Chapter 8: Pomp and Circumstance

The City Hall clock tower chimes eight times; each chime increasingly blends with the previous one as the sound echoes off the buildings facing Temple Square. The stragglers outside the Tabernacle – President Grant among them – scramble to get inside the building, President Grant among them. He is one of the last to enter and the ushers close the doors behind him. He is such a common figure in this setting that people don’t think to rise when he enters the building as they would for successive prophets.

The graduates are already standing in line in the aisles; their designated seats are a massive void at the front of the Tabernacle. A few of the graduates switch places as they attempt to fine-tune the line into reverse alphabetical order as they have been instructed to do. The prophet shakes hand after hand as he continues down the aisle and up to the podium; he takes his seat as President Feramorz Fox takes the stand.

President Fox – a bespectacled and balding historian – has led the L.D.S. through two years of record-setting enrollment. Next year’s enrollment already promises to set an all-time record for the school, and Church leaders are particularly proud to have a former graduate of L.D.S. High at the helm of the burgeoning institution.

“Will the graduates please come forward?” President Fox says; opening the ceremony, he looks toward the organist and gives him a nod.

Edward P. Kimball, who – in addition to his duties with the school’s music program – serves as the Tabernacle organist, begins the Organ March. The graduates march in formation to the front of the Tabernacle and take their seats on the notoriously hard white pine benches – painted to resemble oak by frugal and resourceful pioneers. Voices begin to soften, and the ushers urge a few latecomers to head upstairs to the balcony.

“I am proud to stand before you in this historic structure this evening,” President Fox says as he opens with his introductory remarks, “and I trust that you sense the historic nature of this milestone in your own lives.” His eyes scan the audience, not nearly large enough to test the Tabernacle’s capacity, but a good turnout for a commencement nonetheless.

“This year’s venue has given us more room than in the past; if this trend continues, in a few years we might well fill the whole Tabernacle – much like we filled the Assembly Hall to capacity last year.

“As I heard Brother Kimball at the helm of the organ, I thought of how it must have sounded sixty years ago when first played in a general conference of the Church. Some of those who attended its inaugural service are with us tonight. Though the interior of the structure was incomplete at the time, this organ now echoes the bright hope of those hardy pioneers.

“We as an institution are rooted in this same history. As you well know, our school began as the Salt Lake Academy, founded years before the State of Utah achieved her statehood and even before the beautiful granite edifice across from us was completed.

“We have been known by many names over the years, and we have had our home in a number of locations. But we are still one body. We celebrated our fortieth birthday as an institution last year, and I hope I live to see us celebrate another forty anniversaries.

“And now as we commence this commencement, it is my honor to introduce to you your very own William Lym and his orchestra. Mr. Lym, as you may have heard, is a former member of Sousa’s Band, and we are all honored to have such a distinguished musician in our midst. We’ll hear the L.D.S. College Orchestra perform The Last Spring by Edward Greg, after which we’ll have an invocation by President Hammond, a member of the school’s board of directors.”

Mr. Lym is miffed at President Fox’s mispronunciation of Grieg’s name but shakes the thought from his mind as he takes the stage below the pulpit. He raises his baton emphatically, drawing all eyes toward him. Music slowly begins to fill the “acoustically perfect” hall; though the music is slow and haunting, he moves about madly in conducting the orchestra. Like his colleague George Durham, he has been educated in the nation’s foremost musical institutions and does not settle for mediocrity.

As proven by the famous and oft-demonstrated pin drop from the pulpit, the building amplifies not just the right notes, but a few wrong notes, scratches, coughs, and scooting chairs – each met with a stern glance of consternation from Mr. Lym. He has an aim to develop the first full symphony in a Utah high school at the L.D.S. – a formidable and quite expensive undertaking. In fact, all of this year’s band concerts have served as fundraisers for the symphony’s new instruments. His mind is set on the task, if for no other reason than for the opportunity to thumb his nose right back at his East Coast counterparts and their snobby attitudes toward the status of musical education in the west.

