GRAVE DIGGERS

Pinewood Coffin.

        “Throw down that heavy bar!” I yelled up to Elder Cameron. “I need something to break up this  rock.”

      Why would anyone choose to put a cemetery in this God forsaken spot? It was a rock quarry from Hades. We had been digging away since first light. Now it was mid afternoon and we were still at it. The late August sun had been beating down on us all day. Purgatory couldn’t be any hotter! “Doing service should have its limits,” I silently thought to myself.

Blazing sun beating down.

      “I think we are about seven feet deep!” I called up to Bruce. “Oops! I mean Elder Cameron.” Bruce and I had been good friends in High School and now we were missionary companions digging graves on the Navajo Reservation. The irony was overwhelming. Bruce had written me over a year ago, expounding on the discomforts of digging graves and getting stuck in the mud. And now here we were, tag team partners digging graves together in Crownpoint, New Mexico. With thousands of missionaries and hundreds of missions, what were the chances?

Grave digging with a shovel.

      The only way we could continue digging deeper was to scoop up the rock chips with a small shovel, then lift the heavy bucket filled with rubble above our heads and hopefully into the hands of a waiting companion. While holding the bucket up high I began to feel light headed, a bit dizzy. I think the heat and lack of water were getting to me. You might say, I was losing it!

Crownpoint Cemetery. New Mexico.

       “Why are WE doing the digging, rather than the funeral party’s relatives?” I asked myself. Oh, that’s right – “superstition.” Fortunately for the deceased’s family, they had recently accepted the gospel, but unfortunately for the missionaries they still clung to a few superstitions such as digging graves and touching dead bodies.

      Even now the two sister missionaries assigned to Crownpoint were in the basement of the small rock-walled hospital dressing the body of the deceased woman. No doubt she would look great for tomorrow’s funeral service at the LDS chapel.

Gravel side of a freshly dug grave.

      Several months earlier I personally witnessed superstitions concerning the dead. After completing the grave site formalities the wooden casket was slowly being lowered into the deep hole.  Holding the ends of two heavy ropes, four strong men (two on each side of the grave) used extreme caution, carefully balancing the coffin as they eased it slowly downward.

      Suddenly, without warning, the gravel sides of the hole gave way sending the casket crashing to the bottom, followed close behind by all four men who landed in a tangled heap on top of one another. This may sound a bit irreverent, but the scene that followed was total chaos. Tumbling into an open grave and landing on top of a pine coffin was the worst thing that could possibly happen. It was unthinkable, an experience nightmares are made of!

      In an effort to escape the men in the deep hole were frantically jumping about in a desperate attempt to reach the outstretched arms of those trying to help. Unfortunately the gravel sides continued to collapse sending some of the unsuspecting helpers into the abyss. The screams of those witnessing the event and the mad scramble that ensued was almost comical. As an outsider it reminded me of the old Keystone Cops silent movies. As we watched the chaotic scene unfold, my companion and I struggled to maintain a dignified composure. Eventually ropes were used to extract the funeral victims and with great joy the problem was finally resolved. I’m sure a local shaman was called to assist in the cleansing process. Ah, those hard to shake superstitions!

Looking up from deep in a grave.

      Now where was I? Oh yes, at the bottom of a deep grave, delirious with impending sun stroke. Elder Cameron and I finally finished up work at the cemetery, the Sisters did their part beautifully, and the funeral service the next day went off without a hitch.

Crownpoint, New Mexico.

      You wouldn’t think that being assigned to Crownpoint, only 30 miles south of Whiterock, would have been a big change – but it was. Crownpoint was the cultural center of the southeast corner of the Reservation. There was a Bureau of Indian Affairs office and a very old rock hospital with minimal services (probably built soon after the Long Walk); a road service center sporting a dump truck, loader and a couple of graders, and, of yes, I can’t forget the one gas station! Hallelujah, hallelujah! No more hauling of 50 gallon drums of gasoline.

Windstorm and lone stop sign in Crownpoint, New Mexico. 1965.

      To put things in perspective, the town’s streets were almost all dirt roads with a few exceptions found around government buildings and housing areas. We did have one stop sign right next to the official post office. Crownpoint did have a trading post, but unlike the one in Lake Valley, it served mainly as a community grocery and convenience store where one could find fresh fruit and vegetables, along with some hardware items. Directly across the road from our LDS Chapel was a handy dandy laundromat. Chances were, if you used it, your clothes would come out dirtier than when they went in, especially after a previous patron had just washed their grimy saddle blankets, etc.

Current Crownpoint Elementary School, NM, with the familiar yellow school buses.

      The most notable difference was the number of children. Everywhere you looked there were kids, and more kids. This small town enjoyed the luxury of a public elementary school to which kids were bussed a considerable distance from the nearby communities of Burrego Pass, Dalton Pass, and Coyote Canyon. The town also had Government Boarding schools for both Elementary and Junior High students living away from home. The town’s population of about 200 adults was made up primarily of Native Americans, most of whom worked at the schools or for other services provided by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. 

