbrush t-shirt stand, which is how I wound up in Montana.

I think it is totally pointless in saying how exquisitely beautiful Montana is with its rivers, pine forests and tall mountains. It would be like saying that water is wet. But we did wind up spending five days at the Gallatin County Fair in Bozeman. We didn’t make many sales. I don’t know if it is the economy, or that Montanans are just not interested in having t-shirts with gangsta script on them.

On a side note… Montana girls… Where else can you find girls who play football, hunt, ski, rope, work on a pig farm and still manage to be crushingly pretty? It reminds me of Temple, who was bucking 100 pound bails of hay when I found her.

The most awesome part about staying in Bozeman was staying at the Bozeman Backpacker’s Hostel. When I heard that we would be staying in a hostel, I was not thrilled. I had had the hostel experience in Europe. Hostels had the reputation of being seedy, alcohol-soaked places.

When we got there, I was pleased to find a beautiful, Victorian house built in the 1890s – its claim to fame, Gary Cooper used to board here as a high school student. We walked up the steps to the front porch, which had several couches littered with exhausted-looking backpackers. Inside was a large kitchen table with other guests. We were directed to sign in, put our money ($20 per bunk) in an envelope, slip it under the door and pick out an available bunk. We walked up the creaky stairs to find a couple of bedrooms with three sets of bunk beds per room.

I was appalled to find all of the rooms filled with people. Appalled, because I have a deep dark secret. I snore. I snore horribly. It can be measured on the Richter scale. I settled down into my bunk, very self-conscious. Every time I felt myself starting to snore, I woke myself up. It didn’t help that the guy in the bed close to me would toss angrily in his bed.

The next evening, after the fair, I was dreading going back to the hostel. But when I walked in, I found a group of people sitting around the table, talking and laughing. There was the owner – a guy named Wayne. He is a charismatic man of Sri Lankan descent from Australia. The man just has an aura about him. He has traveled all over the world, including some extended visits to Africa. There were also a couple of girls from California and Oregon, respectively. And there was a lank Frenchman named Jerome.

That night, as I climbed into my bunk, I apologized to Jerome in advance for any snoring I might do.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I snore, too.”

In the middle of the night, I heard him blurt out, “Révolutionaire!”

A couple of minutes later, he muttered, “Napoléon!”

In the morning, I told Jerome, “You don’t snore. You sleep talk. What were you dreaming about?”

Soon, I came to love staying at the hostel. There was someone new there every day – people from all over the country, and even from other countries. Germany, Japan, New Zealand, etc.

Now we come to the part about the lie…

One morning, I got into a discussion with Erin, a hiker from New York. The fact that she had done religious studies, I brought up that I had been a member of the mainstream Mormon Church, but that I had been excommunicated twenty years ago. I carefully omitted why I had been excommunicated. I just made it seem like I wasn’t Mormon anymore.

Then amazingly, she brought up having read “Under the Banner of Heaven” by Jon Krakauer. What an amazing lead-in to a discussion about my lifestyle. Instead, I made a vague comment about being related to the FLDS. Also true. But I said nothing about me being a polygamist.

Why did I do it? I don’t know. I guess maybe I wanted to enjoy being with people without the stigma of being different. I guess I was probably thinking that if I told people that I am a polygamist, that it would be like a big, black cloud hanging over me wherever I went in the hostel, intruding on every conversation. Which is kind of weird, because I am not ashamed of who I am. I think I was just wanting anonymity.

But maybe even that is a cop-out. Because it is such a vital part of who I am. There is no way that I can divorce myself from that aspect.

But as the visits continued (Nikki, Natalie and Alicia, college students on a road trip, Matt from South Carolina, Aaron from New Zealand, a high school graduate doing a bus trip from Philadelphia, Carlos and David, two Mexicans traveling with their drunken companion) more opportunities came up. I told stories about “my wife”, morphing Martha and Temple into one, homogenous person. I even told them about the TLC show and about the book I am writing, even though I was careful to tell them nothing about what they are about.

So, like I said, a lie. I told them nothing that was untrue. But I really didn’t tell them the truth, either.

The biggest irony was stopping to see my high school French teacher, who lives in Montana, on my way to Great Falls. We sat across each other and chatted for about an hour. Both of us know who and what I am. But none of us said a word.

I supposed that I remedied all of this by providing every person I met with my contact information, including the link to my blog…

In Hiatus...

I haven't been posting, because I am writing my book....

As time allows, I will give updates. I hope you will continue following my blog...

Moroni
(928) 245-4095

I Will Survive... Another TV Offer

A dear friend of mine who works in the TV industry contacted me last year to say that she wanted to pitch me to CBS for their reality show “Survivor”. At first, I was like, “Nah, that would be too much.” But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.

Mainly for this reason – I could travel to someplace exotic and have someone foot the bill, get eliminated in the first round and come home. Even though I live off the grid with two wives, I don’t think I could handle the rigorous requirements of “Survivor”. I can eat some pretty strange stuff. But I am overweight and out-of-shape in a “big” way, if you know what I mean.