He hears enough sniffles from the audience to know that he has managed to pull off Grieg’s number, a thought-provoking melody, bordering on somber or even melancholy. It is an odd selection for an upbeat occasion, a tune that was actually played at Grieg’s graveside and reportedly drove Tchaikovsky to tears when Grieg’s wife Nina played it for him on the piano. The tune ends so slowly that most audience members in the Tabernacle are too spellbound to applaud, although some subdued claps spread slowly through the audience as the orchestra members quickly and quietly set their instruments down.

Heads bow in silence for the invocation under a reflective atmosphere. President Hammond invokes the Lord’s blessing upon the graduates and – directing their thoughts well beyond the Tabernacle’s dome – upon the residents of Santa Paula, who at that moment are in the process of digging themselves out of the mud after a catastrophic dam failure had swept hundreds out to sea. Continuing his own mental journey, he adds the obligatory phrase, “and please help Captain Amundsen and the Collins boy be found,” a clause that had increasingly become standard prayer language over the preceding weeks as hopes faded for the rescuer explorer and as an unfortunate mother from Los Angeles frantically called every police precinct in the country in search of her missing “Changeling” boy, resulting in unprecedented public support from across the nation. The audience feels the tug of sympathy, and President Fox takes the stand again after an enthusiastic, unison amen.

“Our thoughts are..”

President Fox turns his head and coughs in a vain attempt to clear the lump from his throat. He decides to continue with the evening’s program rather than dwell on the disconcerting news from outside.

“What Mr. Lym is to the instrument,” he says with a smile, “Mr. Durham is to the voice, and together they are synonymous with musical excellence in our school; we’ll now hear the boys’ glee club under Mr. Durham’s direction perform Duparc’s The Dream World.”

George, wearing his signature bowtie, steps behind the podium to face the glee club – already seated in the Tabernacle Choir’s soft seats. He smiles proudly at his son, Homer, and can vividly picture him with an outright seat of his own in the Tabernacle Choir someday.

The glee club members rise from their borrowed seats as George motions upward with both hands. With all eyes on him in anticipation, he makes a sudden turn toward the audience, having decided to introduce the song first. “I feel inclined to warn you that we’ll be performing this song in its original French. L’invitation a la voyage, if you’ll pardon my French, is a song about embarking on a voyage after sunset – in this case into a dream world. As we have just witnessed both a literal and a figurative sunset tonight, let us reflect on what the sunrise will bring us – not just when we awake tomorrow morning, but throughout the journey that will take us the rest of our lives to complete.”

Mr. Durham turns back around, and the choir embarks on a musical trek through the French countryside. Hamp, seated among a sea of classmates, doesn’t speak a word of French; he looks over his shoulder and shrugs for some help. Dot, seated in the row behind him, winks back at him with a smile. She is a founding member of the French Club, one of the most popular and active clubs on campus, and she uses this unique opportunity to put her sharp foreign language skills to use. She leans forward and translates for him in a whisper:

“…the setting sun clothes us in gold…the world falls asleep bathed in warmth and light…where all is harmony and beauty, luxury, calm, and delight…”

Hamp imagines their future life together, and it seems more than just a dream. It is a transcendent moment, not just for the young couple, but for everyone in attendance. Whether or not they understand the lyrics, many of the audience members are swept up in the tune – caught off guard in the dream world envisioned by the composer. Gordon is particularly moved as the music prompts him to recall the framed painting of a French field of special significance that rests on their hand-hewn mantel.

Mr. Durham is likewise caught up in the euphoria, surprisingly impressed with the increased musical quality the Tabernacle’s acoustics lend to the glee club. His mood subsides, though, as he can’t help picturing the composer, Henri Duparc, who is still living but withering away in solitude half a world distant – having destroyed most of his own compositions. Dream World is one of the few morsels to have survived Henri’s heavy hand, and as the song concludes, Mr. Durham wonders what other gems might have fallen victim to Duparc’s self-destructive impulses, never to be performed. The thought leaves a pit in his stomach as the finale fades into silence, and he returns to his seat with the captivated audience applauding reverently.

