From the Improvement Era, November 1941 –

Tim – A Short, Short Story

By James P. Sharp

Some thirty-odd years ago many strange happenings came my way while I was managing a large ranch up in Idaho. The people of the valley called ours the Mormon outfit and showed plainly they wanted nothing to do with us. An event or two happened that changed some of those people almost over night. Still some seemed to be on the fence, so to speak, and we scarcely knew whom to trust.

While going to the house for dinner one hot day in August I noticed a man coming down the road. He was riding a horse and coming very fast. He stopped at the gate, got off, tied his horse to the tie post, pulled a whiskey bottle from his pocket, emptied it, threw the bottle into the canal, and started for the house. I waited for him. When about ten feet from me he asked, “Are you a _____ _____Mormon?”

I looked at him and wondered what was wrong and replied, “No, I am not a _____ _____ Mormon. Don’t claim any of those titles you referred to. I am just a common every-day Mormon. What can I do for you?”

He looked at me, offered an apology, and explained that an infant had died the day previous and as head of the Lodge he had phoned to Boise for a minister to come and conduct the services, which was customary when a death happened to a member of the family of a Lodge man in good standing. The stage had arrived, but no minister. It was impossible to keep the body another day, so he was asking me to conduct the services.

I hesitated and told him that was one thing I had never done. Then he said, “I never saw a Mormon but what could do anything he was asked to do, and do it better than anyone else.” Still I hesitated and he continued, “You Mormons believe that children who die before they have been baptized will be saved. Now this babe was not baptized, so why not preach a Mormon sermon and have a real Mormon funeral.” Without waiting for me to reply, he went on, “Funeral will be held at the Lodge hall at one o’clock. I’ll go up and get things moving and will have them there on time.”

Rather dumfounded, I stood there as he walked back to his horse, mounted it, and rode to town in record time. To the house I went and told the men to go on with the haying and I would be back some time later.

When I arrived at the Lodge hall, the people were there. The Lodge man said, as I walked to the door, “The family have requested a short service. Don’t be afraid of anything Tim and his gang might start. We’ll take care of them.”

A quartet of ladies sang; the chaplain read some sort of prayer; and the head Lodge man said they were pleased to have one in their midst who could conduct such services in an emergency. Then he introduced me as the speaker. Some of those present did not know the minister had failed them and were surprised when they saw who was to preach.

When we arrived at the cemetery, there stood Tim and four of his men with him. As we were getting the casket to the grave and lowering it, other men began to arrive. Some were riding horseback with a saddle; some had no saddle; and still others came with harnesses on their horses, just as they had been taken from the hay field. I told those present it was customary at Mormon funerals to dedicate the grave. Something seemed to force me to say, which I did, “And while the grave is being dedicated, the gentlemen usually remove their hats.”

As I stepped to the head of the grave I noticed Tim standing a few feet away. A sort of sneer was on his face. The late arrivals all gathered near him. When I said, “Amen,” and looked up, every hat was removed. Then I thanked those present, in behalf of the family, for any services rendered to the parents of this infant.

The head Lodge man and I walked back to town, and as we did he told me Tim had boasted that if I attempted to conduct a Mormon funeral there would be two in the grave instead of one, and I would be the other person, so the head man had sent a messenger in haste to members of the Lodge to come to the cemetery immediately, as there was an emergency to be met, hence the men arrived as they did.

Tim was a clerk in one of the stores, and previously, whenever we went there for the mail or supplies, he refused to wait on us and usually had some slurring remark to make about the Mormons. I had a hard time keeping some of the ranch hands from taking issue with him.

On this day, however, as we walked past the store door which was open, we saw Tim with his back to us talking for all he was worth. We stopped and heard him say, “And when I die I want one of those Mormons to say a few words over my grave, just like that one did. Never heard anything like it before in my whole life.”