Still, I agreed to let her try to pitch me to the producers.

“You need to start preparing now,” she said. “Start getting in shape.”

So, in the mornings, I started hiking to the top of Cinder Mountain – the highest geological feature in Concho, AZ. I got to the top, panting and sweating a couple of times and then stopped. I don’t know why… Oh yeah, I went to the hospital for diabetes.

Which was another topic I brought up to her. I am a diabetic and insulin-dependent.

“Um, that might be a problem,” she said. “But let’s try anyway. This is the best chance that you will ever have to win a million dollars.”

Which is next to impossible. I know the odds. I play Powerball almost every week.

“And obviously, we will be pitching you based on the fact that you are a polygamist,” she added.

“What? You’re not doing it on the merit of my good looks?” I asked, crestfallen.

I never heard back from her in months, so I figured that it didn’t work out. But then I got a text message from my friend a few nights ago. She told me that she had just pitched me to the producers. The only thing to do was sit back and wait.

Yestderday, I got the results. I am officially… (drum roll)… NOT a candidate for “Survivor”. Apparently, CBS had a problem with the fact that I am a polygamist. They are a “family network”. So… having a flabby, gay man run around on a beach, naked, in the first season was okay. But they have a problem with a polygamist.

Temple asked, “What did they think you would be doing on the camera?”

One can only imagine. But this lifestyle, which one writer termed as “sacred loneliness”, apparently is too much for CBS.

Oh well.

I knew that there would be other opportunities. I only need to have the wisdom to know which is the right one. In response to this, my friend said, “You should have been much farther along by now.”

I told her that I understood that. But my reluctance had to do with people close to me disapproving of what I did. It took the wind out of my sails. It was disheartening that no one saw any value in what I was trying to do.

“Well, maybe you need to work out those issues before you go on,” she suggested.

“The only way I will be able to resolve that issue is to do another one,” I answered. “The maverick in me has to do another one to show them that I am my own person.”

One other thing that we discussed…

She said that she was surprised at how the Dawn Porter show turned out. It was much different than what she thought.

“We gave them enough to make a much more interesting, well-rounded show,” I told her. “It’s just that the other family was much more in line of what people think of as a polygamist family. In fact, I think the only reason that they included any of the interviews with my family was that the man in Centennial Park refused to go in front of the cameras. So they resorted to showing my interview.”

“The producers were looking for a standard family – white, J-Crew, well-adjusted, polygamist family,” she said. “They didn’t want anything too alternative. And let’s face it – you are alternative. You have a history of drug use in your past. The kind of music you listen to. You are waaaaay too alternative.”

So the fact that we are different is – at once – our greatest strength and our greatest detriment. That is funny.

We will see what is at the end of this path….

Next time, photos of the new baby…

Food Porn

So today is my last day in South Carolina. Tomorrow, I start the long drive home.

Admittedly, it is difficult to be away from home like this. But there is a part of me that enjoys it. One of my favorite TV shows is Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations”. Not only is he one cool mother, but his philosophy in regard to traveling matches mine. He immerses himself into the culture and is not afraid to sample local delicacies.

The thing I like about my job – I am able to stay in a place long enough to get to know a place.

Some construction workers find bliss in leaving their dollars in the garter belt of strippers. I leave by bills on the table of the waitress. Food is my solace.

The pizza and Italian food in Connecticut. The lobster in Massachusetts. The taco stands in Tucson with their Sonoran hot dogs. The buffets in Vegas. DiBella’s subs and Primanti Brothers in Pittsburgh. The greasy goodness of Southern cooking as exemplified in South Carolina’s Lizard’s Thicket.

And when we don’t eat out, we grill. Carne asada, jalapeños roasted on flames and burned fingers from flipping over tortillas by hand.

The pain of being separated from my family assuaged by the sizzling of meat…

Our Time in the South

THIS BLOG POST WAS WRITTEN BY MY BROTHER TONY ABOUT HIS TIME IN THE SOUTH (WHERE I AM CURRENTLY WORKING WITH HIM.)

The South is a place in America that is rich with history. Within the last seven months, I've had the privilege of working here, and have experienced/witnessed many different things. Above all my memories I'll take with me when I leave is the genuine and heart-felt greeting strangers give one another. I was raised to greet people--even in passing--but to find that when done in the Northeast, people draw back as they pass, cringing with the spoken pleasantry, and frowning as they pass.

I was told by a friend I met, that here, in the South, if one doesn't greet another, then something is wrong with that person.

The beauty of this place is yet another thing I will miss. I have finally found a locale where I'm not incapacitated with allergies. At home in the White Mountains of Arizona, I dread the juniper trees' bi-annual release of pollen. Under a microscope, the pollen has vicious-looking barbs, that within my lung tissue, viciously attach themselves, which leads to an eventual illness, fever, and leaves me just feeling miserable. I'm usually bed-ridden for a couple weeks.

I won't miss the Tiger Mosquitos, and their voracious and aggressive appetite. Or the chiggers. Insect repellent has become a common object among my personal effects.