“Thank you, Mr. Durham, for that beautiful piece,” President Fox says as he takes the stand again, “and thank you to the entire boys’ glee club. I found myself wishing the dream wouldn’t end.”

President Fox pauses, takes a deep breath, and turns to face the only student seated with the dignitaries on the stand. “It will now be our distinct honor to hear the valedictory address. This year’s valedictorian has stood out in many ways: in academics, in leadership, and in service. We could let his distinguished record speak for itself, but that would rob you of the opportunity to hear him speak on his own behalf. And so, without further introduction, let’s have a round of applause for your Class of 1928 Valedictorian!”

His fellow students watch especially intently as one of their own takes the stand to deliver the valedictory address. As he begins to speak, his presence captivates the audience; he certainly has a wit about him and an extraordinary way with words. The students know he has stood out from among them – that he seems destined to go somewhere. But can any of the graduates seated in the Tabernacle imagine that their classmate, who has just approached the already historic Tabernacle pulpit for the very first time in his young life, will within their lifetime – after serving a mission and marrying in the temple – rise through the ranks of the Church and ultimately be heralded as a prophet?

Little do they know that their very own Class Valedictorian, the future leader of an entire religion, is destined to be almost worshipped by his entire fold. In the meantime, each of the graduates ponders the message he delivers, wondering what might lie ahead on the open road as they ride the Roaring Twenties into the following decades.

With an attentive look on his face, young Gordon B. Hinckley, seated in the audience in alphabetical order between his cousin Mary Hinckley and her good friend Naomi Hillam, leans forward to avoid the sarcastic commentary passing between Mary and Naomi.

As he stares at the podium, something about the speech doesn’t sit quite right with him; nonetheless, he is respectfully alert. Perhaps it is the tone of the speech or the sight of secular robes and sashes in a sacred hall – or perhaps there is a slight hint of jealousy in his thoughts. The opportunities that would most certainly accompany the honor of being class valedictorian are undisputable. Every man with any notable standing in the Church’s hierarchy is in attendance tonight along with giants in local businesses, government, and civic clubs. And, after tonight, they will all know R.J.’s name.

R.J. – the money man himself – thrives on the acclaim that accompanies being named as valedictorian. Gordon is definitely a bright young man, but this is R.J.’s night – his chance to both shine and bask in the envy of his peers. Gordon, for one, tries to wipe any envy quickly from his mind as the speech continues. Adulation is poison, he says to himself, a phrase that his father – speaking from experience at the helm of the largest stake in the Church with over 15,000 members – had taught him to live by.

Although he has an unquestionable gift for public speaking, R.J. stutters a bit when he spots Zina Brown seated in the front row directly before him. Zina makes faces at him to see if she can get him off his mark. She’s really quite attractive, if she just weren’t so rebellious, R.J. thinks to himself between sentences; then, scanning the audience, he feels the eyes of her attorney father, Brother Hugh B. Brown himself, scowling at him. He begins to feel his nerves weakening during the ever-increasing pause in his speech and decides to apply a tactic taught him by Mrs. Bolin, his stern competitive speech coach: Expose your audience! R.J. knows that the “B.” in Brother Brown’s name stands for Brown – yes, indeed, his full name is Hugh Brown Brown! The ridiculous sound of the name makes him smile and – feeling less threatened by his audience – he regains his composure.

“We can all be proud of our school tonight,” says R.J., his nerves now calm enough to continue, “and of the constitutional freedoms that have allowed us to thrive here.” True to his very patriotic nature, R.J. always seems to be able to draw the Constitution into any speech, regardless of the venue. “We think especially of those who fought so hard for us to have the freedom to study and worship as we see fit. This very school lost some of its finest in the World War just a decade ago. Let their memory not be forgotten, let us honor their sacrifice by going out into the world, armed with our education, endeavoring to make it a better place.”

