Dialann | Issue 15, July 2014 by Dialann

N E W Y O R K J U LY 2 0 1 4

The best summer ever

Get a notebook, a journal that will last through all time, and maybe the angels may quote from it for eternity. Begin today and write in it your goings and comings, your deepest thoughts, your achievements and your failures, your associations and your triumphs, your impressions and your testimonies. P R E S I D E N T S P E N C E R W. K I M B A L L

NEW YORK JULY 2014 ISSUE 15 36 PAGES Our family Susan Jane Hibdon Joyce Dustin Tyler Joyce Fiona Claire Joyce Colin Everett Joyce

TA B L E

of C O N T E N T S

N E W Y O R K J U LY 2 0 1 4

Where we live 192 Linden Street, 2nd floor Brooklyn, New York 11221-4504 Where we work Susan

The best summer ever

on the front cover Dustin, Honey, Nena, Lisa, and Erin in Tours, France.

Dustin Consulting, taking care of Fiona and Colin, cleaning, and looking for a job Dialann—Irish for “journal”—is published quarterly at New York, in January, April, July, and October.

24 JUNE 2004

on the BACK cover At the dîner d’adieu.

ISSN 2334-3230 (print) ISSN 2334-3249 (online) Published by Dustin Tyler Joyce dtjoyce.com Printed by Blurb blurb.com Sans serif text is set in Hypatia Sans. Serif text is set in Adobe Text. This issue was completed in February 2017. The software used includes InDesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator in Adobe Creative Suite 5.5, as well as Google Drive. The operating system was Windows 10 Home edition (64-bit).

22 JUNE 2004

16 A VISIT TO

WE BELIEVE IN CHRIST

12 The Glass House

27 My mother

By Dustin | New Canaan, Connecticut Philip Johnson’s own residence, a transparent box in the countryside of southwest Connecticut, is a modernist masterpiece.

By Dustin | A talk Dustin gave in the sacrament meeting of the Charlotte Third Ward, Charlotte North Carolina South Stake, Mother’s Day, Sunday, 11 May 1997. N O T I F I C AT I O N S

C O V E R S T O RY

28 April–June 2014

16 The best summer ever Original content is available for noncommercial use under a Creative Commons license. Some material in this issue was produced by others; material used under a Creative Commons license is identified by “CC” and the license type and version. For more information, visit dialann.org/copyright

Notable posts we made on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

By Dustin | Ten years ago, Dustin spent a summer studying in a picturesque French city, exploring châteaux, and eating pains au chocolat. But what really made it the best summer ever was an enduring friendship with Lisa, Erin, Honey, and Nena.

THE JOURNAL SUSAN

dialann.org

DUSTIN

FIONA

COLIN

My favorite mission story

Pour l’amour du français

A squirrel named Dinky

Seven days in sunny June

All we had to go on was a name, a street, and a postal code. But sometimes you find the needle in the haystack.

A dedicated teacher can open up a whole new world.

A dancing squirrel puppet leaped up in front of Fiona — and right into her heart.

I’m used to cozy clothes in cool weather. But warm weather has its benefits, too.

PAGE 4

+ Heeeeeeeere’s Colin!

PAGE 6

+ Memories with Fiona’s friends (of the stuffed sort)

+ Teacher Ellen Trice Bensley, 49, dies

PAGE 8

PAGE 10

M I LESTO N ES

APRIL–JUNE 2014 APR

APRIL 5–6 184th Annual General Conference. Once again, no new temples are announced, but President Thomas S. Monson notes that when all temples currently announced or under construction are completed there will be 170 temples worldwide 14 Boko Haram, a terrorist group with the goal of turning Nigeria, Africa’s most populous nation, into an Islamic state, attacks a government-run residential secondary school for girls in Chibok, Borno State, northeast Nigeria, and kidnaps 276 of the female students. International outrage over the incident is expressed with the #BringBackOurGirls hashtag. As of this writing, 219 girls remain missing 16 The MV Sewol, a ferry with 476 aboard—mostly students from a high school in Ansan, South Korea—capsizes while traveling from Incheon to Jeju, South Korea. Only 172 passengers survived 19 Nana, Randy, and Amanda come to visit 20–23 Grammy and Papa come to visit 20 Colin meets Grammy and Papa for the first time 23 Susan and Dustin submit Fiona’s pre-k application to the New York City Department of Education at 23.40, 19 minutes before the 23.59 deadline 30 10th rainiest day in New York City’s history, with 12.62 centimeters (4.97 inches) of rain. Seriously, it was a ton of rain

JUN

3 4

When a terrorist group kidnapped 276 students from an all-girls school in northeast Nigeria, people around the world—perhaps most famously Michelle Obama, wife of U.S. president Barack Obama, seen here in the Diplomatic Reception Room of the White House—called for their release using the hashtag #BringBackOurGirls.

OFFICE OF THE FIRST LADY, 15.51 EDT, 7 MAY 2014, PD COMMONS.W IKIMEDIA.ORG/WIKI/FILE:MICHELLE-OBAMA-BRINGBACKOURGIRLS.JPG

4 Fort Lauderdale Florida Temple, the Church’s 143rd, dedicated by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, second counselor in the First Presidency 6 The 10th anniversary of the final episode of Friends. What— that was TEN years ago?! Dustin remembers the Friends finale party with Emily, Trina, and Rhiannon, friends of his at the University of Utah 9 NBC announces that it is cancelling Community after five seasons, meaning that basically the only show on American TV that Susan and Dustin found worth watching has come to an end

2–4 Bryan and Kathy, Dustin’s uncle and aunt, visit

12 Apparently we know the date when the New York City Subway became graffiti-free, and apparently that date was 12 May 1989 — 25 years ago to the day

2 A Manhattan- and Brooklynbound F train derails on the express tracks near the 65th Street station in Woodside, Queens, injuring 19. Approximately 1,000 people were rescued from the eight-car train

15 The National September 11 Memorial Museum is dedicated by President Barack Obama. It opens first to family members of those killed in the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and 26 February 1993 before opening to

M AY

MAY

the public on 21 May 25 Dustin is released as clerk in the Bushwick 1st Branch

JUNE 1 Brooklyn New York Stake president Jeff Nelson calls Dustin as elders quorum president in the Bushwick 1st Branch 2 Our new phone arrives (see pages 34–35) 12 The World Cup of soccer begins in Brazil and runs until 13 July. Germany ultimately becomes the champion 15–16 Andrea and Shawn visit 22 Dustin is set apart as president of the elders quorum in the Bushwick 1st Branch, with Adam as first counselor and Matthew as second counselor

Su Mo

26–28 Erika, a friend of Dustin’s from high school, and her husband, Robin, and daughter, Calypso, visit

CO LO R KEY holidays travel birthdays events in our lives events in the Church world events

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

THE JOURNAL

My favorite mission story All we had to go on was a name, a street, and a postal code. But sometimes when things seem like they’re not working out, that’s exactly how they’re supposed to work out.

COAT OF ARMS OF NUREMBERG: DAVID LIUZZO, PD COMMONS.W IKIMEDIA.ORG/ WIKI/FILE:WAPPEN_VON_ NÜRNBERG.SVG

ne Monday in Nuremberg, my companion, Sister Clark, and I received a referral. Now, first of all, a referral in my mission didn’t mean the same thing that it does in most missions: we rarely got referrals from members or investigators. When we said “referral,” we meant “a contact from another mission” (or sometimes from a different area in our mission). Generally, it was a letter emailed to our mission office, then printed out and mailed to us, because the person in question lived in our area. In this case, the referral came from Temple Square. As far as I remember, this was the only referral from Temple Square that I ever saw. According to the Missionary Handbook (the small “white handbook” issued to and carried by all missionaries), referrals were supposed to be contacted within 24 hours of receiving the referral. That basically never happened in any program1 I was ever in (in my mission, we called them “programs” instead of “areas,” partially because we often didn’t have clearly defined areas). But, since Sister Clark was a greenie, and also because Tuesday morning was the only time all week that we would be able to contact this person, we planned to stop by the next day. The problem was that the referral contained only three pieces of information: a first name, Markus; a street name which I no longer remember, but started with G, I’m pretty sure; and a postal code. Well, that’s not much to go on. But the postal code was in our area (in Langwasser, I believe), and there was a street by that name within the postal code, so Sister Clark was all set to go find Markus. I was kind of an old, embittered missionary at this point, so I inwardly rolled by eyes at Sister Clark’s faith and enthusiasm. I knew there was no way we were going to find this guy, but oh well, we didn’t have anything better to do. So we went. When we arrived, the good news was that the street had only 15 houses on it. The bad news was that this was Germany, and they were not singlefamily houses. Every house on the street had at least eight apartments, and most had more. We wandered around wondering what to do and found a little playground behind one of the buildings. We sat on a bench for a little while. I was probably feeling dejected and/or hopeless. Some kids asked us what we were doing, and we told them we were looking for someone named Markus. They didn’t know any Markus. Ah, well, I guess we’re done here.

