When I review the performance of this people ... I am appalled and
frightened ... We are a warlike people, easily distracted from our
assignment of preparing for the coming of the Lord. When enemies rise up,
we commit vast resources to the fabrication of gods of stone and steel --
ships, planes, missiles, fortifications -- and depend on them for protection
and deliverance. When threatened, we become anti-enemy instead of pro-kingdom
of God; we train a man in the art of war and call him a patriot, thus, in
the manner of Satan's counterfeit of true patriotism, perverting the
Savior's teaching: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you ...." Spencer W. Kimball, June 1976 Ensign
1
It was late and everyone was asleep now as I headed down the hill on the way into Las Vegas and once again noticed the Henderson onramp. It had been 36 years in April since I stood there holding my “LA” sign that Sunday evening. Earlier that morning Barbara had dropped me off at the 9th South onramp in Salt Lake with my old army combat jacket, a copy of Pound’s
ABC of Reading and a grocery bag with avocado sandwiches in it. Before she got out of sight a 1967 Porsche pulled up and opened the door. He was going all the way to Los Angeles, and we talked as he drove.
I had never in my life driven so fast in a car. No seat belts in those days either. We averaged at least 100 mph, sometimes hitting 120. After a while it kind of seemed normal to go that fast. Somewhere around Beaver Mario Andretti pulled into the pits and treated me to lunch. The avocado sandwiches stayed in the car. So did Ezra Pound.
It was between Glendale and Las Vegas that the engine started knocking and within a minute the car died at the side of the road. He apparently had no clue about fixing or even maintaining cars; just driving them. He kept trying to re-start it as though he were a trauma physician in some futile but necessary emergency room drama. A waste of energy. I got busy up on the road and put my thumb out. Soon an El Camino pulled over with two girls and two guys, foul and trashy and full of hormones, stuffed into the cab. They were nice enough, though, and agreed to let two dilettante mechanics ride in the truck bed back to Glendale for a quart of oil.
Fat chance that would do it. And it didn’t. Mario cranked and cranked until the battery was gone. So a tow behind the El Camino was arranged. All the way to the Porsche dealership my new friend wondered aloud what those kids would think if they knew the hippy they were hauling was really a returned Mormon missionary who was still a believer. Funny. I no more felt “hippy” in those days than I feel “old” now. But a believer? Absolutely.
That was how I arrived at the onramp near Henderson four hours later as the sun was just going over the hills. It was getting dark, and just a little spooky out there in the desert all alone. Ever hopeful, I waved my “LA” sign at each car until I heard a horn sound behind me, then a guy yelling, “Do you want a ride or not?”
It was the nicest car I had ridden in all day. Or maybe in my whole life. Our own car was a junker, so it was out of the “nice car” competition. But if Mr. Race Driver’s Porsche was hot, then this brand new Cadillac El Dorado was cool, very cool. The driver was a big guy, black and handsome and musical. The girl was a perfect fit for both car and driver: eye-poppingly beautiful and all legs and cleavage for a weekend of casinos and shows. They sang to me most of the way home, and even fed me ice cream in Baker. He told me his name was Tom as he let me off around midnight at Peck Road, with a humorless warning about never referring to anyone as Uncle Tom. I hiked up Peck Road with my bag of avocado sandwiches and Ezra Pound.
Mom was pretty happy to see me, midnight and all. I think she was surprised by the beard, but said nothing. I have no recollection of seeing Pop the next morning, but I sat with my mother for some time and explained to her my feelings about the Vietnam war and about serving in combat.
