When I was little and we were up at the cabin over Sunday we used to go to church in Young. Young was was a very small town to begin with, and there was only a handful of members of our church living there. They met in a little, white house that stood on a grassy meadow on the west side of the road leading into town. I can still remember that little building. It was square, and it's roof met in a peak in the middle. I'd never seen a house like that before.
There was a long, bumpy, drive over the meadow before we got to the church, and then everyone parked their cars on the grass a little ways from the building. There was a dry wash between the place where we parked and the actually church, and we walked across a wooden plank that covered the little wash. That meadow had a special smell, probably because the summer sun scorched the tall, gamma grass that grew there. There were no trees for shade, it was just big and open and hot. It seemed to me that everything was kind of white and blue. The grass was such a pale butter-cream color it was almost white. The ground was so dry and dusty it was very light, too. The church, although old and dirty, shown white in the shining sun, and the above us the blue blue sky arched from one horizon to the other, the color of peacock feathers and Dad's eyes. There always seemed to be big, white, puffy clouds pasted high in the sky above us. It was so beautiful! Wherever we walked huge, brown grasshoppers flew up from the grass, tempting Linda and Phillip to chase after them, and little white butterflies fluttered around our feet.
The church was a small, one room square house. Someone had strung a curtain from one wall to the other, which could be drawn across the middle of the room to make two classrooms. It was closed for Sunday school so the adults and children could each have their own class, then opened for Sacrament Meeting. There was an old black upright piano in one corner, a table for the sacrament at the front, and some chairs, but that was about all.
I was always fascinated to watch the brethren bless and and pass the sacrament. There was usually only one young man there, and they were always happy to have us visit because Keith could help pass and Dad could help bless. They brought a few pieces of bread in a paper sack and broke it onto a plain, white plate, then filled the sacrament cups from a glass canning jar full of water. It was sure different than having sacrament down in Mesa, where there were always lots of 12 and 13 year old deacons to pass, and older boys to bless and prepare the sacrament.
The little branch was happy to have us join them for church because we could help in other ways, too. Dad and Mom were often asked to give prayers, teach lessons, and even speak in Church. If we were there on Fast Sunday someone from our family, and usually many of us, stood to bear our testimonies. I was even asked to help accompany the hymns on the piano, although I was only a kid. I think they were happy to just have someone to play.
One other thing I remember about that little church. There was always a glass canning jar sitting on the table, full of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. We couldn't grow flowers like that down in the valley, at least not in the summer, but here in the mountains they grew all summer long. Tall delphiniums, hollyhocks, snap dragons, daisies and host of other flowers I didn't recognize. I used to wish I could go visit whoever brought those flowers from their garden. It must have been beautiful!
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