Excerpts -- The Marketing of Sister B

If Donna Brooks had known the grief it was about to cause her, she would have never gotten out the cinnamon that morning. If she had really understood the jealousies and strained relations she was about to stir up, she would not have reached for her wooden spoon. If she had had any idea that by plugging in her crock pot that day she was throwing herself into an emotional pressure cooker, she would have simply said to the cosmic powers-that-be: "Are you nuts?? Count me out, honey, 'cause this gal does not want what you're selling!" But of course, there was no way to anticipate that favors for a visiting teaching luncheon would turn her into a national celebrity.

Donna Ray Brooks, the forty-three-year-old mother of four and resident of Rottingham, Massachusetts, member of the Commonwealth Falls First Ward, just wanted to make a little something nice for the women in her ward. She was "between callings" at the moment, which suited her fine. She had been released as Primary president and was enjoying a breather. Hank, her husband, had been tapped as the newest member of the high council, so the family had plenty of fingers in the church service pie.

In the two months since her release, she had tackled the elementary school's newly organized bulletin board for PTA and community notices, she had seen to it that her son's soccer team feasted on cupcakes decorated with geodesic patterns in the frosting, and she had organized the baby shower for Hank's co-worker that had proceeded flawlessly from cucumber soup to nut cups.

She decided she liked one-shot deals over long-time obligations. She would sign up to bring all the refreshments to a fifth-grade class party, but she did not want to be the room mother. That's how she worked best. It was not an issue of committing time because she spent enormous amounts of time doing one project after another. It was the psychic obligation of a long haul that bothered her. So it was one morning in September when she called the Relief Society president.

"Hi," she said. "This is Donna Brooks. I remember we have a visiting teaching luncheon next week and I thought I'd volunteer if you have any last minute needs."

"Great!" said Jane Schmidt enthusiastically. "Let me check it out with my counselors and get back to you." About half an hour later, Donna got a call from the homemaking counselor, Claudia Christiansen.

"Oh, Sister Brooks, I'm so delighted that you'll help. It's just so wonderful of you to volunteer like this. I tell you, it's like pulling teeth sometimes. But you just up and volunteer. Why, that's great. Sure wish we could bottle you. Just pop off the cork once in a while when we need a whiff of the real stuff, and there you'd be, Donna Brooks, right under our noses.

"Well, I've carried on here," Claudia continued. "Let me tell you what we could use. We want to have some little favor at each place setting. Something each sister could take home with her, you know, that might remind her of the day. Something maybe a little fun. Maybe cute. It wouldn't have to be super spiritual or anything. Just a little nice thing that would say, 'Sure think you're swell.' In fact, that would make a cute saying on a sponge. Do you know what I mean? When they used the sponge, it would get all puffy and swell up and they'd see the saying, 'Sure think you're swell.' I just thought of that right here on the spot. Oh, you don't have to use that idea. Use your own imagination. I've seen what you did with those Primary tots, so I know you've got a million great ideas.

"We also need somebody to clean up afterwards," she offered, "but I'd rather see you put your talents to better use. I'd say we need about fifty favors. That's optimistic, of course, since we usually don't get that great a turn-out. But this time we're having food and that always draws a crowd. It seems like the kind of thing the sisters might like to invite their visiting teaching folks to even if they haven't seen them for a while, so that will hike up the numbers. Fifty ought to do it."

Claudia was not yet done. "The budget's basically shot," she said, "so it can't be anything too pricey. But I know how you can pull rabbits out of thin air. Just, thank you, thank you for being so willing to do this. I think you're a fabulous person--very special to all of us in the presidency."

Donna hung up aware that her only contribution to the conversation had been to say hello. That was fine. She was pleased that they had challenged her creative abilities. Now, what could she put together that would not cost too much, that would not take too much time, and that would not be something that had been done to death? No grapevine wreaths wrapped with ribbons and dried flowers. No little straw, broad-brimmed hats with dried flowers. She didn't want to work with dried flowers in any configuration.

She toyed with beanbag dolls with round, wooden heads covered with fluffy hair. But she vetoed that for two reasons. First, it would be labor intensive. Second, the finished product would look like the bishop's wife--frizzy haired, round faced, and broad of beam. Thumbs down on magnets, too, even though there were imaginative things that could be done with salt dough, painted-wood slogans, ceramic casts, and little picture frames. But everybody did magnets. Besides, she already had a zillion magnets on her refrigerator.