Sister Clark said we should pray. So we went over to building 2 and, as I recall, stood near a dumpster and prayed. I was trying to have faith. At the end of the prayer, we both felt like we should try buildings 2 and 3. So we did. Building 2 had only six or eight apartments in it. We got buzzed into the building and rang every doorbell, asking for Markus at the rare door where someone answered. No Markus. Well, the white handbook also points out that sometimes, the referral guides missionaries to someone else who is prepared, so we also asked if anyone wanted to learn more. Nope. So we tried building 3, which was much bigger. I think it had at least 20 apartments. No Markus, kein Interesse. Hardly anyone even answered the door. On the way out, I was definitely feeling dejected. We prayed and felt like we should go to buildings 2 and 3; why hadn’t we found Markus or anyone else who wanted to learn? As we walked down the stairs, I thought to myself, You know, we should try building 15. I told Sister Clark. I knew enough to recognize that weird, random ideas that appear out of nowhere and don’t make any sense are probably from the Spirit, so we went to building 15. A woman on the first floor buzzed us in. No Markus in this apartment. No, not interested. Wait, Markus? Yes, there’s a Markus on the top floor. His last name starts with O, it’s a Polish name. Off we went to the top floor! We rang the bell at the door that was clearly Markus’s. A lady opened the door and before we had time to say anything, she said, “Kein Interesse!” and shut the door. We didn’t know what to do, since we were fairly certain this was Markus’s apartment, but the lady didn’t want us around. Ring the doorbell again? Leave a note for Markus? Just then, we heard the door downstairs open and slam shut, followed by the sound of someone running up the stairs. He turned the corner in the stairwell, saw us, and said, in effect, “Sisters, I’m so glad you’re here! Come in!” When he ushered us into the apartment, his mother tried to protest, but he told her it was fine and he was expecting us. We sat down and he explained that he’s not normally home at this time, because he’s a university student, but he forgot something and had to rush home for it. The delay caused by ringing every bell in buildings 2 and 3 was the only thing that led to us being there at the right time.

Wappen der Stadt Nürnberg, Zeichnung David Liuzzo 2008

SUSAN

Susan as a missionary in Nuremberg, Germany, where she served from spring to fall 2005.

Markus had visited Temple Square, met the sisters there, and was interested in learning more. We taught him a first discussion (which was a little tricky, because he was a talker) and bore our testimonies that Heavenly Father really wanted us to find him. We told him the story of how we found him and he agreed that it was a miracle. Because he was a student, he was very busy and couldn’t schedule a second lesson. We gave his contact information (complete, this time) to the elders to follow up. Then I got transferred. I have no idea what happened to him. At the time he seemed like he was very prepared to hear and accept the gospel, and we were disappointed that it seemed it would be really hard to meet with him. In hindsight, however, it’s entirely possible that this whole experience was more beneficial for me than for anyone else involved. I am still amazed at how all of that worked out, and I absolutely know that it was not a coincidence. This will always be my favorite mission story because it’s the experience that I learned the most from: don’t be faithless and hardened by experience; heed the Spirit; and do the things you’re supposed to do. d NOTE 1. My first program, in Augsburg, was one of four proselyting programs in the city. Each program (companionship) had a few areas scattered around the city where we worked. Sister West (my trainer) and I worked in Hochzoll and Pfersee, which are on opposite sides of town, as well as teaching single women all over the city. One set of elders worked in Oberhausen, which was a pretty depressing place to work because no one there spoke German.

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

THE JOURNAL

Pour l’amour du français A dedicated teacher can open up a whole new world. For me, that teacher was Mrs. Ellen Bensley.

wenty years ago (?!) next month I started seventh grade at Carmel Middle School in Charlotte. My first class of seventh grade — and my first-period class throughout the year — was French with Mrs. Bensley. I had never been interested in learning a foreign language. But that all changed the year before, in 1993, when I started sixth grade at Carmel. As part of our introduction to intermediate and secondary education and the new world of elective classes, all sixth-grade students’ schedules had an “exploratory” course. Exploratory was divided into six six-week periods which rotated through the various electives. I had exploratory during fourth period, and the first elective I got to experience was French. I didn’t think I was going to like it. In elementary school, a Spanish teacher came to my class once or twice a week, just like the art and music teachers. I hadn’t experienced that in first grade in Arizona, or in second or the first part of third grade in Oklahoma, and it was a strange new experience when my family moved back to North Carolina and I continued third grade there. I was surrounded by classmates who had had Spanish classes for over two years already — a long time when you’re eight years old. They already knew to stand up when the Spanish teacher came into the room (as is customary in many Spanish-speaking countries), and I always had the impression that they could understand much more of what was going on than I could and that I could never catch up. I dreaded these weekly Spanish sessions, and I decided that I didn’t like learning foreign languages. But my temporary sixth-grade French teacher, Mrs. Bensley, was amazing. She was engaging and her class was fun. It probably also helped that none of my classmates had ever taken French before, so we were all at least starting from the same point. Before we even got into French, we learned about languages in general: what a language is and how many languages are spoken around the world. We then learned a little about the ancient Romans and their language, Latin, from which French and the other Romance languages descended. I had always been fascinated by the ancient Romans, so this unit was cool. We even had a class party with food that Romans might have eaten at a party. (I recall thinking at the time that modern party food was a lot better than ancient Roman party food.) We squeezed in a little bit of French before the six weeks was over and I was in another elective. When it was time to register for seventh grade and sign up for electives, I knew that I had to be in Mrs. Bensley’s class — whether or not I liked learning foreign languages, I wanted her to be my teacher.

Late that winter, on Tuesday, 14 March 1995, as I walked into my first-period French class that morning, I had seen Mrs. Bensley — who stood outside our classroom each morning with the neighboring teacher, Ms. Rivka Ber — scolding a student. She apparently decided to take the student to the office for misbehavior, and she was late returning to our classroom to start today. We waited. And we waited. And we waited. Before long, we heard the sirens of ambulances approaching our school. Somehow we knew it was connected with our teacher. A substitute whom we often saw at our school and who was well-liked by students arrived in our classroom. She explained that Mrs. Bensley had been stricken with something while she was in the office. Nobody knew the prognosis. Then, in third period, our principal, Mr. Ron Thompson, addressed the school over the P.A. system. He said that Mrs. Bensley had passed away at the hospital. It was the saddest day of my three years at Carmel. Though I knew Mrs. Bensley for so short a time, her impact on my life has been profound. As a seventh grader in her French 1A class, I discovered that I love learning other languages. By the time high school rolled around two years later, I decided that I wanted to learn more, so I took Latin in ninth grade and German in tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grades, in addition to French all four years. I eventually studied in France twice: in Tours for a summer in 2004 (see “The best summer ever” on page ?) and in Aix-en-Provence for a semester in spring 2006. I’ve tried to retain and deepen my understanding of French these twenty years now. I follow French and French-language media on Facebook and elsewhere online, and, thanks to the internet, I’m able to watch a journal télévisé from France, Canada, or Switzerland once or twice a week. This is in addition to being able to understand and partake of the history, literature, politics, and culture of a language and country different from my own. My study of French has opened a whole new world to me, and it all started with an unwanted six weeks in the wonderful Mrs. Ellen Bensley’s sixth-grade exploratory class. background, opposite page Detail of Un dimanche après-midi à l’Île de la Grande Jatte (A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, painted 1884–1886), by Georges Seurat, Mrs. Bensley’s favorite French painter.

DUSTIN Teacher Ellen Trice Bensley, 49, dies

By Gerry Hostetler Staff writer They say she loved teaching so much that she danced down the halls of Carmel Middle School, where she taught French and journalism for three years. And if her students couldn’t picture a dog’s puzzlement as Mount Vesuvius erupted in ancient Italy, she would climb on top of her desk and illustrate the “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now” look. Ellen Trice Bensley was stricken from coronary atherosclerosis at school Tuesday and died at Carolinas Medical Center. Mrs. Bensley, of Morning Dale Road in Matthews, was 49. “She was a master teacher,” said Ron Thompson, Carmel’s principal. “Once an evaluator observed her French class and said, ‘This is the best foreign language lesson I have ever observed.’ She was energetic and made learning French a lot of fun for her students.” Students said she really believed in putting herself into each lesson, and that extended beyond the classroom, Thompson said. She was an adviser to the International Club and Monday had taken them to the Great Wall of China restaurant to experience a different cuisine, he said. “Kids came to talk about how she

would always want them to be first in everything, to be involved, to really be excited about learning. A student in her first-period class said, ‘Mr. Thompson, we never had a bad day because she was so happy. She tranferred energy and positive feelings to us, and we were able to carry it all day long.’” Courtney Turner, 13, a French and journalism student, said Mrs. Bensley would tell about her trips to France. “She made us feel like we’d been there. She made her class something to look forward to.” Courntey is a writer for “Paw Print” the school newspaper. “She always had ideas to make our stories better.” She said that the paper plans to dedicate the next issue to her, and that the school yearbook plans to do the same. Mrs. Bensey was a 1964 Myers Park graduate and graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill in 1968 with a bachelor’s degree in French. She studied at University of Lyon in France for a year, and returned to France as often as possible. She believed that one learned a language best from those who spoke it. She was a member and Sunday school teacher at Myers Park United Methodist Church and a Friendship Trays volunteer. She enjoyed bridge, art and travel and had planned to leave Friday for Chicago with a group of friends. She looked forward to seeing the painting “Afternoon on La Grande Jatte” by Seurat, her favorite French painter. Memorial service is 2:30 p.m. today at Myers Park United Methodist Church. Visitation is 1:30 to 2:30 p.m. today at the church. Williams-Dearborn of Matthews is in charge. Survivors are her daughter, Miss Brandon Bensley of Chapel Hill; parents, Charles and Julia Trice; sister, Mrs. Ann Faircloth of Tega Cay, S.C., Ms. Susan Donaldson of Washington, Mrs. Jean Deason of Atlanta; nephews and nieces. Memorials may be made to Myers Park United Methodist Church, Peter and Ellen Trice Bensley memorial fund, P.O. Box 6161, Charlotte, NC 28207.