Crowpoint LDS Chapel. 1965.

      One of the biggest changes was having our own chapel with a cultural hall and basketball hoops. For the Elders this was big deal! Even better, we had LDS adults who ran the Branch and took charge of church meetings. In addition to proselyting, the Elders and Sisters worked in support positions in the Branch, mostly teaching and conducting activities for the youth. Working with the youth was one of the most enjoyable parts of my mission!

Elder Rogers' Primary class with a bobcat skin. LDS Chapel, Crownpoint, NM. 1965.

      Elder Cameron and I lived in an old trailer next to the chapel. Wow! Indoor plumbing and electricity. How had I lived without these? From time to time, though, I missed the charms of the simple, rustic life I had led in the wilds of Whiterock. It was hard to beat the hot artesian shower.

Current view of the Elders' home in old abandoned trading post in Whiterock, NM. 2012.

      The Sister missionaries lived in a much nicer trailer close to the government housing area. Since there were no restaurants in town it was wonderful to have two Polynesian Sisters who loved to surprise us with tasty, mouth-watering “Island cuisine.” Not that they didn’t owe us big time for all the occasions when we dug their van out of the mud. They seemed to have a knack for finding the worst spots to get stuck! But, all in all, I was looking forward to the new experiences Crownpoint held in store. 

Elder Rogers digging the Sister Missionaries' van out of the mud. 1965.

SNEAK PREVIEW: THE BISHOP’S DOG

        As a youngster I had plugged a few hairy mutts with my Daisy Red Rider. They had been out roaming the neighborhood, up to no good, squatting and lifting their hind legs, then laughing as they worked their way down the street looking for the next nicely kept yard. So, I felt no guilt using my BB gun to encourage them on their way. After being stung they would turn, look back smugly with a dog-lipped smirk as if to say, “Ha. That didn’t hurt a bit!”     
       

        Years later I was a little surprised at how the “Bishop’s Dog” events unfolded. Our small rental home sat adjacent to our bishop’s nice but modest home. No fences, no problem, so I thought. At the time our city had not invested in deluxe plastic garbage containers. So we fared the best we could with the old aluminum trash cans, much to the delight of the local canine population. Our two young kids, Chaunine and Mike still in diapers, were pooping up a storm. By garbage day the aluminum cans out back were filled to the brim with disposables and their ghastly contents.

Classic old metal garbage can.

        One morning while getting ready for work, I spotted white objects scattered over our back yard. On closer investigation I found one of our aluminum trash cans turned over and gross garbage spread across the entire back lawn. The beast that had done this had really enjoyed himself. Each stinking diaper had been ripped open leaving its soggy remains everywhere. What a mess! Picking up the foul crap made my insides boil. I swore this would not happen again! But it did.

        We tightened the lids and even weigh them down with cement blocks. Weeks went by with no problem, but then – surprise, surprise. The phantom mutt had taken up the challenge. The disgusting mess was back, worse than ever. This needed to come to an abrupt halt. A good sting in the butt might just discourage the perpetrator. I went shopping for a BB gun. A handsome Daisy pistol caught my eye. A plan was taking shape. I removed the screen from the bathroom window above the tub. From that vantage point I could survey the entire back yard. Locked and loaded, I placed the BB pistol behind the curtain on the window sill. I was ready for action. Of course nothing happened. The creature must have been on to me.

        Weeks went by and then, early one morning while shaving, I heard the garbage can fall over. The beast was back. As quietly as possible I crept to the tub, straddled it, and picked up the pistol. In the dim light of early morning, there it was, caught in the act of ripping. Suddenly it stopped, lifted its head and began sniffing the air. Finding my scent it turned towards me and for the briefest moment our eyes met. Then it was off, sprinting across the yard, making its getaway. “Not this time,” I thought. With BB pistol in hand, sights lined up, the barrel followed the bounding intruder. Ping! The shot was off. 

        “YEOWWW!” The dog released a painful howl and leaped high, pawing at the air. Then in a flash it was gone, scrambling around the corner. Mission accomplished! Maybe our yard would no longer be on its hit list.

        That evening I was relaxing comfortably in my easy chair when my wife returned from Relief Society in tears. “Someone shot the Bishop’s dog! They think it might be paralyzed,” she cried with concern. “Who would do a thing like that!” Needless to say I lovingly consoled her and then ditched the incriminating evidence. 

        Time passed and the Bishop’s dog miraculously recovered from what turned out to be a minor flesh wound. And to our joy our garbage can was never molested again. But from that point on each time I met with the Bishop he would pause during our conversation and look deep into my eyes with his penetrating gaze. I had to wonder, “Does he know? Does he really know who shot his dog? Is he expecting me to ‘fess up?” Not a chance! After all, it was HIS dog that had terrorized the neighborhood.

Victory!