Each morning I enjoy stopping outdoors, when throwing my trash and listening to the variety of birds that perch upon the branches of the oak, pine, magnolia, birch, willow. Everything is so green out here. Even the vines that reach towards these trees, and envelop the floor, is beautiful. There are squirrels here that have become accustomed to my morning walks to the dumpster and no longer feel threatened by my presence, as they forage for their breakfast.

I also won't miss the mustard barbeque sauce. It's too acidic for my taste, and I always regret having eaten it during the night waking with heartburn.

Easter Saturday (if there is such a day), I was driving back to the hotel after picking up my morning coffee from Circle K and I observed a bearded man with long hair pulling a cross on wheels. I've seen a similar character in the Phoenix valley before, but what struck me profoundly, is that as I passed, he passed a woman hired by Liberty Taxes, dressed in a greened-copper-colored gown, with a crown to match, who smiled from the sidewalk and waved at the passing vehicles, then turned to wave with equal excitement to the man with the roller-cross. I couldn't help but grin and shake my head as I turned onto Chris Drive.

Another thing I shall not miss are the smelly poultry trucks that pass each day--carrying stacks of cages filled with fryers headed towards their demise.

I will miss the cuisine. Southern cooking is within a league of their own. I love cooking vegetables in olive oil, and let them steam with their own moisture, but was thrilled to discover that Southerners cook theirs in pork fat, which lends to an explosion of flavor in every bite. I even was amused by the disclaimer Lizard's Thicket has on their tables--that the vegetables are cooked with animal products.

I'll miss Bojangle's. Some of the best and cheapest chicken I've had from fast-food, as well as the legendary french fries from Checker's. And I'll miss the mac 'n' cheese, that seems to be more of a staple here than grits. It's not like the Kraft variety--it's baked with egg, cheese, butter. The top is browned to a crust, and, wow. Comfort food that really gives one comfort.

I'll miss the balmy weather, and the occasional whiff from the sea. Seeing the Spanish moss hang from the trees in Charleston, and seeing the many historic structures there was a visual delight. I half expected seeing women in hoop-skirts emerging from those homes, with their umbrellas casually perched on their shoulders as we passed by. And the sand at Sullivan's Island--so fine that a gust of wind would stir it onto my lips.

I honestly hope that one day work brings me in this direction again. I'll miss all those with whom I've had the pleasure of meeting, and they will always have a fond place within my heart. If you ever get the opportunity to visit the South--do so. The Carolinas and Georgia are beautiful places to see, but even more,there is an abundance of beautiful places at which to eat.

New Baby

So, I had a baby boy born to Martha and I on Sunday, April 19, 2009. He was born at 12:10PM in Arizona, and weighed 10 lbs., 5 oz.

The only problem is that I was not there...

The ultrasound said the baby was due March 28th. But the midwife insisted that she was due April 12th.

And I am still working in South Carolina.

We had been waiting on a carpet delivery for the hotel project we are working on, and the first week of April was the Master's Open. So the hotel was sold out and wanted no work during the golf tournament.

What this means... I got laid off for the first week of April. So I took the chance that the baby could come during this time and flew home.

It was a nice visit, but it became evident that Martha had not dropped. So we both knew (from experience) that the baby wouldn't be coming soon.

The project in South Carolina is due to end at the end of April, and I have no work slated after that. So after much discussion, Martha and I decided that the family would be best served if I went back to South Carolina. So I flew back to Columbia.

Sunday morning, April 19, Temple called me. She asked me if I had spoken to Martha. I told her that Martha hadn't called me in a couple of days. Temple told me that the previous night, Martha's water had partially broke. She told me that it wouldn't be that long before the baby would come.

I was in disbelief. "What? Like in a couple of days?"

"No," Temple said. "Today."

A couple of hours later, Martha called me to say that she was starting to feel contractions come on.

I paced the hallways, waiting for the carpet to be installed. The frustration that I was not there, could not be there was beyond belief.

An hour or so later, Temple texted me - the baby was in the birth canal. I texted her back: Let me know.

An hour or so later, she texted back... a photo of a baby boy.

I am amazed. I have not seen him yet, beyond seeing his photo.

Martha is still resting at my mother's house, getting some rest. She is amazing.

Temple is at home, watching Martha's kids (alomg with her own). She is feeding them, helping them with their homework, doing the shopping for 10 other kids, running errands, etc. Temple is also amazing. This is what being a sisterwife is all about.

I can't wait until I go home.... (Next week, I think.)

.

Bad Economy... Good for Polygamists

Someone in one of the comments on my last post pointed out that Harry Reid should be worrying about other more important issues - like the economy, etc. Instead he flexes his congressional love-muscle to fret about the existence of polygamists.

Here is more from that article about David "Pendejo" Lujan at ASU:

"The bill soared through the House with bipartisan support but was blocked by former Rep. Eddie Farnsworth on the House Judiciary Committee, who Lujan said had a “difference in philosophy.”