The Charlotte Observer, Thursday, 16 March 1995, page 2C D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

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THE JOURNAL

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Elizabeth Linden

A squirrel named Dinky

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have a lot of friends. Avenel Metropark Mostly they are Brown Bear, Charleston, West Virginia (see “Dinky” may just be a nickname for the Metuchen Big Bird, monkey, Churchill, Dialann 1.14–15). We mostly went Princeton Shuttle, but even NJ Transit Edison some mice, and a lot of other there because Daddy wanted to see the uses the name on its official map. At 4.3 state capitol. I thought it was pretty New Brunswickstuffed amidals.* I love them kilometers (2.7 miles), it is the shortest because they are so cozy. They like interesting, actually, though I thought regularly-scheduled commuter rail service to sleep in my bed and get under my our ride on the open-air trolley from Jersey Ave Middletown in the United States, and possibly the world. covers. They also help me feel better our hotel to the capitol was cooler. Bank when I’m cold or tired. That evening, we went Red to the Princeton But one of my first friends was a mall in downtown Charleston. It was Dinky Shuttle Little Silver squirrel. (Mama and Daddy have helped actually one of my first times to a mall. Monmouth Park me fill in some of the details.) When I The best shop we went to was (seasonal service)filled Princeton Junction was a few weeks old, Mama and Daddy — FILLED! — with toys. They sold Long Branch Hamilton Elberon decided it was time for me to take my nothing but TOYS. I was as excited as Allenhurst first trip on Amtrak. They even got me a two-month-old could be (which isn’t Trenton Transit Center Asbury Park a onesie that said amtrak baby on it. much, actually). I had no idea such a Hamilton Ave Man, I was so cute. wonderful place existed.Bradley Beach Cass St Belmar While we were in the toy shop, Bordentown Spring an oldies song started playing. (MyLake Roebling dad thinks it might have been “Rock Manasquan Florence Burlington Towne Ctr Around the Clock”, butPleasant my momBeach isn’t so Point Burlington South sure — she thinks it was Bay a song Head by Elvis Beverly/Edgewater Park Presley.) I was sitting in my stroller Delanco listening along. And next thing I know verside aminson a squirrel popped up in front of me and n started dancing. I got a big smile on my Rt 73 face and started giggling. It was the best uken thing I’d ever seen. Center That squirrel didn’t get to come ry Hill with us, and we took the train home Lindenwold the next day. But after Daddy saw how much I loved that squirrel, he decided

Cen

FIONA Memories with Fiona’s friends

Highlighted portions of text are verbatim quotes from Fiona.

(of the stuffed sort) Peace with Peter ■ Once, when Fiona was about two, she was having a meltdown and was so angry at Mama that she wouldn’t speak to her. So Mama picked up Peter (from The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats) and started talking to Fiona about what was bothering her. Fiona sat in Mama’s lap for a few minutes having a conversation with Peter. It really helped her calm down. Toddler politics? ■ Around October 2012, Fiona and Big Bird became good pals. She carried him a lot of places. Also around this time, Mitt Romney, the Republican presidential candidate, said in a debate, “I’m gonna stop the subsidy to PBS. … I like PBS. I love Big Bird. … But I’m not gonna keep on spending money on things to borrow money from China to pay for it.” A few days later, when Fiona walked into church holding Big Bird (by his neck, which was the easiest way to hold him), someone jokingly asked if she was making a political statement.

I needed one, too. So one day not too long after our trip we took the bus up Connecticut Avenue and went to a toy shop. There we adopted the squirrel’s brother. Mama and Daddy named him Dinky, after a squirrel they once saw in Princeton, New Jersey, which they also named Dinky, after the Dinky Train. So that’s where Dinky got his name. But my squirrel is not very dinky. He’s pretty big, actually. He’s big enough to wear a small dog collar with a tag on it. He went with me everywhere when I was a baby, and I’ve loved him ever since. d

above The original Dinky the Squirrel, gathering straw in front of Nassau Hall at Princeton University. DUSTIN | 18.22 EST, 31 MARCH 2010

OPPOSITE PAGE Fiona and Dinky on 19 October 2010, the day after we adopted him from Barstons Child’s Play, a toy shop at 5536 Connecticut Avenue NW in Washington, D.C.

NOTES * How Fiona says “animals”, of course.

An early testimony of prayer On Sunday, 1 June, Fiona (almost) bore her testimony in sacrament meeting for the first time. On the bus on the way to church, she told me a story about what had happened the night before, when she had been trying to fall asleep in the loft bed without her pacifier (it’s about time to give up her “pacifizer,” as she calls it, so she was trying it out). Her story went like this: “I was having a hard time sleeping without my pacifizer. I missed it so much. So I decided to pray and ask Heavenly Father to help me sleep. And I prayed and I still felt sad, but I fell asleep.” I asked if she wanted to go up and bear her testimony, and she seemed to be okay with the idea of telling that story. But when she went up to the podium, she got a little nervous. So I held Fiona and repeated the story she had told. — susan D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

THE JOURNAL

Seven days in sunny June I’m used to cozy clothes in cool weather. But warm weather has its benefits, too.

Colin and Dustin ride the tram from Roosevelt Island to Second Avenue on a partly cloudy day in June. ERIKA KUNDE 18.42 EST, 27 JUNE 2014

The title of this article is a not-so-subtle reference to the song of the same name by Jamiroquai. 10

can’t decide whether I like this new kind of weather I’ve been experiencing. I’m used to the cold, wearing cozy clothes, snuggling, and all that. That’s the way it’s been all my life. But lately things seem to be changing. It’s really hot, for starters. I haven’t even been wearing clothes to bed, which is much different than before, when I would wear fleece pajamas and Mama would wrap another piece of fleece around my middle before she swaddled me for the night. There’s this thing in the window that makes a lot of noise and it seems to cool the room off, but it’s just not the same. When I go outside, Mama and Daddy put clothes on me, but they

aren’t as cozy as they used to be. And sometimes they spread this gooey white stuff all over me. It’s not very much fun while they’re putting it on, but after that I don’t mind. A little while ago, we went to a giant bathtub that was outside in the sun. Other people were already in it, and they seemed to be having a good time. Mama put a funny diaper on me, and then some shorts and a t-shirt to cover up a spot on my shoulder. And then we got in the water. Fiona definitely had fun right away. It took me a little longer to get used to. The water was kind of cold, but then I noticed it was really easy to splash while Mama and Daddy were holding me. Then again, most things are. d

COLIN COLINTRACKER TOOTHTRACKER

UPPER RIGHT

LEFT

So far, teeth. But we’re sure he’ll have some someday.

LOWER

TRAVELTRACKER SUSAN | 23.39, 13 MAY 2014

Heeeeeeeere’s Colin! from

Susan Hibdon

Family members

date

Tuesday, 13 May 2014, at 23.55

He is on his way to bed, but first he wanted to practice some screechy noises he’s been working on lately, while modeling his “new” dinosaur pajamas (they have been worn by Michael, Charlotte, and Fiona, I believe). This kid is a giant. The other day, I was looking at some pictures of our trip to Louisiana that we went on when Fiona was 9 months old. In one of them, she was wearing some striped pajamas with a giraffe on them, and they fit her perfectly. A few days before I looked at those pictures, Colin had turned exactly 4 months old...and had already worn those same pajamas. He has also become very interested in his feet (specifically, grabbing them), which I don’t think Fiona ever really cared about. When he wakes up, I just hear him cooing, and I go in and look at him and he’s just talking to his feet. Fiona is an unstoppable ball of energy. She can’t seem to talk without jumping up

1 STATE and down, including at dinner time. So if we’re having a conversation with her, she constantly slides down from her chair and starts leaping around the room in between bites. Colin loves the entertainment. Tonight at dinner, he was sitting in his chair on our table, and Fiona was bopping around, and then she popped up and surprised him. He was astonished and delighted.

New Jersey 30 June 2014

FIRSTTRACKER Meeting Grammy and Papa 20 April 2014 Ride in a car 3 May 2014 Day trip to Old Westbury Gardens, Nassau County, Long Island Rolling from his back to his tummy 8 June 2014 Ride on the Roosevelt Island Tram 27 June 2014 Ride on NJ Transit 30 June 2014 New York Penn Station to Spring Valley, New York, via transfer at Secaucus

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

BY P H I L I P J O H N S O N NEW C ANA AN, CONNECTICUT

THESE PHOTOS WERE TAKEN BY DUSTIN AND POSTED TO HIS INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT DURING HIS VISIT. SOME INFORMATION IN THIS ARTICLE IS FROM VARIOUS WIKIPEDIA ARTICLES AS WELL AS THE OFFICIAL WEBSITE OF THE GLASS HOUSE, THEGLASSHOUSE.ORG.