Gordon is particularly touched by the tribute and begins to feel his throat tighten. Ten years before, he had sat on a bench just a few rows behind and listened to President Joseph F. Smith relate a vision of the afterlife in general conference. The uncommonly introspective eight-year old had been pondering the message over the following weeks when a letter arrived from B.H. Roberts, who had been serving as an army chaplain in France. Braced up by his heartbroken father, Gordon had learned the awful news that Stanford Hinckley – literally his brother from another mother – had been one of the many casualties of the war to end war.

From that day forward Gordon had often reread Elder Roberts’ eulogy and the newly canonized vision of the spirit world, picturing his oldest brother Stanford among those “noble and great ones” whose “sleeping dust” lay just temporarily in the foreign field pictured on the Hinckley family mantel. The feeling of loss had never left him; tonight, though – in light of R.J.’s message – the lump in his throat is tempered just a bit by the thought that perhaps his brother’s ultimate sacrifice has contributed in some way toward this opportunity to celebrate.

Wrapped deep in thought, Gordon’s daydream is interrupted as the audience breaks into applause at the speech’s end, prompted by the intentional inflection of R.J.’s succinct “thank you!”

“You’ll be pleased to know that was not the last we’ve heard from this sharp young man this evening,” says President Fox after retaking the stand. “But first, let us have another treat. As you well know, in our school, we pride ourselves on giving girls opportunities equivalent to those given to the boys; in that spirit, we’ll now invite Mr. Durham back up to the stand to conduct the girls glee club.”

The L.D.S. is relatively progressive in terms of encouraging girls to get just as involved in athletics and other extracurricular activities as the boys; yet the curriculum remains distinctly divided in certain subject areas. Home economics, for instance – a required course for all girls – is taught in the Lion House, which housed Brother Brigham’s wives and gave Mark Twain many amusing anecdotes from his single stop there. In the Lion House, according to the school’s annual, “the girls of the L.D.S. are partly equipped here for their mission in life…how to sew, how to take care of a home, how to cook, etc.” In stark contrast stands the shop and metal arts department, where “boys are taught to repair cars, work in metals, and also do carpentry work.”

Nonetheless, adorned in the fashion, jewelry, and short hairstyles of the day, the graduating girls are a far cry from their antiquated ancestors. As a prime example, the winner of this year’s Home Economics award is Gordon’s yearbook partner, Afton Ashton, a class beauty whose trend-setting flapper hairstyle hides any homeliness that one might otherwise expect from a Daughter of Utah Pioneers.

Mr. Durham turns to the audience first before signaling the girls to rise. “The girls’ glee club has an extraordinary treat for you this evening. If Waldemar will excuse our pronunciation, I hope you’ll enjoy this piece performed in the original German. The girls will be singing Frühlingsstimmen, or ‘Spring Voices’ by Johann Strauss. In case your German is rusty, I’ve obtained a few translated stanzas:

The night has hardly vanished,

When birds begin to sing again,

And the light can promise us all,

That shadows will recede again.

Spring voices bring us home,

With their sweet, sweet sound.

“Many of you graduating seniors will be leaving the nest of your homes now. Again, let us reflect on what morning’s light may bring. With that, I hope you’ll enjoy the glee club’s rendition – their last performance together as a choir.”

As the first German lyrics are sung, Hamp again turns to Dot, but this time she is of no help. They both shrug their shoulders; Hamp, with a wrinkled brow, wonders aloud how anyone could ever enjoy this coarse language that – at least in his opinion – certainly wasn’t meant to be sung. Gordon likewise cringes a bit at the sound of German words, but for him the reason is much more deeply personal. Many other audience members likewise feel it hit a bit too close to home, knowing that German bullets had left their loved ones lying in foreign trenches after a torturous, fruitless stalemate.

Gordon pictures the sun, just having set over the Great Salt Lake, beginning to dawn on that familiar French field. Perhaps someday he will get the chance to travel – maybe just once – to a foreign land; he makes up his mind that if he’s ever given the chance, he’ll take a steamer to France to dedicate Stanford’s grave. He is still deep in thought as the song ends.

