Life History of Ralph Julius Lauper
Missionary Memories
In the course of a normal mission experience there occurs many events that range from extra high to rock bottom. Then there always seems to be a few real "horror stories", that deserve to be told. I now share a sample of mine.
#1 --I was in Eastern Tennessee, traveling with the District President Thad Yost. We were invited out to dinner one night at the home of a good LDS family. Yost knew that I hated buttermilk. It would, in fact, cause me to nearly throw up if I drank it. When the dear sister produced a large pitcher of buttermilk Yost went into his act.
"Oh good! Buttermilk! Elder Lauper just loves buttermilk!" The next thirty minutes were just a nightmare to me. I drank the glass to the bottom, but he wouldn't let up, shouting gleefully, "See, I told you so". I protested mildly that I wasn't really thirsty and things like that but given my refusal to offend the sweet woman's desire to please, coupled with Yost's constant urgings, my glass was replenished three or four times.
I was by then ill, but in my drugged state I observed the large bowl of black-eyed peas and that Elder Yost had thus far avoided them like the plague. I also recalled how he had previously acknowledged to me that his aversion to them was at least as strong as was mine to buttermilk. The opportunity was mine and I seized it. The situation was exactly reversed and I played it to the hilt. Revenge was oh, so sweet! It was just-retribution time.
We returned to our room that night, pounds and gallons heavier in both the buttermilk and black-eyed peas departments, our indisposition extended into the next day. Yost never tried such foolishness with me again.
#2 --In Denmark my companion Elder G. Max Larson and I were energetic and in our tracting constantly devised ways to gain entry into homes where we could teach the gospel. One day in Copenhagen our knock was answered by a beautiful and well dressed young woman, who after some conversation asked us to come back that evening to show slides about Utah and the Mormons. As we entered that flat at 7 pm it was abundantly clear to both of us that we were in a house of ill-repute, in the company of not one but rather six beautiful, properly dressed, "Ladies of the Night." All were in their early twenties; the "Madam" appeared to be only about five years older. Other than the bold looks of appraisal and a few very sly innuendos those beautiful girls kept things pretty much on the up and up. But we knew exactly where we were; we exchanged knowing glances and forged ahead.
The girls were very taken by and expressed great appreciation for the slide presentation, as well as the thorough treatment we gave to the mission of the Savior and the need for repentance. They even asked more than a few sensible questions on the subject. When all was over they furnished sumptuous treats and thanked us all around. As we left we might even have gone feeling that we had accomplished something, had it not been for the fact that a couple of the brazen little hussies wondered out loud that we ought to stay awhile longer and if they could possibly do something for us, they would be more than happy to do so. Repentance, which they had all so recently espoused, had actually survived about one hour. The evening, like many others, was wasted because of a bad case of deaf ears. I later worked with prostitutes several times, but never was effective in causing a single one of them to change her life. Perhaps some did later, but not then.
#3 -- Saints the world over are known to be anxiously willing to do almost anything for the Elders, even to the point of sacrificing their own comfort and means. Let me cite an example to prove that hospitality reaches its highest levels in the south. My companion and I were visiting members in sparsely settled back-country, about 50 miles out of Knoxville, Tennessee, where elders seldom went because of the primitive conditions known to prevail in such areas. No lights except coal-oil lamps, no heat, outside plumbing, no glass in the windows, water from the creek or from a pump well for the fortunate few. Almost everything was sub-par except love for the Lord's servants.
We were headed for the two room shack which housed the large Allen family and where we knew we must somehow survive the night, simply because that's the way things were down south. You just didn't say no. Our last near-mile approach to the house was over a straight, open stretch of narrow, dirt road leading directly to it.
I knew our approach had been detected when, from a very long distance away I saw a kid of about 8 years of age come out of the house and begin chasing an old hen all around the yard. He ran the bird down in short order and disappeared with it behind the house. Within a few minutes we arrived and the chicken was being fried in a skillet over a hot wooden stove. It was smothered with pork lard. Less than a half hour after I saw the kid come out of the house to chase the chicken, we were seated at the table and eating it. We also had corn bread, corn gravy and corn on the cob.
My problems with the chicken were several. It was old, tough and slickly under-done. It also still had its body heat. The most revolting thing to me probably was the head and feet. They were fried, along with the rest of the bird and were there, on the platter with the eyes looking, and the toenails pointed at me.
From that point on things went from bad to worse and downhill all the way. It was an embarrassment to me to find myself, along with my companion, in the only bedroom in the house, and in the only bed. The parents slept on a woeful-looking mattress on the kitchen floor. The kids, lots of them, were piled, three deep in all available space on some poor-excuse mattress pads, one kid even drug his under the bed and slept there.
With the morning came more problems, the lady had made more gravy and threw in some left-over chicken. So there were the two eyes glaring at me, the beak was open and the tongue hanging out. Its scaly feet still sported long, unclipped toenails. I was mostly pushing the food around on my plate with spoon in hand when the dog spooked the rooster right outside the window. With a squawk and loud flapping of wings the noble bird took off, flew through the open window, circled the kitchen once and landed with its feet in the middle of the gravy serving bowl. In one motion Sister Allen grabbed the creature around the neck with one hand, wrapped the fist of her other hand around each leg in turn, swiping the gravy off the legs and feet, and threw the startled screaming bird back out through the window.