A VISIT TO

THE GLASS HOUSE NEW CANAAN, CONNECTICUT T H U R S D AY, 3 J U LY 2 0 1 4

f Metro-North’s five lines — three east of the Hudson River, two west — only the New Haven Line, most of which hugs the north shore of Long Island Sound in Connecticut, has branches. Three, in fact, named after the towns in which they terminate: Danbury, Waterbury, and New Canaan, which is the shortest and westernmost. Unlike the terminuses of the other branches, where the poor economic fortunes of southwest Connecticut are more apparent, New Canaan is a picture-perfect New England town of charming buildings, quaint restaurants, and upscale shops. In the woods surrounding the town, low, handbuilt fences of irregular stones divide lots and fields. One senses that perhaps time has stood still for a century or more in this little patch of Fairfield County. (And let’s be frank: one also senses that this place is rather WASP-y, where polo shirts in light colors with upturned collars and cable-knit sweaters folded around the shoulders are always in style. As long as they’re cream or navy blue, of course.) D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

LIVING ROOM

DINING ROOM

So it is perhaps surprising that in this

is transparent except for a cylindrical brick

the gatehouse, called Da Monsta, which

setting is found one of the most innovative

bathroom near one corner of the house,

looks a bit like it was copied out of a Picasso

and celebrated houses constructed in the

giving the house its name: the Glass House.

painting.

twentieth century. The renowned American

All tours start at the visitors center in

The house is a rather fascinating exercise

architect Philip Johnson — the designer

central New Canaan, right across the street

in the organization of space, since it is all,

behind such New York City landmarks as

from the decidedly traditional train station,

except for that bathroom, a single room.

the modernist Seagram Building and the

and the only way to access the property is

Nonetheless, it has a clearly defined kitchen,

postmodern AT&T Building (today known

via the visitors center’s shuttle bus. I decided

dining room, living room, and bedroom.

as the Sony Building) — chose this spot to

to book the “Glass House + Galleries” tour,

(Mr. Johnson himself referred to the separate

build his own residence. The exterior walls,

which included not only the house itself but

areas as “rooms” and noted that the layout

except for the steel columns that hold up

several of the outbuildings on the property,

was no different from a house in, say, the

the roof, are constructed entirely of large

including the underground Painting Gallery,

colonial style.) Surrounded entirely by glass,

sheets of glass, and the single-room house

the rather stunning Sculpture Gallery, and

I expected to feel too exposed while in the

LOOKING OUT

STONE WALL

house, a bit like being on the beach without

Ludwig Mies van der Rohe — is, expectedly,

ownership transferred to the National Trust

an umbrella. But the house actually feels

simple, modern, and restrained. This is not a

for Historic Preservation. The house itself

rather private. It helps that the grounds

space for clutter. Beyond the furniture, there

was declared a National Historic Landmark

are extensive, so the neighbors aren’t too

is no interior decor beyond a couple of plants,

in 1997, perhaps a bit ironic for a building

close, and the completely transparent walls

a freestanding sculpture, and a

whose function is to disappear in the

invite the outside into the house rather than

supported of course on a stand, since there

surrounding landscape rather than stand out.

turning the house inside out. Indeed, the

are no walls on which to hang. In all, the

But totally appropriate for a building that

National Trust for Historic Preservation notes

house 16.8 meters (55 feet) long, 10.1 meters

opened Americans’ minds and hearts to an

that “The Glass House is best understood

(33 feet) wide, and 3.2 meters (10.5 feet) high.

entirely new form of architecture that has

as a pavilion for viewing the surrounding

It was completed in 1949 and has remained

influenced placemaking for generations. It is

landscape.” It also helps that the roof is opaque.

virtually unchanged — and unaged — since.

just as relevant and eye-opening today as it

The furniture — some of which was

Mr. Johnson passed away in the house

was when Mr. Johnson first called it home 65

at age 98 on 25 January 2005, upon which

years ago. d

painting,

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

— dustin

Tours, France ◆ Summer 2004

THE BEST SUMMER EVER Ten years ago, I spent a summer studying in a picturesque French city, exploring châteaux, and eating pains au chocolat. But what really made it the best summer ever was establishing enduring friendships.

A BY DUSTIN

The façade of the Hôtel Torterue at 1 rue de la Grandière in Tours. This bourgeois mansion, built in 1862, houses the Institut de Touraine, where Dustin studied French with a group of students from the University of Utah in June 2004. 30 MAY 2004

ALL PHOTOS BY DUSTIN, UNLESS OF COURSE HE WAS IN THEM, IN WHICH CASE SOMEONE ELSE TOOK THEM, BECAUSE DUSTIN WASN’T INTO SELFIES AT THE TIME (IN FACT, NO ONE WAS). COAT OF ARMS OF TOURS BY MANASSAS, CC BY-SA 3.0 COMMONS.W IKIMEDIA.ORG/ WIKI/FILE:BLASON_TOURS_37.SVG

An opportunity & an arrival fter studying French in seventh and eighth grades and all through high school,1 I continued my studies in French at the University of Utah, where I even declared it a second major alongside urban planning. But in all those years of learning French I had never spent any time in a French-speaking place, aside from a four-day, three-night trip to Québec with my French class in eighth grade. When I found out that the U took a group of students to France each summer, I was quick to sign up. When my first year at the University of Utah ended, I flew home to North Carolina to visit my family. From there I was off to London Gatwick. My friends Emily, Rhiannon, and Trina had had a new roommate that spring semester, Jennifer, who was an exchange student from the United Kingdom. Even though she attended the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, she was from Berkshire, just outside London, and she had an uncle and two cousins who lived in Crawley, near Gatwick. Her uncle, in fact, worked for British Airways at Gatwick Airport. I stayed at their place for a night before continuing on to France. J U LY 2 0 1 4

The Château de Chenonceau spans the river Cher near Tours. This is a must-see sight for anyone visiting the region. 5 JUNE 2004

Looking south into the rue de la Grosse Tour from my first room at № 14. 30 MAY 2004

One of the University of Utah staff members who helped organize that summer’s program had warned us before departure that the French tend to dress better than Americans do and that we would be wise to step up our game. (In hindsight, I can’t say I agree with this; perhaps the French have been too influenced by American styles and informality. But what did I know at the time?) So I got up that morning and put on a nice black suit with a blue shirt, which I wore unbuttoned at the top without a tie. I figured that would make me presentable enough when I arrived in Paris. I wasn’t thinking, however, that it would make me really hot and sweaty, even in the relative cool of an early summer British morning. I also wasn’t thinking when I packed a very large suitcase, along with a carryon and an over-the-shoulder case with a laptop. I realized my mistake on my way to Waterloo International from Crawley, when I had to change trains at Clapham Junction. It involved switching platforms — and there was no elevator. That was a struggle up and down the stairs. I was sweatier than ever and I had barely begun my journey. (Looking back, I could have packed everything I needed for the summer in a duffle bag — I was gone for only six or seven weeks. But live and learn, right?) I finally made it to Waterloo and made my way over to the international terminal, where the Eurostar high-speed trains left

for Paris and Brussels via the Channel Tunnel. Eurostar trains are unusual because passengers must pass through a security checkpoint before boarding the train. Soon after clearing security it was time to board, and I took my seat in the first-class car. Why first class? Mostly because I procrastinated buying my ticket for that train until only a few days before and by then all the lowercost tickets were sold out. But, hey, if I’m finally going to cross traveling by train through the Channel Tunnel off my bucket list, I might as well do it in style, right? Unfortunately, the free newspapers and rather bizarre (though complimentary) British breakfast didn’t really justify the price. And, honestly, the Channel Tunnel, it turns out, looks just like every other tunnel I’ve ever been in on the inside. But it nonetheless made an exhilarating start for my summer in France. The train pulled into Gare du Nord in Paris and I lugged my too-heavy bags down into the Métro. I quickly assessed that it would be impossible for me to get them through the faregates and onto a subway train in time for me to catch my next train from Gare d’Austerlitz, so I went back to the street and got a taxi. As much as I was disappointed to miss out on riding the Paris Métro for the first time, I was happy to see some of the city, including my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. Admittedly, it wasn’t as glamorous as I had pictured — the glaring midday sun undoubtedly shining away all the romance. But €20 later and I was to another train station on time to catch my train to Tours, where the program would take place. Though by that time Tours was connected to Paris by TGV, I had spent all my money on a first-class Eurostar ticket, so I took the slower and much more crowded intercité train, where I rode in second class. No air conditioning, traveling through the much warmer French countryside where any bit of breeze coming through the open windows was blocked by my stylish but terribly stuffy suit jacket. On top of that, the only seat I could find was facing backward.