“And now I would like to introduce a man whom I have had the privilege of knowing for many year,” says President Fox after the members of the girls’ glee club take their seats again opposite the boys. “Most of you know that he presided over this institution in its infancy and that I have followed in his footsteps; what you may not know is that even before his presidency, I served as his lab assistant. In many ways I am still serving in the same role today: this is his laboratory and I’m honored to assist him in furthering this work. We certainly hope the experiments are successful! You have heard his name called out in absentia in so many general conferences; now it is our privilege to finally welcome him back among us in person. Doctor James E. Talmage!”

The name is instantly recognizable to the entire body of the audience, though most of them have not seen him in quite some time due to his latest extended absence presiding over the European missions. He has to motion downward with his hands to subdue the applause.

“Were I not presenting the graduate address this evening,” he begins, “I would be seated with you as a father, watching my son graduate.” His son John Talmage, seated in the next to last row of graduates, is glad to be back among the stateside Saints; he had found the British schools a bit stifling and snobbish, despite enjoying their academic caliber.

“As a family, we have had the privilege of being exposed to the finest institutions in the world,” Dr. Talmage continues, “and I can proudly say without any hesitation that the L.D.S. is their equal.” The audience breaks into a spontaneous applause.

“As I stand before you at this pulpit, the center axis of the temple itself crosses right between my eyes. This tabernacle was intentionally centered on that axis in a symbolic architectural gesture. Let us likewise center our lives along that axis, pointed toward the House of the Lord, following the iron rod of counsel that has been propagated from this pulpit, steering us in a line as straight as the surveyors’ sights.

“The two central steeples of the temple that mark the axis happen to represent two individuals directly behind me. And these two brethren just happen to be the two voices you will hear next on this evening’s program. The taller steeple, fittingly, represents our prophet, Heber J. Grant. The shorter of the two, excuse me Elder Cannon, is an effigy of our current Presiding Bishop, Sylvester Q. Cannon. Align yourselves with brethren of this caliber, my young friends, and you cannot go wrong. You should be proud to have them at the helm of this fine facility.”

Elder Talmage has an uncanny ability to blend the secular and intellectual with the spiritual in his speeches, and he proceeds to relate the symbolism of the constellations inscribed in the granite of the temple walls to the everyday life of the students in attendance, expounding effortlessly on deep doctrines and basic truths.

Elder Talmage’s books are already becoming almost standard works for the Church. Having spent years in a private room in the temple meditating about the Savior’s life and ministry, on any other night he could have held the audience captive for hours on end; however, tonight he notes the graduates shifting in their seats already and decides to keep his address relatively brief to avoid further delays to the post-graduation celebrations.

“I feel an added burden of responsibility knowing now that I have a steeple to live up to,” jokes Elder Cannon, the son of famed apostle George Q. Cannon, as he takes the stand. “It will now be my pleasure to distribute the diplomas. Please rise and come forward when the first person in your row is called.”

“Leith Allen.” The first row stands, and Leith, a shy, stern-looking young man, comes forward. Leith is virtually unknown to most of his class, having spent every spare minute outside of school doing chores on the family farm in the place of extracurricular activities. He gives Elder Cannon a firm handshake. Elder Cannon, his hand already sore after frantically signing almost 400 diplomas earlier in the evening, winces a bit in anticipation of the same number of upcoming handshakes.

The graduates file through one by one in alphabetical order: Afton Ashton, whose little brother Marvin Jeremy grins with pride from the back of the Tabernacle when he hears his sister’s name called; the aptly named Brain twins, Beatrice and Melvyn; Zina Brown, the rebel queen; Betty Callister, the prom queen.

The next rows of graduates stand and come forward in turn: Carlos Dodge, the class clown, yell-master, and chief cheer-leader; Homer Durham, who ducks into his place in line from the glee club’s reserved seats; Major Garff, whose kid sister, inevitably named Minnie, lets out a cheer from the audience at the sound of his name; Gordon Hinckley, still annoyed at being stuck between two talkative girls; Rulon Jeffs, who has the shortest walk of all from his place of prominence on the stand; Jerry Jones, the senior class president; his rival Rex McKean, the student body president; Hampton Price, the towering graduate who easily spots Chick and Mimi in the audience and gives them a wave.

