Today while picking up a prescription for Ken Cannon, I saw a missionary standing in line with seriously bandaged fingers. Like, they were mummy fingers with big steel rods poking out and so forth.
ME: Elder! What happened?
ELDER: I had a run-in with a snow blower.
ME: Was it a service project?
ELDER: Yes.
ME: That'll teach you to serve your fellow man again.
ELDER: Right?
ME: I'll bet your mom is worried about you.
ELDER: She doesn't know.
ME: Good man.
I thoroughly subscribe to the philosophy that missionaries should communicate bad news to mothers on a need-to-know basis. And who needs to know anyway when you're here and your kid is someplace where you can't do a damn thing for her or him anyway?
Words to live by, people.
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On her mission my daughter crashed her bike, breaking her right elbow and left wrist (or was it left elbow and right wrist?). Anyway, the nurse called me the day after it happened. She said she normally liked to wait until she had more information to share with test results, etc., but she knew the next day was P-day. She didn't want us to worry when we got an email from our missionary that, in her experience, would say both too much and not enough.
So true. It makes the mission stories much more entertaining later on.
I lurve this conversation. Right on, Ann Cannon!
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