14 rue de la Grosse Tour, where I lived during my summer in Tours. 30 MAY 2004

About halfway through the journey we pulled into a station and the passenger in the seat across from me — a foward-facing one — got off. I immediately moved into that spot, grateful that I would then be able to face forward. Unfortunately, that station2 was one where trains pull in one way and out the other, so I was once again facing backward and would until my arrival in Tours. All of the students participating in the U’s program stayed with host families. My host mother, Patricia Sugatagy, met me at the gare and drove me to my home for the next four weeks, 14 rue de la Grosse Tour. It was on a narrow, pedestrian-only street right on the edge of Tours’s historic heart, and it could hardly have been more charming or more French. It was, Mme Sugatagy informed me, built in the early 17th century. We entered through a heavy wooden door into a dark hall that led to a still darker stairway. However, once inside the large, two-level apartment upstairs, windows filled every room with light. It was cluttered, but in a homey sort of way, the high ceilings held up by wooden beams. Up another level was my bedroom, with two windows looking out over quaint streets and rooftops and chimneys that were more picturesque than I could have imagined — straight out of a fairy tale. I was not the only student staying with Mme Sugatagy. I met Yuki, from Japan, and Oliver, from the German-speaking part of Switzerland. A week or so later Oliver — or Olivier, the French equivalent of his name with which Mme Sugatagy addressed him — returned home, and I moved into the bedroom he had occupied, which was large enough to include a small sitting area. More importantly, it meant that I had direct access to the bathroom from my bedroom, and I had it all to myself, since two female students from the United States moved into my former bedroom shortly thereafter. I could hardly wait to start exploring — I had an entire French city to myself and I was determined to see every part of it. Early the next day I set off on foot across Tours,

reveling in the narrow, twisting streets of the medieval city, the classic French architecture topped by ardoise (slate) roofs so common in this part of the country, and the grand boulevards that encircle the city center and meet in front of the hôtel de ville (city hall) and palais de justice (courthouse) at Place Jean-Jaurès. The city center is bisected by the Rue Nationale, the city’s main business and shopping street. My first destination was the Institut de Touraine, where we would be studying and earning nine French credits in the short period of four weeks. From there I went to catch my first glimpse of the Loire River. I walked west along the riverbank to my main destination for the day, the cathedral. Ever since second grade, when I checked out the book Cathedral by David Macaulay from my school library and learned all about the construction and architecture of gothic cathedrals — from the crypt to the flying buttresses — I had wanted to see one for myself. And I was in a place where I could visit one every day. I would spend a lot of time exploring and admiring the Cathédrale Saint-Gatien de Tours, constructed between 1170 and 1547, during my time in the city.

Cathédrale Saint-Gatien de Tours Constructed 1170–1547 30 MAY 2004

Settling into a routine

Classes started early the next day. As I D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

At church with other LDS students from the University of Utah: Tyler, Laura, Andrew, Rachel, Dustin, and Audrey. 6 JUNE 2004

Going to church in tours Being a group from the University of Utah, a number of students were Latter-day Saints. They filled me in on where and when church was and how to take the bus to get there. An email from my classmate Sarah instructed: Church Meetings Sunday: 10h00-13h00 70 rue de Chinon Joué-lès-Tours meet at the Place Jean Jaures at 9h15 to take the bus n°3 bound for Joués-Centre. the proper bus stop is found just on the other side of the Place opposite the Hotel de Ville along the Avenue de Grammont where stop many buses. get off the bus at the stop Jumeaux and you will be nearby. the missionaries (elders) will be there so it will be easy. if you miss the bus, await the next, as Sacrament Meeting is last. On Sundays, the local bus system, the Fil Bleu, offered a group ticket that allowed five of us to ride the bus for the price of one. The local Tours Branch was friendly and welcoming. We noted that, though we were attending church in a different country, with a different language and culture, the Gospel Doctrine Sunday school teacher was just like every Gospel Doctrine teacher we had ever seen. For Mormons, some things are just the same no matter where you go. 20

noted in an email to family and friends on 10 June 2004, “Each day my classes start at 9:00 and end around 4:30 or 5:00 in the afternoon. I have classes in French language, literature, civilization, and art history. There are breaks in between classes, for lunch, and during the afternoon, but my days at the Institut are still very long and tiring.” We had taken a placement test upon our arrival and I was assigned to level 7, the second highest of the Institut’s eight niveaux. Several of my classmates in level 7 were returned missionaries who had served in France or other French-speaking countries; I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good that my French was as good as theirs, even though I had never spent a significant amount of time in a francophone country. The Institut occupied the mansion, grounds, and outbuildings of a former bourgeois urban estate. The classrooms and meeting rooms in the mansion still had vestiges of their former grandeur, with ornate molding covered in gold leaf and now-faded paint. The main staircase in the mansion was impressive, even if it was a bit rickety and slightly frightening to ascend. Mme Catherine Caillou’s level 7 class, however, met in a classroom in one of the outbuildings, a slightly newer space that, unlike the mansion, had little charm or decor but also, like the mansion, had no air conditioning. As an American who was used to nearly ubiquitous air conditioning, it was a bit of an adjustment to spend a summer virtually devoid of it both where I slept and where I spent my days, though even I could appreciate the fact that all windows everywhere were open to the outside, letting in fresh air and the occasional light breeze. It was amusing, however, to walk down streets in Tours and see that one of the offerings shops displayed on their storefronts to entice shoppers to enter was climatisation — air conditioning. I soon discovered a boulangerie (bakery) in the Rue Nationale that offered five pains au chocolat for a mere €2. I made it a daily excursion during our morning break, often eating all five on the walk back

to the Institut — a habit my metabolism could take back then. We typically ate dinner with our host families. Mme Sugatagy was a good cook, though some meals took me by surprise. On one of my very first evenings in her home she served a dish with spaghetti and pancetta — and a raw egg yolk sitting in half an egg shell right on top. I’m not one for raw eggs, so I politely set it aside and quite satisfiedly at the rest of the meal. Only later when I recounted the experience to one of my U of U classmates did I learn that the dish was a very normal carbonara, and the egg was to be stirred into the spaghetti right at the beginning; the heat from the pasta would cook it. Later on, Mme Sugatagy served a delicious dish made with mashed potatoes and some sort of brown stuff stirred in. It really had a very unique flavor that I quite enjoyed. Only after I had finished a second serving did I learn from my host mother the ingredient that gave it that unique flavor: Mme Caillou 24 JUNE 2004

The high street in the village at Mont-Saint-Michel. 12 JUNE 2004

sang, or blood. Gross. She told this to me in her very rapid manner of speaking. Seriously. Now, the French typically speak faster than English speakers do (frankly, it has to do with the fact that it typically takes them more syllables to say the same thing — their Roman forebears really liked long words). But this woman was quite possibly the fastest talker I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Not only was it difficult enough learning to communicate in another language, but she spoke really, really, REALLY fast. (She did, however, compliment my accent, which I appreciated.) In hindsight, she was probably just doing it to help/test/annoy the exchange students she hosted. Very little homework was assigned, and afternoons and evenings, as well as weekends, were filled with exploring this lovely little city we got to call home for four weeks. Those were some wonderful evenings wandering the narrow, twisting streets of medieval Tours, finding a charming little café or crêperie, and checking out the bustling nightlife in and around Place Plumereau. Beyond that, a number of paid excursions were organized by the Institut to historic sites in the Loire Valley, including a number of the châteaux for which the region is renowned. These included visits to Amboise, Azay-le-Rideau, and my favorite, Villandry and its incredible gardens. Two of those excursions took us even further afield, to Normandy.

Perdu at Mont-Saint-Michel The first of these was to Mont-Saint-Michel, a magnificent monastery built on a rocky outcropping just off the coast. The narrow causeway that connects it to the mainland is often flooded by high tides, leaving the monastery and the small village that huddles at its base an island. Mont-SaintMichel was one of those things that had been on my bucket list since I first laid eyes on it in one of the many architecture books I pored over again and again while growing up in suburban Charlotte, and it did not

disappoint. The town and the monastery were simply stunning. What did disappoint, however, was missing the bus with the rest of our group as they went on to the day’s other destination, Saint-Malo, Brittany. To be honest, I was never quite sure how it happened. I had spent almost the entire day with a small group of friends, but got separated from them at the end. Not to worry, however: I knew the time we were supposed to be back at the bus, as the tour director had told us when to be back before we got off. But somehow in my mind, even though I understood the French perfectly well, the time I got in my head was an hour later. When I went back to where the bus was parked, I couldn’t find it. Suddenly a panic set in: had I missed my bus? I went to the small tourist office to ask if anyone had left any message or notification about a bus full of students, one of whom didn’t make it back. Nothing. Fortunately, at times like those, my initial panic has a way of turning into rational, clear thought on what to do next. I had no way of getting in touch with anyone — though a number of students had purchased mobile phones to use during the study abroad, I was not one of them — so I was on my own. My best bet was to make my own way back to Tours. I took a bus from Mont-Saint-Michel to the nearest town with a train station, Pontorson. I went straight to the ticket office and inquired about the next train that could

