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©2006 Sage Sweetwater. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published ed by AuthorHouse 5/30/2006
ISBN: 1-4259-2633-9(sc)
Printed in the United States of America
Bloomington, Indiana
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
“I would like to take you on a picnic this afternoon in the
jujube grove,” Mercedes says. “Are you feeling up to it?”
“Can I carry this beautiful basket?” Sister Pish asks, her
mind calm and operating normally.
“Yes, carry it to your heart, for that is where it came from
— from my heart,” Mercedes answers.
Mercedes spreads out a red-and-black checkered blanket
and they sit down in the shade under the jujubes. “As clear
From The Convent To The Rawhide
63
and as refreshing as the Provo at Sundance running over the
rocks,” Sister Pish comments when Mercedes pours the sun
tea over the ice cubes. The Provo River is one of the most
beautiful rivers in the Western United States, good for
year round fishing, well-stocked with brown trout.
“I always like to stop and fish the Provo on my way to
Temple Square in Salt Lake,” Sister Pish says.
“Who taught you how to fish, Sister Pish?” Mercedes
asks.
“My beloved Daddy Pish. His grandparents, Papa and
Granny Pish came here with the first party on the Mormon
Trail with Brigham Young in 1847. Papa and Granny were
just tiny babies coming with their folks in wagons,” Sister
Pish tells.
“Did they settle this convent land?” Mercedes asks.
“Yes, Sister Cade, they made babies of their own on these
acres. Remember this: Bloom where you are planted. When
the Lord called all of my family home, I planted this jujube
orchard because I knew God would provide the time to let the
trees make fruit for others to enjoy someday, and here we are,”
Sister Pish remembers, but that is the strange thing about
Alzheimer’s coming and going. The chances of developing
Alzheimer’s increases with age, and its frequency doubles
every five years after age sixty-five.
What a picnic! A hot-air balloonist parks her wicker
basket. She bends her knees slightly to avoid breaking them
when she sets the balloon down. “I’m asking to tether my
balloon. Unfavorable winds at five hundred feet forced me
down,” the woman explains.
“At ease in Zion,” Sister Pish says. “Will it tear up the
Lord’s divots of grass?”
“Mercy, no! God has dropped out of the sky to assist
me in his pasture,” the woman replies, not knowing she has
landed on convent property. “The Fisher pen was taken to the
moon. It met NASA’s and God’s requirement, a gravity-free-
Sage Sweetwater
64
flowing instrument for writing in outer space,” the woman
says, seemingly like she is offering this omnipotent ball-point
pen for deposit that can write upside down in the sky, over
grease, and underwater, or it is so almighty that she is going
to use it as a stake to tether the balloon. Having learned over
time to travel with this cavalier attitude, she is carefree and
gay, the blithe spirit of a balloon pilot.
It isn’t long before the chase crew arrives, communicating
with her by radio. Balloons fly best very early in the morning
when there is no wind and the temperature is cool. Wind
means everything to a balloonist. Updrafts, downdrafts, and
wind direction determines where the balloon will go. For that
reason, the ground crew takes it down. Pushing the air out of
the balloon and rolling the fabric into a bag is no easy feat.
The balloon basket and the picnic basket are emptied and
packed up. At ease in Zion — until Sister Pish walks over to the
chase truck loaded with the balloon basket and asks if she can
carry the beautiful wicker basket. The jujubes weep….
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