She would not venture a bookmark again. During President Kimball's era, she asked one of the Young Women who had bragged about her calligraphy skills to letter the encouraging motto "Do It" on the ribbons. Only after the bookmarks had been distributed to stake dignitaries did she notice that the motto had become "DOLT."

This should be something truly creative. Something no one had ever done before. Something that she could make with things she had around the house. And she wanted the message of the trinket to symbolize the warmth and homey love and enthusiasm she felt for her sisters. She wanted it to be something that they might think about or carry with them in their minds or hearts. Something that might linger awhile and not be tossed into the next trash can, that would bridge the gaps of culture, age, education, and political persuasion in the ward.

That's when she remembered something Sister Christiansen had said. She had mentioned something about bottling, popping the cork, and taking a whiff. That's it! That's what she would do! A big vat of some kind of fragrance that she could pour into those little vials left over from the 4th of July boutonnieres she made for the Veterans of Foreign Wars. She would find little corks, tie some classy ribbon around the neck of the vials, and voila! Eau d'sisterhood! When they put a drop on their wrist or behind their ear, they would be surrounded by sisterly affection. Fragrance never fails!

But what should the fragrance be? Nothing too floral. She didn't want a traditional perfume smell. There was too much competition from those vaguely obscene Calvin Klein scents. It should be something fun and down-home like the smell of sawdust. No, that might make a good aftershave, but it wouldn't be right for a visiting teaching luncheon. What were the other evocative smells of the home? A fire in the fireplace. Nice, but too woodsy. She liked the smell of clean kitchen floors and the smell of the dishwasher when it was running because they represented order after chaos. But these were pine and lemon smells and nothing unique about them.

Then the idea came to her. The stroke of heaven-sent genius that sent her into four months of hell. The smell of baking cinnamon buns! This was perfect. The smell of love. The smell of something fabulous in process. It meant comfort and nourishment and nurture. What a perfect combination! Tender, homey, and a little zing of spice. This was it!

To the average homemaker, making perfume would have seemed preposterous. But Donna had a double major in family science and chemistry from BYU. She knew her way around a still, a Bunsen burner, and a crock pot.

In fact, she did reach for her crock pot, along with some cheese cloth and a wooden spoon. Then she began gathering sundry ingredients and equipment from the pantry, garage, basement. She got a note pad, as a good scientist would, and recorded her procedure. She put on a Bonnie Raitt tape since she wanted to be loose and funky and energetic. She was cookin'!

By the time the kids were due home from school, the kitchen looked like Betty Crocker, Jonas Salk, and Coco Chanel labs all rolled into one. To make sure her fragrance matched the real thing, she would have to make real cinnamon buns, and that would be perfect for snack time--one of the perks of research and development. Before long, the top of the dryer in the laundry room held fifty-five upright, tiny vials, all lined up in a rack and filled three-quarters full of a handsome auburn fluid. Each vial sported mauve and forest-green ribbons around its neck and a slim cinnamon stick in the ribbons' square knots. Donna could not have scripted a better scene than the one the kids encountered when they walked into the house.

"This is a balm to my troubled soul, Mother mine," said her fourteen-year-old daughter in her dramatic flair.

They consumed one cinnamon bun each, then Donna marched them into the laundry so she could show off her day's non-edible product. The kids were used to this kind of routine. With all the projects she did, they were used to being queried for their input and assessment. Usually they were harsh critics. She'd go back to the drawing board only if there were major, truly persuasive complaints from all four. This time, she probably wouldn't start over. She was exhausted and, after all, this was just a little gewgaw for the sisters, not the cure for cancer.

"These are favors for the visiting teaching luncheon next week," she explained. "It's perfume. Tell me what you think of it. Tell me what feelings come to mind. Tell me if you think the ribbons and cinnamon sticks look okay."

She extracted the cork from one of the vials and passed it briefly under their noses and then had them dab a little on their wrists. They waved their arms around and sniffed, and then their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. After a few moments of reverent silence, the chorus began again.

"Yummy smells in such a teeny tiny bottle. Mommy, it's my favorite thing you ever made."