Hôtel de ville

Constructed 1896–1904 8 JUNE 2004

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

Dustin, Erin, and Lisa at Azay-le-Rideau. 16 JUNE 2004

Sunset over the English Channel. 12 JUNE 2004

Dustin, Erin, and Lisa at Chenonceau. 5 JUNE 2004

get me back to Tours. The very helpful and friendly staff person informed me that the last train had already left for the day and that the next one wouldn’t be until the following morning. Nothing more I could do, so I purchased a ticket for the train and set out to find accommodation for the night. There was a Best Western hotel in the town, but it was too expensive. I located the youth hostel, but it was full — of old people. Along the way I had run into a group of college students who had somehow been abandoned by their tour group; I told them that, since we were in the same boat, we should let each other know if we found accommodations. I started wandering around town asking anyone who was outside if they knew of any place I could stay for the evening. An older couple down the street from the youth hostel informed me that a couple from Britain had recently moved into the house at the end of the street and opened a chambre d’hôtes. (The fact that this was entirely conducted in French was a proud moment for me.) I thanked them and promptly went to the house at the end of the street and knocked on the door. When a man with a British accent answered, I asked if I could stay for the night and he said to come on in. It was a remarkable find. The house itself was three stories connected by a tight, twisting spiral staircase that, as I recall, the host told me was carved from a single piece

of wood. I was led to a plain but very tidy and absolutely perfect room. As I hadn’t planned on spending the night anywhere, I had no luggage of any sort to leave in my room, so I thanked my hosts and went out to procure some dinner. A short distance away I ran into that same group of college students. I’m sure that they had had no intention of helping me out, but I was so elated about my find that I informed them that my hosts had additional rooms and that it looked to be a great place to stay for the night. So they went to the chambre d’hôtes and got rooms for the night. Then we all took a taxi back to Mont-Saint-Michel for dinner and to make the most of an unexpected evening. The village at the foot of the monastery was virtually deserted by the time we got back. Only a few cafés were still open though mostly empty; we chose one and got a small meal. We then mounted one of the walls and watched a gorgeous sunset over the English Channel. As I went to sleep that night in my cozy room, I couldn’t help but think what an adventure it

had all been. The next morning, a Sunday, I took a shower (notably, my room did not have an en suite bathroom) and put on all the same clothes I had worn the day before, because they were the only ones I had. I went down for breakfast — a typically continental affair, mostly consisting of croissants with butter and jam. After breakfast, I went to my host to pay for my room and my petit déjeuner. The cost? A mere €29.00. What a fortuitous find this hébergement had been! As it was Sunday morning and I had some time before my train departed, I thought I could find the local ward or branch and attend church. I somehow found out the number of the missionaries who served in the area3 to ask about church. They informed me that the nearest ward met in Cherbourg, at the very northern tip of Normandy — nearly 175 kilometers (109 miles) away. Clearly church was not going to happen on this particular Sunday. I thanked the missionaries for their time and, as I got off the phone, pondered: Their area covers all of Normandy?!4 That was in stark contrast to the tiny areas — sometimes mere blocks — to which I was accustomed in my own mission in Salt Lake. So I wandered around town a little before sauntering over to the train station a bit earlier than I had planned to catch my train. On the platform waiting with me were an older couple. Striking up a conversation, I learned that they, too, were American. He, in fact, was among those soldiers who had landed on the nearby beaches on D Day in 1944, and he and his wife had come to participate in some of the commemorative events taking place that summer (it was the 60th anniversary of the landings). He spoke about how grateful everyone he met in France had been — that six decades later they still remembered what had happened on those beaches at the beginning of the Allies’ final, victorious assault against the Nazis who had conquered and divided France in World War II. He spoke of how gracious and hospitable everyone had been — they had even stayed for free with

a French family during their visit to the country. For me, this chance, unexpected encounter with living history had made getting left behind at Mont-Saint-Michel worth it. Eventually the train arrived and I had a five-hour (really?! the bus had taken only about three) train ride back to Tours. The only thing I had to do was to look at the beautiful French countryside through which I was passing — a very worthwhile activity in and of itself. But eventually my mind got to working, and I returned to the topic I had fallen asleep thinking about the day before. It felt really stupid to have simply missed the bus. I needed a better story than that. So that evening in my quaint hotel room and then on the train I came up with a tale. It had something to do with witnessing the aftermath of a murder — as I was walking down a side street in Mont-Saint-Michel I saw the perpetrator walk quickly out of a shop and then away, and I was detained by the police for questioning. That would make a much better excuse for missing the bus, right? But what really surprised me when I got back to Tours was … that everyone believed me! That evening after my long, arduous journey back, I got together with the friends I had gotten separated from at Mont-Saint-Michel. They, of course, had been wondering what happened to me. They said that the bus had waited for me but they eventually had to go on. When I told them about the murder, they all let out a collective gasp. At the end of my tale I asked, “Now, you don’t really think that happened, do you?” They looked at each other and then at me — certainly they had believed it. They would have no reason to doubt me, and I had been very convincing. So I immediately fessed up that I had simply missed the bus because the time was wrong in my head. The next day I recounted my tale to my class at the Institut and they, too — all these level 7s — believed it. Even the teacher — so much so that she went to the Institut afterwards to suggest that they refund my

Gare de Tours

Constructed 1896–1898 6 JUNE 2004

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

top Omaha Beach, Normandy, on D Day, 6 June 1944, as seen from the perspective of U.S. troops as they disembark for the invasion. CHIEF PHOTOGRAPHER’S MATE ROBERT F. SARGENT, UNITED STATES COAST GUARD, PD COMMONS.W IKIMEDIA.ORG/WIKI/FILE:INTO_THE_JAWS_ OF_DEATH_23-0455M_EDIT.JPG

BOTTOM My own view of Omaha Beach nearly 60 years to the day later. It was a place of sublime beauty, which made it all the harder to imagine the events that had taken place here — events which had cost so many soliders their lives. 19 JUNE 2004

money. I was dumbfounded. I had always been an awful liar; I couldn’t believe everyone was believing this outlandish tale. Apparently a five-hour train ride had given me more than enough time to perfect my story and my technique. But I confessed to my class a couple of days later that it was just a funny story I had come up with to make up for my missing the bus, and I apologized for leading them astray. Still, it was a good tale, though. And an even better adventure — those friends who met me after my return to Tours told me that I had gotten the better end of the deal, with my evening adventure in Mont-SaintMichel and spectacular sunset. Saint-Malo hadn’t been nearly so interesting.

The D Day beaches

One Saturday morning I woke with a start. I took a quick look at my watch lying on 24

the nightstand next to my bed and realized that I had forgotten to set my alarm. I was about to miss the bus, so I threw on a pair of flip-flops and ran several blocks to catch the bus just on time. There was no way I was going to miss this excursion, alarm clock and shower or no: I had always wanted to see the beaches where the Allies landed in Normandy on D Day and the cemeteries that honor those who had fallen there. The first stop was the Mémorial de Caen. Caen, a small city in Lower Normandy, felt the full brunt of the D Day assault, including heavy bombing by British and Canadian warplanes that destroyed much of the city and killed some 2,000 of its inhabitants, as well as intense fighting between Nazi and Allied forces. In the days and weeks after the D Day invasion, 156 Canadian prisoners of war who had been captured by the Nazis were shot and killed. The museum is a memorial to those events as well as a broader exploration of the causes, events, and aftermath of World War II. Exploring the museum and learning about these events so close to where they happened was a deeply moving experience and made the six decades separating those events from the present seem much shorter. But that was nothing compared to the experience of seeing one of the D Day beaches, Omaha Beach, for myself. The sight of row after row of headstones, most in the form of crosses, some bearing Stars of David — 9,387 graves in all — was

humbling. From the cemetery I made my way down the path to the beach itself. A high, green, foliage-covered bluff gently gave way to a wide sandy beach that was gently washed by the waters of the English Channel. It was a strikingly beautiful place, and it was incomprehensible that such grave, momentous events had ever taken place precisely in the spot. After spending some all-too-brief moments trying to take in and comprehend that place and what happened there, our group moved on down the coast to Pointe du Hoc. It is a promontory about 30 meters (100 feet) high overlooking the English Channel and the surrounding beaches. Because of its advantageous position, the Nazis fortified the spot with concrete casements and pillboxes, and it, too, like the beaches around it, were subject to the Allied advance on D Day. However, unlike the surrounding beaches which have been largely restored to their natural beauty, Pointe du Hoc has been left largely as it remained after 6 June 1944. The ruins of the Nazi fortifications still scar the ground, encircled by razorwire; the surrounding land remains pockmarked with craters from bombs that fell that day over a half a century before my visit. If it was difficult to understand the events that had happened at Omaha Beach, here at Pointe du Hoc they were inescapable. Yet all around this reminder of the basest of human nature was the serene beauty of the surrounding landscape.5 It was an excursion that would remain with me for a long time — and I was very grateful that I had caught the bus just in the nick of time.

