My Life in 21,000 words or less

It's funny how life sort of takes odd turns. There you are, metaphorically walking down some shady lane, thinking, "this is pretty good--I could deal with for a while," and then <KAPLOOOIE> the shady lane become a roaring highway and you, my friend, are the roadkill du jour. Things never quite turn out the way you planned them.

Take me for instance. Please. Take me somewhere--especially if you have Hawaii in mind, or maybe a walking tour in Yorkshire. (I promise to bring lots of blister ointment!) Because there are things in my life I'm certain I did not sign up for.

For instance, I'm reasonably certain that when the buyer's form which detailed my life was brought to me in the pre-existence, I did not read a sub-paragraph about living in the desert for the rest of my mortal experience. I would have definitely stricken that bit out and initialed very neatly my having done so, just like my business law teacher taught us to do in high school. And I would have done so because I am not really adapted to desert living. I am, in fact, a vary pale person. So pale as to be ethnically impossible. If there is a race of glow-in-the-dark cave people, science hasn't found them yet--but if they do, I will become a footnote in the monograph written shortly after their discovery. I'll be cited as the link between the "glowies", as they will be called in the popular press, and the rest of humanity. So, no, desert living is not optional for me. (I get sunburns from sitting too close to North-facing windows in July, for Pete's sake!) I had planned to live in a slightly shadier clime--London or Colossal Caverns, for example. Some place where my shadow would be a semi-occasional visitor. But here I am, living in the very sweaty armpit of the American Southwest, and anticipating the inevitable skin cancer for the sake of my family, immediate and extended.

But the thing that really blows my mind--or at least makes me consider the whole "life is funny" thing--is the fact that I am the de facto roadshow writer for my ward. (This is almost as hilarious as the previous casting of me as branch/ward/ all-purpose pianist--all too funny for those in the congregation, not at all for me. ) I am not a writer through any effort or training of my own. (If, though, the ward had perennial need of a costume designer, well then, I'd consider myself to be first on the list of people to call. That was what I intended to do all along--or at least the along part after high school graduation and before marriage.) Me playing the role of writer gets me all kerfuffled.

Here's what I think happened: genetics--or at least the LDS concept of adaptive genetics. Allow me to boil it down for you who may be new to or hazy on the idea.

Let's say a woman, call her Sister Suzy, has a mother who is known for her amazing funeral potatoes. It then stands to reason that Suzy will always be assumed to make amazing funeral fare, even if the poor woman cannot create a stable dish of jello without extensive coaching. Cheesy funeral potatoes are in her genealogy; they are her eternal destiny. And if several generations of her family are known for the impossible cheesiness of their potato casserole, then plead though she may, no one will ask her to do anything else. Ever.

My apparent destiny comes courtesy of my grandma. The woman is incredible. Whoever said Mormon women are oppressed never met a Merkley, and certainly never conversed with my grandma. She tells whomever whatever needs to be said, gently and sweetly of course, but never with a hint of submissiveness. Don't try to tell her you have no time to do your family history work--you court disaster in the attempt. She tells a mean, if somewhat interestingly-timed joke. Her ability with a camera is (in)famous. But her forte--her pinnacle of power--is roadshows. She wrote them for longer than I can remember, and they won prizes almost every time. There were roadshows with Western themes: "Stringtown Tied in Knots." There were romances: "How Peanut Butter and Jelly Got Together." There were dancing mice and my father as Twinkletoes.

And when I grew up, I moved into the ward she had vacated.

When roadshow time rolled around, it was a case of, "Hey, she's vaguely Merkley-ish. She can do it." And I did. It was not a stellar achievement. (Consider the following elements, and YOU be the judge: a Greek chorus, a biker group called "The Wails", and a reluctant fellow named Jonah. Not my finest work.)

Ha! I am a failure, and no one will ask me to do it again, I thought. It was the only time I have revelled in failure. It was my deliverance from something that seared my guts and disturbed my ability to breathe.

Wrong. Three years later roadshow season came again. And I made the mistake of answering the phone. The requirement were simple: one fifteen-minute playlet, on the theme of Emergency Preparedness, and remember to make it a musical. And just for kicks, be sure to use the following props: a tree (???), a vacuum cleaner (?!?), and a mattress (!!!!!!!!!).

I wrote it while in line at a book sale, woke up every night screaming the tunes to corny 70s songs with poorly-altered lyrics, and performed a re-write in twenty minutes the week before the performance.

I barely survived.

And now roadshows are coming up again. They aren't due to be presented until October, but I have been informed that my talents (ha!) are requested. I know somewhere at the Stake Center the following conversation is happening:

"So, thought about the theme for this year's roadshows?"

"I was going along the lines of Etiquette Do's and Don'ts."

"That could be fun--nothing perks up a roadshow like songs about the proper addressing of thank-you cards."

"And we should require some wacky props. Otherwise it'll be too easy for the writers."

"Sure, why not? We could ask each ward to use a caged monkey, an inner tube from a semi, and an 1880s bank vault. Those're sure to be real crowd-pleasers."

My genetics are out to get me.