"Subtle, but it says hearth and home, doesn't it?" again from the fourteen-year-old.

In retrospect, this was a momentous occasion. But in the living of it, it was just another day with the usual chores and routines of being a mother. By the time Hank got home from work, there were plenty of smells to compete with the cinnamon bun aroma from the fabric softener, a Magic Marker for a seventh-grade school project, and the dinner's stir fry. At bedtime, Donna's pride in her visiting teaching favors was supplanted by thoughts of seminary car pooling and the plot line of her Anne Perry mystery.

Getting ready for bed while Hank brushed his teeth, Donna remembered the towels that were still in the dryer. She trooped down, emptied the towels into the laundry basket, and turned to march back upstairs to fold them while they watched TV. But then she put the basket down and took the cork off one of the little vials the kids had sampled and dabbed a little behind her ears. Basket in both hands, she continued upstairs.

Hank was already nestled under the covers chuckling at David Letterman's monologue, clutching the remote, when Donna dumped the towels onto her side of the bed and began to fold them.

"No. It's dry. See?" Donna laughed, tossing her brunette locks with a mock vampiness.

"Check it out," Donna threw a towel at him; it covered his head. She could hear him sniffing underneath the towel.

This was unusual. Hank rarely talked during the monologue. Here he was sniffing, rifling through the laundry, stammering with an intriguing growl. Now his arms were around her. He was nuzzling her neck--something that never happened during Letterman.

"It's you, Donna! You smell so fabulous!" He tossed the remote onto the floor.

Next morning. Donna called Sister Christiansen and told her the favors were ready and that she thought the sisters would be pleased. She said she had made something for the women that was wholesome and heartwarming and that seemed, from all indications, to have just the right amount of spice.

The luncheon program went off rather well as these things go. The attendance was better than Sister Christiansen had feared; Donna guessed about forty-five people, including at least five whom she was sure she had never seen before. President Schmidt spoke about the importance of the individual. Donna liked President Schmidt's talks because she always cut to the chase. No flowery anecdotes or worn-out cliches, no admonitions to crank up the statistics. Just clear thoughts presented straight from the hip. Margo Cabot, Donna's best friend in the ward, always complained that President Schmidt lacked "panache." Donna was confused, thinking this had something to do with caramelized candy; but when Margo explained, they both had a good laugh over it.

What President Schmidt lacked in presentation, she made up for in candor. Today she said: "Our ward has a lot of oddballs in it, and some of you are not going to want to visit the women you're assigned to. I know that. But I still want you to visit them. So does Heavenly Father." Somehow you had the feeling that if anyone knew what God wanted, it was President Schmidt. She also announced that the visiting teaching routes had been changed and that new assignments would be distributed Sunday.

There were audible groans when Sister Schmidt announced this. There are few things that shake up a ward like restructuring the visiting teaching routes. Even Donna thought the president could have lowered the boom a little more gently on this topic. Not that it affected Donna much. She had a pleasant enough visiting teaching companion--Gladys Brockbank--and only three women to visit. One of them, a long-time less than active sister, was a surly curmudgeon, so if Donna's assignment changed in some way, it would not be the end of the world.

Beyond that little surprise, the program moved smoothly into a piano and flute duet by Verna Crumrine and her ten-year-old daughter Felicity. Then Ingrid Herlihy, the bishop's hefty better half, spoke about three favorite visiting teaching experiences.

Sister Herlihy was a pleasure to listen to because of her Norwegian accent. She told about going with her visiting teaching sisters for a picnic on the hill where the temple was going to be built. One sister got poison ivy, but that in itself was an inspirational story, the way it cleared up. The second tale was about consistency. She developed a habit of giving her Pekinese dog a heart-worm pill on the thirtieth of the month. Since her visiting teachers were always there on the thirtieth, this reminded her to do it, and she was sure that it prolonged Delilah's life. The third story was about the importance of prayer. She said she once had to visit a lady with really pungent body odor. She tried to think of a way to endure the visits and made it a matter of prayer. The next time she visited, she noticed that the woman's kitchen was full of garlic that she consumed for her health. Sister Herlihy went out and bought some compressed garlic tablets for the woman and the odor was never a problem again.