Elder Cannon pauses as he passes Waldemar Roth’s crossed out name on the list of graduates. “Jack Salmon,” he continues, and the Aero Club recruit steps forward in what would have been Waldemar’s place. The remaining rows stand to be called forward: Dorothy Saville, Hamp’s sweetheart; Orson Spencer, the national high school record holder in the backstroke; John Talmage, who gives his father an appreciative nod as he passes the pulpit; Bob Toronto, the sports star who gets a raucous cheer from his brothers. By this point, the ranks still standing begin to thin; Elder Cannon continues and then finally breathes an audible sigh of relief after reading the last of the almost 400 names, ending as it began with a relatively unknown farmhand, “Gladys Youngberg.”

“Well, you have all been sitting for quite some time, and the benches are not any softer,” says President Fox after taking the stand again. “Last on our program – before our closing song and prayer – is the presentation of the Grant awards. We are lucky to have President Grant in attendance this evening to personally grant the awards bearing his name.”

Despite the added emphasis, his pun doesn’t have the intended effect on the audience, and he stutters a bit. President Grant, already sitting on the edge of his seat, springs to his feet before President Fox has a chance to finish his introduction. “And it appears that he is very eager to get things underway,” says President Fox.

They shake hands as they pass each other behind the pulpit. “I must apologize,” says President Grant after taking the stand, “In this setting, I have an awful habit of sitting on the edge of my seat, ready to stand up and intervene at a moment’s notice. I have Elder Kimball and Elder Roberts to thank for that.”

This time, the joke is well received, and laughter roars through the audience. The attendees are all well aware of the fine line President Grant maintains between Elder Kimball’s mouth and Elder Roberts’ doubts in conducting general conference sessions, sometimes standing impromptu to limit collateral damage, make doctrinal corrections, or otherwise comment on the previous words spoken from the pulpit.

The April 1928 Annual General Conference – held just two months earlier – had included both J. Golden Kimball with his colorful language and B.H. Roberts – the man who made it kosher to stand up to the flat-earth society and question one’s beliefs – in the lineup. That in itself would have been enough to make any presiding authority squirm, but coupled with the recent squabbles over the validity of evolution among the Brethren, President Grant can’t afford to sit back and enjoy the sermons. Some of these issues have weighed heavily on his mind, particularly in tonight’s academic setting; having jumped the gun in taking the podium, President Grant fumbles through his notes on the award recipient.

“This year’s award goes to a young man who has displayed impeccable integrity,” President Grant finally says with all the pride of a father.

Gordon leans forward, listening intently to one of his real-life heroes, a man raised by Brother Brigham himself.

President Grant continues. “He has devoted himself to immeasurable service to this school, and reached outstanding achievements in academics and in public speaking,”

“He has served you as student body treasurer for three years,” recalls President Grant. “In that capacity he learned from the best of them, having begun his first term under the mentorship of George Romney, whom many of you remember as the student body president during your first year at L.D.S. Though George labors in the mission field in Scotlands as we speak, he can no doubt rest assured that he passed the torch to an able body of students, and tonight’s award winner has contributed in great part with his continuity of service.

“You have already heard him speak this evening, and as Mrs. Bolin taught so many of you in speech class, ‘there is no activity which so reveals the whole man as his speech.’ If that is the case – and I firmly believe it to be true – we have had a chance to witness the whole character of Rulon Jeffs this evening. Let’s have a round of applause for your Valedictorian, your treasurer, your fellow student – and now also a Grant Award recipient. Congratulations, Rulon!”

R.J. comes forward, and President Grant presents him with an engraved plaque and a lengthy handshake. R.J. nods in acknowledgment of the applause.

“My only request in exchange for this plaque,” President Grant jokes, “is that you agree to give me lessons in public speaking.”

