On a perfect Spring day in 2009, I sat in my car watching the goings on in the Hildale park, while I waited for a morning meeting to start at their town hall. I was marveling at the fun all those children were having. Their park was a wonderland.
Most city parks are built with concern for potential injury lawsuits, or for the safety of children, with pathetic plastic slides and with swing sets that hang too low to the ground, so if a child falls he won't fall too far.
That is not the kind of park Hildale had.
The Hildale park was a marvelous complex of dangerous fun. The slide was the longest I had ever seen outside of a carnival or theme park. The children climbed an artificial mountain complete with crags and cliffs, hopped on the slide, and flew down, with their hair flapping in the wind. Boys in their jeans and long-sleeved shirts, and girls in their iconic pastel-colored dresses, went up and down, and ran from the playground where the slide was, off to the swings, then back again. In the distance a tree swing made of a giant tire that hung from thick rope or chain, was tied to a high branch of an oversized tree. It swung in a slow arc from the sky, then nearly to the ground, then back up to the sky. A teenaged girl gave the tire a strong push at each pass and kept the fun going for much longer than seemed prudent.
Four women sat in a minivan nearby watching all the children play.
I had just opened a giant bag of Skittles and popped a few into my mouth. I hadn't chewed on the candy for more than a few seconds when there was a knock on the car door. There were two little boys staring at me. I don't know where they came from, but their little begging eyes were gazing into mine. They were six or seven years old.
"Can we have some candy?" one little boy asked.
"Um..." I looked over at the women in the minivan, and their large eyes told me they were concerned about the situation. I told the boys, "If your mother says it's okay, I'll give you some."
The boys walked to the minivan, and after a moment I saw the woman in the driver's seat shake her head. Then the boys walked back to my open window and the little spokesman told me, "My mother said I can have some candy."
I started to laugh, but stopped myself. I was tickled to see the little gentlemen lie so blatantly. "I saw your mother say 'no'," I said. "Sorry." I really wanted to give them some candy. But in Hildale, like in most places, we teach our children not to take candy from strangers.
I started to laugh, but stopped myself. I was tickled to see the little gentlemen lie so blatantly. "I saw your mother say 'no'," I said. "Sorry." I really wanted to give them some candy. But in Hildale, like in most places, we teach our children not to take candy from strangers.
I turned my attention back to the amazing playground.
The boys did not go away. They stood at the car door with their big eyes staring at the bag of candy that lay on the passenger's seat. I tried to ignore them for a while. I picked up a book and tried to read, but after a minute I closed the book and turned back to the boys. They were standing quietly with their hands at their sides and with their eyes hopeful.
I turned to their mothers, who were still watching me. Now they were smiling. I shrugged and tried to express with my face, can't I just share? They understood, and the mother in the driver's seat gave me a cautious nod. So I poured a few skittles into their little hands and they ate them.
"Can my brothers and sisters have some?" the boy asked.
"Sure." I said.
The boys ran off to the playground.
What I had momentarily forgotten was the size of families in Hildale. When I offered to share my candy with the boy's siblings, I actually offered to share my candy with his own mother's children, but also his half-siblings, the children of the other three mothers in the minivan.
It didn't take me long to realize that every child at the park--I counted two dozen--was a sibling. The children that filled this park with so much movement came from a single polygamist family.
In a minute my car was surrounded. The tiny hands of little ones, their fingers twisting and opening and closing, reached into the car, and I tried my best to pour an equal number of Skittles into each one. After the little children, the older children and teen-aged children reached out their hands and got some candy. Then the little ones were back again, followed again by the older ones. Soon my family-sized bag of candy was gone.They had saved me from the sugar-binge I certainly planned to have that day.
The children soon began walking, running, and bouncing back to the playground. I was laughing to myself. The mothers in the minivan were laughing too.
Soon I found the two little boys back at my window. I was sure they knew the candy was gone. But now they had their eyes on my other snack, a bag of pumpkin seeds that also lay on the passenger's seat.
"Can we have some seeds?" the boy asked.
"Sure," I said. I poured seeds into their hands and again they ran off to tell their siblings, and again my car was surrounded.
This time I was a friend. I was the giver of wonderful things. They sat on the bumpers and bounced, then ran in circles around the car. They shouted "thank you" over and over. Their mothers must have thought it was a hilarious spectacle, because they were throwing their heads back with laughter. Only one of them, a young woman, perhaps the youngest of the wives, looked at me with a kind of mocking pity, and shrugged, then burst into laughter along with the other sister-wives.
When the bag of seeds was empty, the children went away again. The two little boys, now at the passenger's window, peered in, but seeing no more treats they waved at me and ran back to the playground.
This was certainly a unique experience compared to the usual friendly and talkative but subdued personalities I usually encountered in Hildale. This was my first time seeing unhinged joy and loud laughter there.
This was certainly a unique experience compared to the usual friendly and talkative but subdued personalities I usually encountered in Hildale. This was my first time seeing unhinged joy and loud laughter there.
In the news and in pop culture FLDS members are thought to be mindless cult members led by a handful of psychopaths. I can't completely disagree with that assessment. But after my years getting to know them, when I think of the FLDS people, I see human brothers and sisters who want to love and be loved, and who want to connect with the outsiders they have been taught to fear.
I'm grateful for that experience, and for so many other opportunities I was given to get to know the people in Hildale, Utah.