Going home

The four weeks both lasted forever and drew to a quick close. Before we knew it, our classes were wrapping up, our nine French credits back at the University of Utah in our pocket, and we gathered for a long, four-hour (seriously, the French take dining seriously — and slowly) dîner d’adieu at a restaurant on a farm in the countryside

near Tours. I began to pack my oversize, voluminous luggage, and left some gifts I had brought for my host mother, including a copy of the Book of Mormon in French and a picture book of Salt Lake City, on the table in my room. (I will admit that by that point I had grown less fond of her and I left them somewhat grudgingly. But I had no use for them myself and was happy to unload what little I could from my luggage.) Somehow in the preceding days toward the end of my stay I had lost one of the house keys for my host family’s apartment. And this wasn’t just any ordinary key: it was a sort of key I had never seen before, with pits on either side of the blade rather than teeth. (Apparently this is called a “dimple” key.) They are rather expensive to cut, and my host mother made one last stop on the way to drop me off at the train station so I could get a copy made. I would have thought that after being paid upwards of €150 per week for my stay with her, she could have afforded to make a copy herself. But apparently not. However, the €8 cost for a new key was still too small for me to pay with my debit card (many shops in France required a minimum charge of €10 to pay with a debit or credit card), so I had to stop by a bank to pick up €10 more to pay for the key. It was only after withdrawing small amounts like that all summer that I discovered that my bank, Washington Mutual, charged me $3.00 for each withdrawal made at an ATM outside of the United States — an amount that added up quickly. (I, however, got the last laugh: a mere four years later Washington Mutual collapsed in the midst of the Great Recession and was absorbed by J.P. Morgan Chase.) Though I had bought a ticket for an intercité train for the end of my stay in Tours before I left the United States, after my experience in an overcrowded secondclass car at the beginning of my journey I decided to upgrade to the TGV instead. What the intercité had covered in three hours the TGV covered in merely an hour. And what a thrill it was to ride on one of the

Basilique Saint-Martin de Tours Constructed 1886–1924 30 MAY 2004

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

Lisa, Honey, Dustin, Nena, and Erin before the University of Utah group’s dîner d’adieu at a farm restaurant outside of Tours. 16 JUNE 2004

Erin, Dustin, and Lisa at Villandry. 16 JUNE 2004

world’s fastest trains. My stay in Europe concluded with a brief visit to Paris (which I truncated after becoming tired of traveling by myself in France), a visit to my friend Jennifer Kennedy and her family in the United Kingdom, and family friends, the Souths, from our ward in Charlotte who had moved to Switzerland a decade before. And before I knew it, I was back home in North Carolina for the remainder of the summer, before my family drove across the country to return me to the University of Utah and to get my brother started off at Utah Valley State College (now Utah Valley University). It was, in the end, the best summer I had ever experienced. Even looking back on it now it feels like it went on forever. Rarely, if ever, have I packed so much into so little time. But there was one thing in particular that made it the best summer ever, and that is that group of friends I have mentioned a couple of times in this piece: Lisa Buroojy, Erin Rogers, Honey St. Dennis, and Nena Wilson. I don’t recall how the five of us met or who knew whom first. But once we forged a friendship, we were inseparable: breaks during class days, excursions to nearby sights, afternoons and evenings in Tours — we spent them all together. We even organized a couple of our own excursions which, frankly, were better than the ones organized for us by the Institut. The first was to the Château de Chenonceau, one of the Loire Valley’s most

picturesque châteaux, built over the River Cher itself. Our self-designed excursion included a train from Tours, some time exploring the chateau and its grounds, lunch at a pizzeria in the nearby village, Chenonceaux (yes, with an x, though the name of the chateau itself typically isn’t spelled with an x). We then walked up the river and took a tour boat that went right under the chateau itself. We outdid ourselves on that one. Honey, Lisa, and I took another excursion to the Château de Chinon, which was a seat of French kings throughout the Middle Ages. Most notably, it was where Joan of Arc came to Charles VII to acknowledge him as the rightful heir to the French throne — the rest, as they say, is history, though in this case it may largely be myth, but what a mythic story it is! The chateau is now largely in ruins, but it is a fascinating place to explore. And, for some reason, I still have a vivid memory of drinking an Orangina at a small café off a deserted, dusty road near the castle as we started to make our way back to Tours on the TER (train express régional). There were lots of things that made summer 2004 special — magical, even: my first study-abroad experience, a charming French city and the surrounding countryside, finally seeing places that I had wanted to see my entire life. But what truly made it the best summer ever was an enduring friendship with Lisa, Erin, Honey, and Nena. d

NOTES 1. See “Pour l’amour du français,” p. 6. 2. I’m not certain where this was, but my research online hints that this station was likely Orléans. 3. I believe I used a calling card to call the missionaries in Tours and then called the missionaries in Normandy. 4. A check on the current maps.lds.org confirms that, yes, the Cherbourg Branch covers all of Normandy. 5. General information in this paragraph is from the Wikipedia article on Pointe du Hoc.

WE BELIEVE IN CHRIST

My mother A talk Dustin gave in the sacrament meeting of the Charlotte Third Ward, Charlotte North Carolina South Stake, Mother’s Day, Sunday, 11 May 1997. BY DUSTIN

This is the third of four installments this year in which we record the talks Dustin gave in church as a youth. ood afternoon, brothers and sisters, and happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers. Today I’m going to tell you about the most wonderful, the most special, and the most amazing woman in my life: my mother. I’m going to tell you how she has influenced and does influence me to be the upstanding young man, student in school, and Aaronic-Priesthood holder I hope to be. As is the case with any role model, she has probably influenced me the most with her example. What an incredible role model my mother is! She is caring, compassionate, kind, hard-working, trustworthy … she’s the ideal Scout, she really is, she just doesn’t like camping. One thing she has particularly influenced me by her example to be recently is trustworthy. She told me one time not too long ago that there have been people to tell her things in confidence that she would not tell another person. Not to this day has she told another person, not one, not even me, and many of those people she no longer keeps in touch with, yet she never will tell another soul what those people have told her in confidence. I don’t think she has ever realized or that she even knows what an impact that has had on me. See, I can recall one time in particular that somebody told me a secret and then a few days or weeks later I told that secret to the one person I was particularly forbidden to tell. None of the people involved really seemed to care, myself included, but I did feel remorseful about doing what I did a couple of years later when my mother told me what she has not done: told somebody else a secret told to her. This has brought me some respect among the people I know, and I have even been able to act as a mediator or peace-maker between two arguing people because of it. When it comes to hard-working, my mother is this and with hard-working in all caps bold, underlined, italicized, and highlighted. She works all morning before work, works all day at work, comes home exhausted, works some more, and then still puts up with me. I think that no matter how hard I work could I ever do just one-sixteenth of the work that she does. Oftentimes when some event happens in the life of someone we know, my mom does something for them that shows them she cares. Again, I don’t think that she realizes what an influence she is on me. These are just three of the innumerable ways my mother influences me and my life and everything I do. I would like to tell her and you how much I love her, and to do this, this morning I wrote a poem. I haven’t edited it, but I hope that it will do.

I know a woman that is like no other. I think she is a superwoman, But yet I simply call her my mother. Given to me by God was this woman; I think she is an angel in disguise,

Dustin, second from left, with his brother, Daniel, his mother, and his stepfather in August 1998, a little over a year after he gave this talk. They were visiting his uncle Bryan and aunt Kathy in Bakersfield, California, when this photo was taken. Even when she just looks at me with her eyes. She is patient, kind, caring, and sweet. I think to myself, She just can’t be beat. She puts up with me; I treasure her. Gifted is she and gifted I am not To do all she does — that I know for sure. Each day I get well taught. By whom? The answer I already know; The person — can there be somebody so? There is. Really, there is, and I got her. The least I can do is say, “I love her.” Who is this person? Who else but my mother. Mom, I love you very much and I can’t thank you enough for all you do for me. And this I say in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. d D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

N O T I F I C AT I O N S

APRIL–JUNE 2014 FA C E B O O K DUSTIN 3 April 2014, 7.35 Sometimes staying home with two kids is like having a radio that receives only one station -- and that station plays nothing but early ’90s hits. Fun at times, but you can listen to Sophie B. Hawkins only so many times before you go absolutely insane.

CF NP 3.49 F….”

DUSTIN 4 April 2014, 20.57 Nothing like discussing plate tectonics with your three year old on the subway ride home.

I didn’t start back at the beginning, but I did read the rest of it. Verbatim. “Total number of items sold = 7 4/15/14 5:29 PM 0227 15 0456 259… Please Use Bathroom Code:2833”

SUSAN 15 April 2014, 9.51 Fiona: Can I watch this video called “dinosaur train?”

Fiona likes weird things sometimes. —with Susan Hibdon

Me: Sure. Twelve seconds later, in the other room... Me: Fiona, I thought you wanted to watch that video.

Susan came to get her to do something else. “No!” Fiona protested. “I want to keep listening to this!” Then, turning to me, “Here, Dad, let me unfold this for you so you can read all of it. Start from the beginning.”

DUSTIN 24 April 2014, 8.03 He’s rather cute, isn’t he? —with Colin Everett Joyce

DUSTIN 5 May 2014, 16.24 Look at this guy!

SUSAN 5 May 2014, 22.03 Friends

Fiona: No, dinosaurs are scary, so I’m just going to wait out here until it’s over. SUSAN 16 April 2014, 22.55 Just discovered why you’re not supposed to use dish soap in the dishwasher. SUSAN 17 April 2014, 17.35 Kathy Bear. SUSAN 27 April 2014, 22.47 Guess who got a raincoat yesterday. A frog raincoat. With a matching hanger. ...Notice it’s a beautiful sunny day outside.

DUSTIN 18 May 2014, 18.15 Having tea with Fiona in her blanket fort.

DUSTIN 17 April 2014, 20.41 Fiona just brought me a receipt and said, “Read this to me.” So I did. Verbatim. “Whole Foods Market, 4 Union Square South, NYC… * eggs medium 28

DUSTIN 19 May 2014, 19.24 I don’t know if I should be proud or ashamed of myself for recognizing Olivia Newton-John’s voice singing over the PA system at CVS just now. —feeling confused

DUSTIN 29 May 2014, 12.56 I love how he’s so chill, lounging there with his feet propped up. —with Colin Everett Joyce at Forest Park (Queens)

DUSTIN 18 June 2014, 21.53 I’m pretty sure I haven’t had any fruit or vegetables all day. But I had a Blizzard at the new Dairy Queen in Manhattan and, really, that’s all that matters.