Laughter emanates from the audience, most of whom are aware of R.J.’s achievements in competitive speech. President Grant himself is a notable fan of speech competitions; in fact, the Grant Oration, the school’s intramural competitive speech program, bears his name. He has followed R.J.’s achievements throughout the year with great interest. “For those of you who hadn’t heard, Rulon brought great honor to the L.D.S. through his speeches this year, in which capacity he very nearly topped the national competition.”

Although it was meant as a compliment, R.J. still feels the sting of the loss. He had won the local competition with his speech on the significance of the Constitution, but was bested in the national competition by his East Coast counterparts (who, at least to R.J., suspiciously seemed to be better acquainted with the judges). National newspapers had put up a prize package that included an all-expense paid trip to Europe for the winner. A visit to the European mainland had been on R.J.’s dream list for years, and watching the chance slip through his fingers was almost more than he could bear. Tonight’s applause provides some consolation for that loss, but the knot in his stomach reemerges soon after he sits down again.

President Grant scans the audience in an attempt to measure their attentiveness. He is used to speaking from the cuff; in fact, he often speaks until he, by his own admission, “runs out of ideas.” Sometimes this happens after five minutes, sometimes forty five, sometimes even longer. In his previous address from the Tabernacle pulpit – in a time when general conference was often held on a weekday and didn’t necessarily adhere to prescribed time limits – he took up nearly the entire first session, allowing just one other speaker to squeeze in a few points.

President Grant’s voice is barely amplified by the new public address system, fabricated for the fledgling radio addresses that are just beginning to originate from the Tabernacle. Though he has been the primary proponent of the launch of a radio program to outlast all others, to President Grant, the structure’s natural sound system seems better without amplification, and he purposely steps back from the new microphone to allow his raised voice to fill the room.

The audience comes to attention at the change in tone, but there’s no hiding the body language signaling a degree of discomfort at the length of the program. President Grant takes note of those shifting in their seats and decides to keep his address short. Nonetheless, his brief words about their future role in the Church, in the community, and in their own families and careers leave a lasting impression on the graduates, many of whom had not yet allowed the finality of the moment to sink in.

“You’ve noticed by now that the benches are as hard as they were sixty years ago,” President Grant quips in his closing remarks.

Gordon shifts his weight and makes a mental note to use that joke if he ever has to speak in such a setting.

President Fox stands once more to thank President Grant for his words and for his influence on the school. “And now,” he says, “let us let out all the energy we’ve been accruing in our seats and stand to sing our school song, the Gold and Blue, one more time. All of you former graduates in the audience are welcome to join in as well. If you have forgotten the words, I trust that each senior, in his first chance to sing the song as an alma mater, will raise his voice sufficiently to remind you of the lyrics. Following the school song, Brother Smith will offer our benediction.”

The band strikes up the fanfare, and the volume of the chorus is deafening as proud voices join in unison to pay tribute to their beloved school. Hardly an eye is dry by the time the last stanza is sung and the song ends, exposing the ambient silence. Sniffles quickly become audible as George Albert Smith’s brother, Winslow F. Smith, closes with a touching benediction. A split second after the amen, the youngest in the crowd quickly shoot up out of their seats to stretch; the oldest are a bit slower to their feet.

“Before you stray too far, let me remind you of the open invitation listed in your programs,” states President Fox, taking the stand one last time in an attempt to regain the audience’s attention, “All graduates, parents, students, and friends are invited to a dancing party in the Rooftop Garden of the Joseph F. Smith Memorial Building across the street. Tickets are one dollar each; assuming we can pay the band from the ticket sales, the music will strike up promptly at 10:00 pm. That leaves us just fifteen minutes; please keep your mingling brief so the band will not have to play to an empty room.”

The night is clear and warm as the fresh, young graduates storm through the exits, their families trailing behind. Shouts soon fill the air as friends and relatives try to find each other in the ambience of the temple’s floodlights. With the ceremonial preface out of the way, there is yet a sense that the evening is just beginning.

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