"Farnsworth is no longer in the legislature, but now the budget crisis must be resolved before any representatives or state senators can introduce new bills."

First of all:

1. God bless Eddie Farnsworth! I would kiss you if I didn't have puke breath!
2. That sucks that he is gone.
3. Hurray for budget crisis! Lujan's pendejo bill will have to wait. :(

Creepy Creepy

Sorry about the lapse. I do repent…

Imagine that you are part of a minority group. Not that hard to imagine. Now imagine that there are certain bigots that are well-placed in government that have an agenda to wipe you and your minority group off the face of the planet – an ethnic cleansing, if you will.

From ASU Webdevil, dated 4/15/09:

http://www.asuwebdevil.com/node/5975

This article covered an anti-polygamy speech given by Arizona Representative David Lujan at ASU. He brought with him Flora “Tweaking Scarecrow” Jessop to vomit lies about the FLDS. (Now, I don’t know the FLDS that well, but even I have a hard time believing her tall tales. Holding babies heads under water to stop them from crying??? Give me a break! Even I know that is bullshit!)

Lujan obviously plans to continue his crusade against polygamists, but he also plans to take his battle to Arizona’s AG office:

“Lujan is the Arizona House of Representatives Minority Leader, and a possible contender for Attorney General in 2010. Additionally, he serves as the staff attorney for Defenders of Children, the first nonprofit organization to open an office in Colorado City“

I swear, if Lujan becomes AG in Arizona, I am moving. I am ashamed that we are both latinos. ¡La tuya, pendejo!

Even creepier… This article in US News yesterday:


http://www.usnews.com/blogs/washington-whispers/2009/4/16/harry-reid-pushes-for-anti-polygamy-task-force.html#

Harry Reid Pushes For Anti-Polygamy Task Force

By Paul Bedard, Washington Whispers


He's a Mormon convert and a Nevada lawyer, so nobody has to tell Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid that polygamy is illegal. But having multiple spouses continues, especially in splinter Mormon groups, and now he's planning to make it a federal case. Reid says he will push the attorney general to create a task force to stamp out the practice. The Department of Justice is expected to agree. "We have an obligation to help these women and children who are being victimized," Reid says..




No, Harry is not a crusader. Harry is not doing this because he is a Mormon. He is doing this from the goodness of his heart. Bless him. Now my children and I have something to fear in the dark of night.

So Harry Reid is going to “stamp out the practice? Riiiiiight. Harry, you sure have a hairy pair, doncha?? Brigham Young would be shaking his finger out you, naughty boy!

Pink Sneakers Pitch

For any of you polygs out there who want to tell your story on TV, Pink Sneakers asked me to get the word out. BTW, I can't do this, since I already did a show for TLC:

Hello Mr. Jessop!

It was wonderful speaking with you today. I really appreciate your kindness and willingness to help us out. As I said on the phone, the TLC producers are wondering if you may know of any current polygamists who would be inspired to share their story in hopes of getting their story out there to inspire a more respectful, true light on this matter. We would love to have you involved in the project, interacting with a friend who shares your same beliefs.


I personally have followed this subject for many years, and am hoping that the media call help dismantle the negative stereotypes by demystifying polygamy in a true, beautiful and honest manner. We are planning to do a very different take on this show. We want to give an observational, respectful portrait of those involved in polygamy. We will not have an interviewer; we want to give the subject free reign to show us anything they want, and voice their story in their terms. We want to advocate the importance of freedom of religion and the honor of all kinds of lifestyles.

In a month or so, TLC would send a crew to the participant's house for up to 4 days non-consecutively and document his daily life and story. Our biggest priority is to make sure this show would not negatively impact the participant in any way. Whatever the participant is most comfortable with, is most important to us.

If you have any ideas, feel free to call me at 407-464-2080 ext. 147, or email me at casting@pinksneakers.net. Thank you so much, Mr. Jessop, for your time!

Have a great weekend in South Carolina!

Sincerely Yours,

Kristine

KRISTINE LOREFICE
CASTING NBC, VH1, MTV, BRAVO, TLC
PINK SNEAKERS PRODUCTIONS
1000 COLOUR PLACE, APOPKA, FLORIDA 32703
P: 407.464.2080 ext. 147
WWW.PINKSNEAKERS.NET
WWW.TLC.COM

Aotearoa - Moroni in New Zealand, 2006

This is a blog post I wrote in 2006 about my trip to New Zealand:



I wrote a little about my trip to New York City last year. In like fashion, I am writing a bit about my trip to New Zealand. Like New York, I was able to see a side of New Zealand that is not “touristy”. My friend Wayne had invited me to New Zealand, because his wife is a Kiwi. In fact, she is Maori. (For those of you who think that New Zealand is either a Caribbean island or part of Australia, the Maori are the indigenous people of New Zealand.) As you will see, my New Zealand trip was less Lord of the Rings, than it was Whale Rider.

Wayne, my cousin Jonathan and I left Arizona on July 11th quite early in the morning. We reached Kingman, and from there I drove the rest of the way to Los Angeles while my traveling companions slept. By the time I reached LAX, I had already traveled 11 hours, I was hot, sweaty, and need of a shower, and I was very, very sleepy.