By now I was feverish. Events of the previous night and morning, plus a head to-head battle with bed bugs, had left me parched. It had been a search and destroy mission at least half the night, armed with only a penlight to find and two fingers to squeeze them. Their odor itself is enough to kill. Water was never served. I had to have some before we left or I would never make it out alive.
My only chance of survival lay in the water barrel out in the yard and I knew it. I also knew that the barrel was not covered, the water was hot enough there in the boiling sun to cook an egg. Moss, algae and bugs abounded in it. I also recognized that the only way to get a drink at all was by using the long handled, rusty water ladle hanging there. It was used by all the family and never was it washed. Finally, I knew about Grandpa Charlie. He represented the final hurdle in my quest for life. Grandpa chewed tobacco and it oozed constantly from the corners of his mouth and down through his yellow stained beard. He also drank from the ladle. At long last I decided, "No matter about all of these things, I must drink or die. Besides, I will use my left hand instead of my right, that will present the other side of the cup to my lips. In addition I will put my mouth up as close to the handle as possible."
I had the ladle to my mouth ready to drink when Gramps came by and cackled "By crackie Elder, you are left handed just like I am! --besides you like to drink right up close to the handle like me!"
I drank, knowing as I did so that my place in history alongside the great ones who faced impossible odds was secure, such as Lindbergh, Byrd and Columbus. I had visited the Aliens.
#4 --Bert Jones and his wife lived in a sparsely settled area northeast of Chattanooga, there he had chopped some acreage out of the woods, built a small house and grew tobacco and sorghum. Their nearest neighbor was over five miles away, through the woods.
Although they were believers, they were never visited by the Elders. They, in fact, made only three or four trips by wagon into town each year, to haul the crops to market. Early missionaries had baptized them but the nearest organized branch was a full 100 miles away (much farther to negotiate by wagon than it would be by the standards of today.) Still they had hung on and accepted every single principle of the gospel without reservation.
The Church was taking a census in 1940. We wet out to count the Jones couple. Others we had visited were almost as isolated. It was frontier time for us. The day was hot. We had been out three days without a bath. I can only imagine how we looked and smelled. Even the skunks avoided us. About an hour before we reached our destination, we came upon a stream of cool running water. With hardly a word, we stripped off our clothes and it was last one in is a something or other time. We always carried soap and extra shirt and underclothes in our stick-grips and felt much, much better as we retrieved our suits, which we had slung over low hanging branches beside the creek.
The Jones couple were delighted to see us. Bert proudly showed us over every inch of the farm and the out-buildings, after which Sister Jones provided a very fine supper. We talked several hours and retired for the night in their neat bedroom and in their freshly made bed.
It was a terrible night! Our suits had become infested by chiggers, as we, in our eagerness to bathe, had carelessly hung them on the trees. A "chigger" is an insidious mite which seems more or less native to the southern states. It thrives anywhere and is so tiny as to be almost invisible to the naked eye. It is also so venomous that, were it as large as a common fly, I am confident it would kill a person instantly. These lice attack by burrowing under the skin, from whence they travel along a distance of a half inch or so, either straight, zigzag or in turns. Red welts soon appear, accompanied by extreme itching and soreness. Wholesale invasion invariably results in fever and illness.
We were invaded! Our bodies were criss-crossed with welts. Our temperatures rose to the fever level. We constantly ran outside to throw up. We were sick, sick, sick!' To further complicate matters, Bert's two hound dogs decided to go "coon" hunting. They came across a skunk instead, lost the battle and came howling home to park their reeking bodies outside the window. That, alone, would be enough to make one ill. We went home to Marysville that day and spent most of the next two, either in bed or in the bathtub filled with hot water, generously laced alternately with Epsom Salts, vinegar and baking soda or three of them together! We recovered.
#5 - Jimmie was a precocious 5 years old. He lived with his 20 year old unwed mother Fern, in the home of her parents in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, on the Atlantic Coast, south of Norfolk, VA. My companion and I stayed in an upstairs room at the same residence. I stayed two months and moved, Jimmie was the cause of my going. That kid was ever so bright and winsome. In short order he adopted me as the father-figure he wanted and desperately needed. Fern was an ice girl who was also given to talk, talk, talk.
Jimmie wouldn't leave me alone. He was in our room constantly and allover me. She also came much too often. They were both incessant with demands for attention. I had a family and I wasn't even married. Jimmie was, by far, the worst of the two. I was without any time to myself. No matter how early I arose, or stayed up at night to study, the small, barefoot lad in overalls would be standing before me with a question. The room was without a lock!
One day we came to our room badly in need of peace and quiet. Jimmie got off to a fast start; I could neither shut him up nor slow him down. I warned him repeatedly--it didn't work. Action was needed and I took it. I can still see that kid hanging by his suspenders from a hook out in the hall. I can still hear his screams as he was rescued by his mother who gently chided me with, "Oh Brother Lauper, I wish you wouldn't do that to Jimmie!" We moved that week!