Our influence is surely felt in our respective families.

Sometimes we fathers forget that once we, too, were boys,

and boys at times can be vexing to parents. I recall

how much, as a youngster, I liked dogs. One day I took

my wagon and placed a wooden orange crate in it and went

looking for dogs. At that time dogs were everywhere to be

found: at school,walking along the sidewalks, or exploring

vacant lots, of which there were many. As I would find a

dog and capture it, I placed it in the crate, took

it home, locked it in the coal shed, and turned the latch

on the door. That day I think I brought home six dogs of

varying sizes and made them my prisoners after this

fashion. I had no idea what I would do with all

those dogs, so I didn't reveal my deed to anyone.

Dad came home from work and, as was his custom,

took the coal bucket and went to the coal shed

to fill it. Can you imagine his shock and utter

consternation as he opened the door and immediately

faced six dogs, all attempting to escape at once?

As I recall, Dad flushed a little bit, and then

he calmed down and quietly told me, "Tommy, coal

sheds are for coal. Other people's dogs rightfully

belong to them." By observing him, I learned a

lesson in patience and calmness. It is a good

thing I did, for a similar event occurred in my life

with our youngest son, Clark. Clark has always liked

animals, birds, reptiles - anything that is alive.

Sometimes that resulted in a little chaos in our home.

One day in his boyhood he came home from Provo Canyon

with a water snake, which he named Herman. Right off

the bat Herman got lost. Sister Monson found him in

the silverware drawer. Water snakes have a way of

being where you least expect them. Well, Clark moved

Herman to the bathtub, put a plug in the drain,

put a little water in, and had a sign taped to the back

of the tub which read, "Don't use this tub. It belongs

to Herman." So we had to use the other bathroom while

Herman occupied that sequestered place. But then one

day, to our amazement, Herman disappeared. His name should

have been Houdini. He was gone! So the next day

Sister Monson cleaned up the tub and prepared it for normal use.

Several days went by. One evening I decided it was time to take

a leisurely bath; so I filled the tub with a lot of warm water,

and then I peacefully lay down in the tub for a few moments of

relaxation. I was lying there just pondering, when the soapy

water reached the level of the overflow drain and began to flow

through it. Can you imagine my surprise when, with my eyes

focused on that drain, Herman came swimming out, right for my

face? I yelled out to my wife, "Frances! Here comes Herman!"

Well, Herman was captured again, put in a foolproof box, and

we made a little excursion to Vivian Park in Provo Canyon and

there released Herman into the beautiful waters of the South

Fork Creek. Herman was never again to be seen by us.

-Thomas S. Monson

Grandma's at War, Thomas S. Monson

There are many ways in which we can misuse our opportunities. Some time ago I read a tender story written by Louise Dickinson Rich which vividly illustrates this truth. She wrote:

“My grandmother had an enemy named Mrs. Wilcox. Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox moved, as brides, into next-door houses on the main street of the tiny town in which they were to live out their lives. I don’t know what started the war between them—and I don’t think that by the time I came along, over thirty years later, they remembered themselves what started it. This was no polite sparring match; this was total war. …

“Nothing in town escaped repercussion. The 300-year-old church, which had lived through the Revolution, the Civil War, and the Spanish War, almost went down when Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox fought the Battle of the Ladies’ Aid. Grandma won that engagement, but it was a hollow victory. Mrs. Wilcox, since she couldn’t be president, resigned [from the Aid] in a huff. What’s the fun of running a thing if you can’t force your enemy to eat crow? Mrs. Wilcox won the Battle of the Public Library, getting her niece, Gertrude, appointed librarian instead of Aunt Phyllis. The day Gertrude took over was the day Grandma stopped reading library books. They became ‘filthy germy things’ overnight. The Battle of the High School was a draw. The principal got a better job and left before Mrs. Wilcox succeeded in having him ousted or Grandma in having him given life tenure of office.

“When as children we visited my grandmother, part of the fun was making faces at Mrs. Wilcox’s grandchildren. One banner day we put a snake into the Wilcox rain barrel. My grandmother made token protests, but we sensed tacit sympathy.

“Don’t think for a minute that this was a one-sided campaign. Mrs. Wilcox had grandchildren, too. Grandma didn’t get off scot free. Never a windy washday went by that the clothesline didn’t mysteriously break, with the clothes falling in the dirt.

“I don’t know how Grandma could have borne her troubles so long if it hadn’t been for the household page of her daily Boston newspaper. This household page was a wonderful institution. Besides the usual cooking hints and cleaning advice, it had a department composed of letters from readers to each other. The idea was that if you had a problem—or even only some steam to blow off—you wrote a letter to the paper, signing some fancy name like Arbutus. That was Grandma’s pen name. Then some of the other ladies who had the same problem wrote back and told you what they had done about it, signing themselves One Who Knows or Xanthippe or whatever. Very often, the problem disposed of, you kept on for years writing to each other through the column of the paper, telling each other about your children and your canning and your new dining-room suite. That’s what happened to Grandma. She and a woman called Sea Gull corresponded for a quarter of a century. Sea Gull was Grandma’s true friend.

“When I was about sixteen, Mrs. Wilcox died. In a small town, no matter how much you have hated your next-door neighbor, it is only common decency to run over and see what practical service you can do the bereaved. Grandma, neat in a percale apron to show that she meant what she said about being put to work, crossed the lawn to the Wilcox house, where the Wilcox daughters set her to cleaning the already-immaculate front parlor for the funeral. And there on the parlor table in the place of honor was a huge scrapbook; and in the scrapbook, pasted neatly in parallel columns were Grandma’s letters to Sea Gull over the years and Sea Gull’s letters to her. Though neither woman had known it, Grandma’s worst enemy had been her best friend. That was the only time I remember seeing my grandmother cry. I didn’t know then exactly what she was crying about, but I do now. She was crying for all the wasted years which could never be salvaged.”