Qantas Airlines is an Australian airline, and our flight took off from Los Angeles for a 12 hour flight to Auckland, sharing our flight with 75 Jewish students on their way to the South Island to ski.

So imagine – already having driven 11 hours, hot, sweaty, sleepy – I now get to spend 12 hours on a plane. The first thing I discovered is the difference between domestic airlines and international airlines. International airlines cram as many seats as close together as possible to be able to squeeze as many people on the flight. Their pursuit for the almighty dollar results in a very uncomfortable seat so close to the seat in front of you that you can’t shift your feet. And it is worse when the person in front of you puts their seat back all the way. The claustrophobia is unimaginable. It is like being sealed in a coffin for 12 hours, except they serve a hot meal. There was no sleep for me. Thank God they had a good selection of entertainment. (I discovered Australian performers such as Bernard Fanning and the Living End in this manner.) I watched movies until my eyes dried up in their sockets.

We mostly made it through customs okay. I took several food gifts for the people I would be staying with. Ranch dressing apparently is something you can’t find Down Under, so I took several bottles of Hidden Valley Ranch, along with bottles of real salsa. The customs agents took several minutes reading the label on the ranch dressing, trying to determine if it was a verboten dairy product.

The first thing I noticed of Auckland was the weather. My Kiwi friends had been giving me harbingers of doom about the icy, cold New Zealand winters.

Before the trip, I had asked, “Does it snow in Auckland?”

“Na-ooo,” they had answered in their Kiwi accents.

I explained that I had spent an entire New England winter working outdoors with just a light jacket. They insisted I would need a parka.

When I got off the plane it was balmy and cool like a spring day. It was winter in Phoenix. It was so pleasant and green.

My first experience of New Zealand was the food. At 5:30 AM, we stopped by a bakery, and I had my first meat pie. Steak and cheese. In the States, we have chicken pot pies. Crap. Total crap compared to these New Zealand pies. The crust is fresh and flaky, and they are loaded with meat.

Immediately, we were whisked away to a water park called Parakai. I was so exhausted, but determined to beat the jet lag by staying up until bedtime. Diane – my friend’s wife – has a friend named Marilyn who was putting on a BBQ at a water park for the Young Women’s organization of the local LDS Church. So here we were – a bunch of middle-aged guys at a social function for teen girls. Awkward to say the least. The hot spring water was a balm for the exhaustion I was experiencing.

After this, we went to a beautiful beach called Murawai. It is a protected habitat for a bird called the ganett, a bird that migrates between New Zealand and Australia. Then we drove around Auckland to get to know the environs. I could have gone home that evening and seen enough to satisfy me. I was so tired that everything was a blur of driving on the wrong side of the road and an endless succession of roundabouts (or rotaries, where we come from).

We went home for the evening. We stayed in the home of Diane’s father, Samuel. He is a very gentle, old man of Samoan descent. We learned that Auckland is the largest Polynesian center in the world – a conglomeration of Maori and other Pacific Islanders.

The next morning I got my first experience of the Polynesian custom of eating. Samuel served a huge bowl of porridge for breakfast. That would have been enough. But then came the eggs, the bacon, the sausage, the toast, the spaghetti, the boil-up (Polynesian dish of pork and boiled cabbage), and the food will keep coming until you beg them to stop. On the surface this may seem paradise for a big guy like me. But soon my pants stopped fitting right.

We spent the day touring the Auckland Museum, which mainly displays artifacts of island culture. That evening, we had another Kiwi experience – the takeaway. (Or takeout in our vernacular.) Fish and chips. Not the frozen garbage we have in the States. This is fresh, top quality fish breaded and fried, served with a mess of chips (fries), generally wrapped in a newspaper and served with tom-AH-toe sauce. The most common meal I had in New Zealand.

The next day, Saturday, served the entire purpose of our visit. According to Maori custom, a year or so after the death of a loved-one, they purchase the gravestone. The family will gather in the cemetery, cover the new gravestone with a cloth, and then unveil it for the whole family. They call it an “Unveiling”, and it is just a big occasion as the funeral itself. This particular Unveiling was for Diane’s deceased mother.

We met on beautiful memorial grounds in Kelston, and the whole family gathered at the bottom of the hill where the grave was located. Then one of the granddaughters stood at the top of the hill, began shaking her hands to the air and shouting out the Maori song/ chant for welcoming the family.

“Kara nga!” she called. Welcome.

They unveiled the gravestone, complete with a photo of the deceased embedded on the stone. Everyone then said a few words over the grave directly to the deceased as if she were there. Most of it was spoken in Maori.

The banquet after the Unveiling was conducted at a local LDS chapel. The family – most of them not Mormon – were told that they could not smoke on the church grounds, but could smoke out on the curb. So when we pulled up, there were about 50 Maori smoking on the curb.