DUSTIN 20 May 2014, 19.51 Gazing at Times Square’s lights. —with Colin Everett Joyce at Times Square, New York City

DUSTIN 29 May 2014, 21.56 Sometimes the stars align, and so do your subway trains. Tonight on the way home was one of those rare times. Must be Manhattanhenge. SUSAN 23 May 2014, 19.44 Fiona’s latest song: “Colin, Colin, Colin is the best brother in the world.” DUSTIN 26 May 2014, 7.34 Fiona is so ridiculously adorable: wearing her superhero cape, surrounded by books, with her penguin pillow looking out the window. Still asleep. —with Fiona Claire Joyce

DUSTIN 17 June 2014, 15.28 How do you know you’re a wannabe foodie? You judge the temperature by whether your organic coconut oil is solid or liquid.

DUSTIN 30 May 2014, 9.06 For the first time in about a decade, I once again own the domain name http://dustinjoyce.com/ I think the internet just got a little bit better. DUSTIN 3 June 2014, 23.05 If you’ve noticed me suddenly following you elsewhere on the internet... yes, we just got a new phone. Setting up all the apps and they ask, “Do you want us to find your contacts?” And I’m like, what the heck, why not? SUSAN 9 June 2014, 23.10 Selfie

DUSTIN 21 June 2014, 10.37 I’ve come to the conclusion that many books, especially nonfiction ones, are longer than they need to be. It’s as though the author looked at his/her notes and thought, “Let’s just throw it all in,” and the editor didn’t have the nerve to stop it. DUSTIN 22 June 2014, 19.47 At Fiona’s request, I just counted backward from 100 to 0. The things I do for my kids. (However, her next request -- that I count down from 900 -- not so sure about that.) DUSTIN 25 June 2014, 20.07 Some guy just came up to me at the bus stop speaking Polish. When I looked at him askance he asked, “Oh, you don’t speak Polish? You look Polish.” I guess that’s a good thing? I mean, I sort of like not being recognized as a native in my own country. Only in New York. DUSTIN 27 June 2014, 15.46 Apparently my body is made up of 1,64 1,034,248,000,000,000,000,000,000 molecules, give or take a few septillion. So says the exhibit. —at New York Hall of Science DUSTIN 28 June 2014, 18.10 I’m pretty sure no one mumbles condescending things about other people as much as old ladies on buses in Manhattan.

DUSTIN 13 June 2014, 0.10 I love ice cream.

DUSTIN 30 June 2014, 13.50 Well, that’s a first: our NJ Transit train started going down the wrong track. Now, nearly an hour later -- and almost the time we were originally supposed to arrive at our destination -- we are on the right track. Literally.

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

TWITTER @SEOIGH 5 April 2014, 20.49 I notice that my ability to pay attention to #ldsconf has decreased in direct proportion to the number of children I have @SEOIGH 6 April 2014, 1.03 My only goal in life is to look as good as #PresUchtdorf when I’m that age (and be that cool, too) #ldsconf

@SEOIGH 20 April 2014, 2.23 Really irritated how websites have started to play video automatically (looking at you, @USATODAY, @CNN, @NBCNewYork … the list goes on).

@SEOIGH 8 April 2014, 13.32 I have discovered recently that corn flakes taste pretty good. Especially if you stir in chocolate chips.

@SEOIGH 20 April 2014, 14.08 Mormons are really not very good at this holiday worship service thing. At least I was 45 minutes late and missed most of it. #Mormon #LDS

@SEOIGH 9 April 2014, 22.35 Great day at the Central Park Zoo with my kids and friends. But that subway ride home was really lulling me to sleep.

@SEOIGH 22 April 2014, 14.19 “I was 19 the first time I had chorizo, but, boy, that was a good year!” -- My father-in-law

@SEOIGH 10 April 2014, 19.19 When you have one kid, you think you’re pretty good at this parenting thing. When you have two, you realize you don’t have a clue.

@SEOIGH 22 April 2014, 19.39 Finally got the new Twitter profile page. That’s, you know, cool. I guess.

@SEOIGH 10 April 2014, 20.00 If the District of Columbia wants to drop the name Washington, what demonym will residents use? DCers? Columbians? Districters? DoCans? #DC

@SEOIGH 31 May 2014, 2.32 #Bushwick: The neighborhood that’s like a frat party all summer long. #Brooklyn #NYC @SEOIGH 1 June 2014, 14.08 I wish I could spend sacrament meeting the same way.

@SEOIGH 24 April 2014, 18.08 @France2_Infos Une correction du JT de 20H d’hier soir : Sonia Sotomayor n’est pas président de la Cour suprême des É.-U. FYI @SEOIGH 25 April 2014, 23.48 #NYC has some of the slow-pokiest alwaysin-my-way people I’ve ever seen.

@SEOIGH 7 June 2014, 17.05 New York might be a nice place... if it weren’t for all the New Yorkers here.

@SEOIGH 10 April 2014, 23.01 Sometimes I pity others’ eardrums, both for the volume of their music and their taste in it.

@SEOIGH 10 May 2014, 18.31 It’s gotta be #NYC when you see a man walking down 6th Avenue with a python draped around his shoulders.

@SEOIGH 14 June 2014, 18.58 It’s amazing how every mall in America looks the same: same stores, same colors, same fashions, same processed air.

@SEOIGH 11 April 2014, 12.03 Cookies for breakfast. Sometimes I love being a grownup.

@SEOIGH 21 May 2014, 12.06 Random fact: At 6am on Sun, 3 Sept 1967, #Sweden switched from driving on the left to driving on the right. Just thought you’d like to know.

@SEOIGH 18 June 2014, 0.57 Just spotted my first firefly of the summer!

@SEOIGH 14 April 2014, 21.03 I just surpassed the 1,000-mile mark in my goal to ride the entire @MTA, @ NJTRANSIT, and @PANYNJ network. #1380miles @SEOIGH 14 April 2014, 21.27 #Hempstead, #WestHempstead @LIRR branches done. 1,004.5 mi/1,616.6 km/73% of #1380miles completed. @SEOIGH 15 April 2014, 7.05 Overcast. No moon, eclipsed or otherwise, in #NYC’s sky tonight. #lunareclipse @SEOIGH 16 April 2014, 20.06 At #Jamaica. The @LIRR’s City Terminal 30

Zone done, 1,016.9 mi/1,636.5 km/74% of #1380miles completed (includes a correction from Monday).

@SEOIGH 25 May 2014, 13.55 I can’t exactly say why, but I really dislike standing for the intermediate hymn. @SEOIGH 26 May 2014, 22.54 With my little superhero at the end of @ NJTRANSIT’s #GladstoneBranch. 1,105.5 mi/1,779.1 km/80% of #1380miles done.

@SEOIGH 18 June 2014, 23.31 I really dislike unnecessarily loud sneezes. Yes, fellow subway passenger, this tweet is in response to your sneeze. @SEOIGH 19 June 2014, 0.43 Yeah, for reals, I don’t actually know half the people I’m connected to on LinkedIn. @SEOIGH 19 June 2014, 1.39 I love fonts. I want to BUY THEM ALL. Except the ugly ones. @SEOIGH 21 June 2014, 23.39 Do you ever look at someone else writing and think, Wow, you have a weird way of holding a pen? Because I do.

I N S TA G R A M

@DTJOYCE 4 June 2014 Statue Of Balto The Sled Dog

@DTJOYCE 12 June 2014 Forest Park (Queens)

Fiona and Balto in Central Park. And my first post to Instagram.

Silly time.

@DTJOYCE 6 June 2014

@DTJOYCE 13 June 2014

Yeah, it’s June. So what? Sometimes big sisters do what they want.

Pure joy.

@DTJOYCE 8 June 2014

@DTJOYCE 15 June 2014

Riding the #Mtrain home from church. #NYCsubway

This week, we rode the bus home from church.

@DTJOYCE 19 June 2014 This guy.

@DTJOYCE 20 June 2014 Washington Square Park These kids. This place. (And this weather!) Life’s good.

@DTJOYCE 15 June 2014 The Shops at Nanuet These kids. Seriously. D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

T H E G A L L E RY

Drinking Jamba 2 July 2014, 14.00 edt Fiona looks demure while participating in one of Dustinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite pastimes: enjoying a cold smoothie from Jamba Juice on a hot summer day. 9 West 42nd Street, Manhattan

Chapeau 19 July 2014, 11.51 edt Colin wears the hat Dustin bought while studying in Aix-en-Provence, France â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and pulls it off a lot better than Dustin ever could. D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

T H E G A L L E RY

Exploring our home One of our favorite pastimes is exploring the incredible city we live in. The new phone that arrived on 2 June gave us new opportunities to navigate it and photograph it. â&#x2014;&#x20AC; Staple Street, Tribeca, Manhattan 15 June 2014, 18.08 EDT â&#x2013;ś 82 Jane Street, West Village, Manhattan 17 June 2014, 18.24 EDT

D I A L A N N J U LY 2 0 1 4

I S S U E 1 5 J U LY 2 0 1 4

“Ten years ago,” Dustin writes, “I spent a summer studying in a picturesque French city, exploring châteaux, and eating pains au chocolat. … But what truly made it the best summer ever was an enduring friendship” with Lisa, Honey, Nena, and Erin. SEE “THE BEST SUMMER EVER”, PAGE 16

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