No, really, Ardis, don’t beg me. I couldn’t possibly . . . Well, if you insist, but only one more story, lest this become a thread jack. Of course it does mention Mormons, and food, so I guess it’s alright . . .

At my first assignment, in the Paris suburb of Asnieres, my companion and I walked to a little grocery store each morning for our milk, and perhaps a yogurt. The proprietor had been selling food to Mormon missionaries for years, and he was always good for a pleasant conversation. And best of all, unlike 99% of French grocers, this gentleman carried a very special product on his top shelf, just for us: Quaker Oats.

This esoteric American breakfast food was pronounced (of course) “Quaaahkehr O-wat.” The grocer was quite amused at this strange product, and how it was prepared and served. He would even partake of Quaaahkehr O-wat himself, on occasion.

So one morning, we arrived at the store to discover, on that top shelf, an even more splendiferous reminder of home: “Kohhhrn Flack”!

“Alors” we exclaimed, “ce n’est PAS possible!” “This cannot BE! By what miracle did you procure Corn Flakes?”

“Ah, messieurs,” replied the disconsolate grocer, sorry to disappoint his young American friends. “I must not sell you the Kohhrn Flack. They are not good, I assure you. I boiled up a batch this very morning . . .”

Delightful story, Rick, and I can confirm that curiosity like your barber’s didn’t happen in southern France, either. Some curiosity toward us as Americans, perhaps, but not toward us as Mormons.

The favorable curiosity of Cummings’ fellow boarders somehow jogged my memory of mission days near Paris forty years ago. We elders made a practice of separating Church work from “professional” connections – such as getting our hair cut. I guess we felt that a coiffeur was captive audience, so it would hardly do to force a discussion on him. So one day, the man finally found the courage to ask, so defferentially,

“Monsieur, it is not any of my business, but may I inquire your business here in France?”

“Why, we are missionaries of l’Eglise de Jesus-Christ des Saints des Derniers Jours.”

“Ah, mais oui! Les Mormons.”

He continued clipping for a minute, then ventured once again, even more defferentially, like the most gracious waiter in a posh restaurant,

“Monsieur, obviously you are not here in my shop to discuss your church, but I was wondering . . .”

Never in two years had we heard such a remark! Not in France . . .

“. . . what are some of your distinguishing doctrines?”

We stopped by soon afterward with a Book of Mormon. Fairly attractive, in dark brown or white, with the Friberg painting of Christ descending to the Nephites, on the front cover, if memory serves.

“Here you are Monsieur! We hope you will enjoy reading this.”

“Why, thank you. How much is the price?”

“Deux francs, cinquante” (about fifty cents)

“Ah! mais non! It is much too fine a volume to pay so little. Here are ten francs. I will not accept your book for less.” So we took his two dollars, in awe. Never did this happen. Not in France.

Our coiffeur would meet many more real, live Mormons, making them a little more presentable as they rode their bikes through the wind and the rain, and knocked on doors all morning, and all afternoon, and into the night. He would not convert, of course, but he was very nice to us. This was France.

I’m not familiar with Greg Kearny. Sounds like a story I want to hear.

This is a great letter. The discussion about independent Mormon congregations in the east is a fascinating one. I seem to remember several anecdotes about them. Wasn’t Greg Kearny from a small town in Maine that was like a third Mormon but didn’t join the Utah Church until the 20th century or something?

But yeah, I think you’re right. I remember being asked in high school, in Missouri, if Mormons could dance, or drink milk, or wear jeans. And those are just the odd ideas they bothered to ASK about. Then in Las Vegas a few years later, there was the coworker who told me with a straight (well, disgusted and self-righteous) face some ugly and disgusting activities she “knew” went on in Mormon temples, because her pastor had told her so.

There’s only one thing worse — letting someone know you’re a Mormon because you think it’s pertinent for whatever reason, and having that person neither know nor care what you’re talking about.

Truman Madsen’s daughter, Mindy, worked in the Harvard Freshman Dean’s office in the mid-late 80′s. I heard her express this basic sentiment multiple times about people she met who found out she was Mormon.

I had similar experiences in Alabama, and I still have them here in Ohio. It’s interesting that after all these years, so many people still have no clue what a Mormon really is.

Justin, I’m just discovering how much Cummings did write, and how well. I think he may be one of those relatively minor figures who merits being revived in our memory.

Don’t know, Mark IV, although since there were at least three BFCummings in a row, it may be a name that got passed on to yet another generation. I don’t know anything about the French teacher to be able to learn more about his roots.

Incidently, the Pevey family who was identified for the pioneer database descends from a grandmother Lucy Cummings. I don’t immediately see a link between Lucy and B.F., jr., but if they are related, what a way for this conversation to have gone full circle.