The meal was purely Polynesian. Roast pig (with the head still attached). Taro root. Boiled bananas. Kumara (sweet potato). Roast pumpkin. Deep fried potatoes. Chop suey. Raw fish in coconut milk and lemon. Curry chicken. It was so, so delicious. But I can see why Polynesians are so heavy, and why they have problems with diabetes. I was so stuffed I could barely walk.

Directly from there, we went to what the Maori call a “Twenty-first”, which is a little like the Mexican quincianera. When a Maori girl or boy turns 21, if they have shown themselves to be responsible, they are given a key to the home. They are given a huge party along with it.

This particular Twenty-first was for Diane’s cousin Adrian. It was held in a marae, or ceremonial Maori longhouse or meeting house. We were not allowed in until invited. Out back, we watched the men cook the hangi, or pig roasted in a pit with hot coals the traditional Polynesian fashion.

The traditional welcome call was sung again, and we entered the marae. We were greeted by a row of young Maori men doing the haka, or war chant. I have to say – I have never seen anything as masculine, as manly as Maori men doing the haka. They beat their chests with their fists. They slap their arms and knees. They roll their eyes. They stick their tongues out, and they shout at the top of their lungs:

Ka mate! Ka mate!
Ka ora! Ka ora!
Ka mate! Ka mate!
Ka ora! Ka ora!

It is death. It is death. It is life. It is life.



Then the feast began.

Keep in mind, I had just come from a feast. It was like Thanksgiving twice in the same day. Hangi. Abalone in curry sauce. Raw oysters. More raw fish. They had to cart me out of there.

The next Monday, along with Wayne, Diane, and their family, I traveled north of Island to the part of New Zealand they call “Northland”. Northland is very rural. Much of it is undeveloped and as rough and raw as when the Maori first came to this land. Whangerei, and up to the Bay of Islands where we toured Waitangi, where a treaty was signed between the Maori and Her Majesty’s representatives, establishing New Zealand as a Maori nation under British rule. We stayed the night at Kaikohe, where we spent the evening bathing in the hot springs at Ngawha and staring up at the Southern Cross, uninhibited by the glow of city lights.

Tuesday, July 18, we went to Motukiore, the ancestral lands of my friend Diane. We stopped by the local marae. I find this custom of the marae to be very compelling – a community center where the village may eat together, meet together, and even enough mattresses and blankets to throw on the floor that the whole village can sleep there. The marae represents the ancestors. We stopped to have a Milo (hot chocolate) with Diane’s Uncle Harry, a Maori elder. He is of the Ahipara tribe, and he complains that those Maori of the south part of the island have never been kind to the Ahipara. They used to come up, capture the Ahipara and eat them. It gives hangi a whole new meaning.

We drove to Cape Reinga, the northern most tip of New Zealand. From there, there is a fantastic view of the Pacific. Exactly 6500 miles from Los Angeles. We stayed a couple of nights with Cousin Willy in the town of Ahipara. He is a single school teacher in that town, a descent guy from the South Island. He put Jonathan and I up in his shed out in the back, just a hundred yards away from the beach. I could hear the surf out back. Our beds were basically two pallets with mattresses on them. It was actually a lot of fun.

While in Ahipara, we went to Ninety-mile Beach, and Jonathan actually went swimming in that cold water. I caught a cold there that lasted for the whole next week. We also looked at some shops where they sell crafts and furniture made from the ancient kaori trees that are buried under the forests of New Zealand. People have made a living digging them up, drying them out and making things out of it. They also dig up the gum from these trees.

On the way home, it seemed like every clerk at every dairy (Kiwi for convenience store) that we stopped at was a cousin of Diane’s. We crossed Hokianga Harbor by ferry, and we stopped by a very large kaori tree, the oldest and largest tree in New Zealand. We drove through quite a bit of what I would call jungle, but the Kiwis call it “bush”.

Back in Auckland, we visited with Diane’s cousin Karen, who is raising money for her blind and deaf brother-in-law to go back for a visit to the Cook Islands. This made the local paper while we were there.

Victor and Neta also invited us to there house for dinner. They are from the small Pacific island of Niue. There are only 1500 people on Niue, and they are all related to each other, descended from a Spanish sailor who shipwrecked there more than a century ago and intermarried with the natives. Although about 40,000 Niueans live in New Zealand. A hurricane swept through the island a few years ago and caused much destruction. The storm wiped about 300 people.

Victor introduced us to a beloved Kiwi tradition – rugby. They have their national team – the All Blacks. And then they have their minor league, which is just as popular. On this particular evening, the All Blacks played South Africa (and won). Before the game, the whole team did their traditional Maori haka for the opposing team. That gets the crowd wild.

On Monday, July 24, the American in our crew – Wayne, Jonathan and I – took a road trip. The rest of the family wanted to stay in Auckland. We drove south the Hamilton. There we visited the Mormon temple, and we stayed the night at a “motor camp”, which is basically a hotel where all you get is a room and a bed, and you have to share the bathroom with everyone else staying there. Hamilton is close to the farm where Hobbiton was located in the Lord of the Rings, so the terrain looked familiar.

