Mormiquette (Mormon Etiquette)

When I told my parents I was going to quit my job to volunteer on a farm in Utah, the very first thing they said to me was “Is it a Mormon farm?”

They didn’t ask what I planned to do for money, they didn’t ask when I would leave or how long I would be gone and they didn’t ask why on earth I wanted to quit my job to work on a farm for food. They just wanted to know if I would be around Mormons.

In their defense, I come from a long line of German Lutherans. My parents met at a Lutheran seminary and my father, my maternal grandfather and two uncles (one on each side) are all Lutheran ministers. If I were to tell my parents that both of my arms and legs were severed by a tractor, they would be less worried than if I told them I converted to LDS. At least the tractor accident would leave my soul intact, right?

No, the family behind this WWOOF farm is not Mormon. If I knew more about Mormons, I would have realized that right away. We grow wine grapes here and Mormons are not fans of alcohol. I honestly wouldn’t mind if this was a Mormon farm. On the contrary, I think it would be exciting. I seriously doubt there is much of a chance of me becoming Mormon just because I live among them, and the cultural experience would be fascinating to me. I have to admit, I was a bit shocked by my parents’ stereotype that everyone in Utah is LDS. In reality, Mormons only make up about 99% of the population in this area.

So yeah, I live on the only non-Mormon farm in at least a 50-mile radius. It is more than a little unusual to see a vineyard in this part of Utah not only because of the dessert climate, but because of the near-prohibition attitude of the locals. Danny, the farm owner, gets along great with his LDS neighbors—even has a tradition of Sunday dinner with one of the Mormon families further down the canyon. Sometimes they ruffle his feathers, though. A few of them have dropped suggestions that he switch his fields to table grapes so that his life will be easier after he converts (it’ll be a cold day in Mormon hell before Danny gives up his liquor), and several neighbors were on edge when he got a group of four young female volunteers last spring. First they were appalled that the girls stayed here without a chaperone, then they were mortified when it came out that the girls would actually be working in the field instead of just cooking and cleaning for the men.

Danny’s mother is visiting for a week and she invited some of these Mormon neighbors over for dinner last night. I was excited to finally meet them after hearing so many stories. As a matter of fact, all I know about Mormons are gossipy stories about polygamists, petafiles and funny underwear, and they tend to sound too extreme to take without a grain of salt. My only personal experience was running into them on the streets in Oregon. I learned early to put my cell phone up to my ear and pretend I’m having a conversation when I see a guy in a white shirt and black tie make eye contact with me. Once, while at work, I was outside standing on a ladder and holding a power drill when two Mormon girls came up and started talking to me about my spirituality. That was annoying, but I was still polite and asked them to shove off as kindly as possible. I was good friends with a lesbian couple at that time. They both grew up as Mormons in Salt Lake City and met when they were assigned to be missionaries together. During their assignment, they both realized their true feelings for each other—along with their true gender preferences. They did finish their mission before leaving LDS to pursue their lives together. And that’s the extent of my Mormon exposure.

Before the guests arrived, Danny gave me a little debriefing. He recommended I avoid certain conversation topics, such as women’s rights, the futility of marriage, joys of alcohol and how pointless it is to bring more children into an already overpopulated planet. He didn’t mention it, but I assumed polygamy and petafiles was out, too.

I’m afraid I don’t have any juicy stories about the dinner. It was disappointingly normal. No funny hats, no cult chants, no bizarre conversations (the father did have an uncanny knowledge of peacocks, but the rest of the family seemed embarrassed by that so I don’t think I can blame it on his religion). Yep, just plain old neighbors… and they brought over a batch of homemade root beer, which gave them brownie points. Aside from skipping my after-dinner gin, it was like any other dinner. So much for my cultural experience. After they left, I really wished I could have at least found a polite way to ask about the underwear.

Later that night, the Brits and I went to visit Hosey at his trailer for a few beers. We told him about the dinner and that’s when I learned that these neighbors gave both Josh and Aaron copies of the Book of Mormon last time they all got together (before I arrived here). Hosey spoke up and said he loves Mormons.

“Really?” I asked, a bit surprised.

“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Back when I was in the slammer, we got real excited when they’d come visit. They’d always give us copies of that book, and those pages were perfect for rolling weed.”

Yep, Hosey smoked the Book of Mormon.