My cousin was a prophet. Actually, THE prophet. Technically he was my first cousin twice-removed, the first cousin of my paternal grandmother Vera Hinckley Mayhew. I never met him, of course, and the only thing I can remember from family lore was that she liked her younger cousin.

When I was about 11, I auditioned for a major part in an opera--or operetta of some kind--about the Mormon socialist experiment in Orderville Utah. (A little known fact is that Mormon doctrine prescribes a sort of communal socialism as the ideal form of economic organization.) Anyway, the audition was quite grueling, and my throat hurt afterwards. Although I could match the pitches fine, my voice was starting to change and the range was slightly too high for comfort. I got the part, I think, since I was the only one available for it, but a few days later my older sister told me that production was cancelled because they were going to charge an exorbitant fee for the performance rights. I was both disappointed and somewhat relieved, I think. I haven't thought of this experience in years. It's not part of my normal narrative of my life, but a kind of anomaly. When I remember it, which is rarely, I wonder whether it really happened or whether anyone else remembers it. It does have sort of dream-like quality.