The next day, we went to Rotorua, which is a resort community. This area is known for its immense geothermal activity – geysers, hot springs, boiling mud pits. As a result, there are many spas there. We went on a tour of a simulated Maori village called Te Piua, and then we enjoyed ourselves basking in the hot waters of the Polynesian Spa. We heard rumors of mud baths where everyone bathes in the nude. But damn it, I just couldn’t find it! J

We drove on to Lake Taupo, where we stayed the night with Diane’s cousin Yvonne, and her husband Dion. There house is decorated with many paintings and artifacts that have a Native American theme. Jonathan asked Dion, “Why do you have such an interest in Native American lore?”

“Let me show you,” answered Dion. He showed us a painting called Our People Are One, which illustrated the similarities between Native American culture and Maori culture. This was something quite compelling to Jonathan and I, as our Mormon culture teaches us that there is indeed a connection between the Islanders and the Native Americans.

I told Yvonne and Dion what Uncle Harry said about the tribes down south eating the Ahipara. They both laughed about that.

“The Ahipara was the last tribe to stop eating people,” he explained.

Wayne wound up getting sick, and we wound up staying in Taupo for two days. This wound up being the most enjoyable time for me. Dion showed us around his work. He works on Maori trust land, working a farm for there. He raises sheep. But mostly he raises red deer – for meat, but also for their antlers, which are considered aphrodisiac by the Korean and Chinese cultures.

From Taupo, we drove to Mount Manganui for a fantastic view of the Pacific. We stopped in Paeroa, where they bottle the soft drink L&P, “world famous in New Zealand”.

Our final weekend was spent with everyone making us farewell feasts – just in case we didn’t eat quite enough. Our last day, we went to the Avondale flea market where I bought gifts for my whole family, including the bone and jade Maori jewelry that is so well known here. I met a Maori man with the traditional moko – or tattoos – all over his face. “You’re Mexican, ay?” he asked. He was the only person to correctly identify my ethnicity while I was there. I expressed amazement at that.

“I’ve been around,” he smiled.

It was a sad thing indeed to fly home. It was such a moving visit. I will always be haunted by the beauty of New Zealand. But I will also always remember the hospitality and openness of the Maori people. I missed my family, but I will also miss New Zealand for the rest of my days.
There were two things that I wanted to see while in New Zealand – the kiwi bird and the weta (largest insect in the world). I saw both – in captivity.

Moroni in NYC - 2005

This is a blog post that I wrote in 2005 while I was re-modeling a hotel in Connecticut:

Melissa suggested that I make a writing practice of my trip to New York. So if it interests you, here it is. If it doesn't, utilize that delete key.

So I have been staying in Windsor, Connecticut, just 10 minutes north of Hartford, and a mere 3 hours out of New York City.

My previous New York experience consisted of JFK airport for two long layovers. I never saw the outside of the terminal. So for the 2 months I have been in Connecticut, I tried to devise some method of going to New York.

Something great happened a couple of weeks ago. I met up with Matt & Mary. For those of you who don't know,that is Matt M. Matt and I had been friends in junior high (in 1984), when we were the only two kids in our school who listened to hardcore punk - Black Flag and Dead Kennedys. Matt moved to Texas while we were in high school, and we kept in touch for several years. But I had not seen him in 12 years.

I was a little worried. After all, I had evolved from a little anarchist into a husband and a father, living a life of indolent, domesticated bliss. (Though leave it to me to turn the American dream and the Greco-Roman system of marriage into something purely anti-establishment in my utopian vision of rural living.)

The point is - Matt was always the quintessential post-modernist. He always knew everything about art and music and literature. Matt was always the one who turned me on to great art.

I was worried that the years would not be kind to us. Matt had met Mary and moved to Philly, and by all reports was as cosmopolitan as ever. And I was as rural Arizona hillbilly as I could be. Would we still hit it off?

Well, Matt and Mary came to Hartford, and we hit it off. I felt as if I had known Mary as long as I had known Matt. They are the perfect couple. And that comes from a man who has been married for 12 years. (17 years if you count Temple ;)

We spent a weekend looking for a restaurant all over Holyoke and Springfield, Mass. Matt & Mary have a thing about not eating at chain restaurants – a residual influence from our days when punk was not mainstream. But their sense of principle landed us in a dive that served some of the best Maine lobster I have ever had.

We had a great weekend and came up with a plan for meeting up in New York in two weeks.

So early Saturday morning, the owner of the hotel was kindly driving me from Hartford to New Haven. We had a pleasant visit, but he was flaming gay and the hetero-corner of my mind was wondering why he was so amiably volunteering to drive me to the train station outside Yale.

So I bought my ticket and was on my way. Of course, the area was well-populated from Bridgeport to New Rochelle. The first real hint that you are coming to the city are the high-rise apartments in the Bronx. Then you see Manhattan.

There are so many buildings that my mind refused to accept it. It was nothing like Phoenix. When I first came to Connecticut, I laughed when people referred to it as the country. Connecticut has, if not a metropolitan feel, certainly a suburban one. Definitely more than White Mountains of Arizona, where I have spent the last 10 years.

There were so many buildings that it could not be real. It was like a dream - buildings after buildings of all kinds of architectural styles piled on top of each other in insane layers - an incongruous mix of old and modern. It was like a cut-out from a Monty Python landscape, feverish, random.

I met Matt and Mary at Penn Station, and we walked to the Empire State Building to do the one tourist thing I did the whole time - go to the top. There were incredibly long lines, and I experienced a security guard being a little gruff with me.

Matt explained that people in New York can be a little rude. I told him that I disagreed. New York people are honest and direct. I would rather hang with someone from New York who is rude and says "Fuck" every other word than those of us from the West Coast who are kind and polite, but don't mean it.

From the Empire State Building, we walked 30 or so blocks to the East Village. On the way, we stopped by the Chelsea Hotel. Matt asked me if I knew the significance of it. I told him that I knew that it figured prominently in Leonard Cohen songs where someone "gave him head on a hotel bed". Matt gave me that grin and said it was the favorite place for rock stars to OD on heroin.

On the way to the Lower East Side, we stop and had some Thai food. That was one thing I loved about NYC. There are so many restaurants to choose from. Unlike Arizona. You can literally pick any type of food that you want. And it is all so good.

We went to an arthouse movie theater and went to see "Los Olvidados", a Mexican film from the 1950s directed by Luis Buñel. Matt asked me if I knew who Luis Buñel was. I told him, "Of course. Everybody has seen 'Un Chien Andalou'."

I said that knowing that most people in St Johns, Arizona probably have not.

Plus, the Pixies did that great song about it. "Girly so groovy".

The movie reminded me of the Italian Neo-realism movement, though it had some episodes of Buñel's weirdness.

Later, Matt and Mary were giving me a hard time about how many kids I have. I told them I was going to have at least one more and name him Jaibo, one of the characters in the movie.

We ate at a place in NoHo called Cafe Dante, an Italian pastry shop with photos of patrons like Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro on the wall. The cappuccino was some of the most bitter stuff I have ever had, even with gelatto in it. The pastry was so delicious it was sinful.

We stopped by a couple of record stores. Matt collects vinyl. He is into some of the weirdest shit you have ever seen. He says his favorite is Japanese psychedelic. I asked Mary if he was like that guy in Ghostworld, and she said that he was.

I found a used copy of Dead Can Dance "Spleen and Ideal" for 6 bucks. I hadn't owned that since I still listened to vinyl. Then I got a copy of Descendents "Milo Goes to College". This album has particular significance to me, because I was actually in a punk band in high school that covered one of the songs off this album. I have had fun listening to it. The crap they call punk today is not punk. I mean, how many bands today write lyrics like "Parents - why won't they shut up, parents - they're so fucked up." :)

After Matt spending $200 on vinyl, we started walking back to our hotel - the Gershwin, which is just a couple of blocks north of Washington Square. The Gershwin is a trendy little place established in the 1920s, and is a pop art haven, with original prints decorating everyroom.

After eating a great dinner at a BBQ place, we went back to the hotel and went to sleep. I had walked so much that I had blisters on my feet. On my job, I wear these worn out hiking boots. So the day before I went to NYC, I bought some new shoes. I should have left them at home and brought the damn hiking boots. :) Comfort is definitely better than fashion.

The next day, Matt & Mary asked me if I was up to walking 50 blocks to Midtown. I whined and asked if we could get there by some other means, so we took the subway and got there is 15 minutes.

We went to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMa). I am so grateful for that Art Appreciation class in college. :) The fact that I know who Henri Matisse and Jason Pollack were.

It was a pleasant reminder that I am not just some dumb Arizona rancher. That I am not just that guy who is a husband and father and chops wood and hauls water and drives down a dirt road to get home.

I am a guy that knows about modern art and can discuss it intelligently. I am a guy that can fit in in New York. I am a guy that can ask the clerk at the record shop about obscure electronica from the mid 1980s (Cabaret Voltaire) and have him know what I am talking about.

You see, sometimes I need a reminder that I am an okay guy, that I am actually an interesting person. Because when you are immersed in domestic tranquility you tend to forget that.

Anyone who knows me understands that I love my family beyond belief. But being in New York made me wonder what I would be like if my life had been a little bit different.

After the museum, we had the best pizza ever at John's Pizzeria, just off Time Square. It is in this old cathedral, and there is something almost machiavellian about eating pizza under a dome of stained glass. :)

We meandered back to Penn Station and waited for the train. Since we had a couple of hours to kill, we stopped by an Irish pub and I had my first Stella Artois since I had been in Belgium. It tasted almost sweet. But as with all Belgian beers, after a couple I was feeling slightly tipsy.

I slept the whole train ride and pulled into Windsor Locks at about 11PM.

I think that seeing New York this way really changed my outlook on the world and I don't think I will everlook at Phoenix the same again. :) The best thing was definitely Matt and Mary. It is great to have friends like them.

Moroni