Following Sister Herlihy, Laura Mandarini sang, "Oh, That I Were an Angel," which is always a crowd pleaser. Spiritually massaged, the sisters then left the chapel and proceeded into the cultural hall. The chicken and broccoli casseroles steamed on the buffet tables. Rose-colored tablecloths adorned the tables set with plastic plates and utensils. Each table had a pitcher of water with lemon wedges, salt and pepper shakers, a stick of butter, and a wicker basket with rolls. Donna spied her dainty vials at each setting looking absolutely perfect on the rose table cloths.

"Sisters, if you would just pause for a moment," began Sister Christiansen, slapping the squealing microphone. "We have a few announcements. Take a seat wherever you find an empty space. No name cards. You know, sisters, we thought about that, but it's too formal, even though we wouldn't want to forget even one sister after what President Schmidt said about the importance of the individual. No, no, no. Introduce yourselves to everyone at your table. We'd like you to try a little game and ask each other what animal you would be if you could pick. That way you can get a feel of each other's spirit on a more personal level. I believe we have some non-members here among us, and we especially want to welcome you and make you feel at home. So, please sisters, yes, just come right along and take your seats for a moment. You'll see we've got your plates at the table, and--when the time comes, not quite yet, mind you--take your plates to the serving table in two lines.

"First, though, we have some thank you's to make. Sister Schmidt for organizing our lovely music and program this morning (gentle applause). Second, for the food, thanks goes to, well, you know, Heavenly Father, which Sister Martha Duncan will say when she offers our blessing. But besides Him, the 'hands that prepared it' part, just keep in mind that those hands belong to Sisters Jennifer Blocker, Rosamund Thatcher, and Francis Kelly. Thank you so much (more gentle applause). Then to me for heading up the decorations, which of course wasn't all my doing. Heavens no! Sisters Karen Beesley, Doreen Putnam, and Sarah Miles set and decorated our tables. And the oh-so-lovely bottles at your tables are courtesy of Sister Donna Brooks who made each of us a perfumed oil so we can carry the feeling of our meeting with us in our hearts after we leave. I suppose you could put it right on your hearts, if you wanted to dab a little there. But do that part at home. I'd personally put it on the pulse points like Sister Butler taught us about in Homemaking last year. Do you remember that, ladies? Such a fine lesson. Anyway, thanks to all of you who made this afternoon possible, from the bottom of my heart, which is where I'll carry the feeling of this meeting with me all week long and into my daily life and for all eternity."

At this point, Martha Duncan hustled up to the microphone. She snatched it from Sister Christiansen so she could say the blessing before the steam stopped rising from the casseroles.

When Donna returned to her table with her food, her luncheon table partners were Margo, Elizabeth Potter, Juliet Benton, Doreen Putnam, and a woman whom Donna didn't know, who apparently came with Doreen. The woman looked different from the rest of the ladies there. Snazzier. Better groomed, or it may have been her outfit. Most of the other women seemed to be dressed for church. No, they seemed dressed like church--plain and frugal with few accoutrements, everything durable and staid. This woman had what even Donna could recognize as panache. Her make-up was perfect. She had a smart suit, a crisp cotton shirt that must have been a bear to iron, and jewelry that caught your eye but didn't overwhelm.

"Hello, hello," said Margo, extending her hand to the new woman. "I just love your earrings. I was eying them during the meeting. I'm Margo Cabot. Are you visiting with Doreen today?"

"Hello, Margo. I'm Lucy Hobbes from New York City." Lucy nodded and smiled to Donna and to the other women at the table.

"Lucy and I were roommates at Columbia. She's made it big out there," Doreen said.

"What brings you here today?" asked Margo.

"I haven't seen Doreen and Matt since they got married a year ago. I thought it was about time to catch up," Lucy said.

"What do you do?" Donna asked.

That was a question Donna herself hated. When she attended office functions with Hank and people asked her what she did, she never knew how to answer the question. What would be appropriate? I manage a small collection of bipedal primates? I am a chauffeur? A diplomat? She usually mumbled something about being a community volunteer and that sufficed.

"I'm in marketing," Lucy said.

"Would that be Star Market, dear?" asked Elizabeth Potter. Elizabeth was nearly eighty and had hearing problems. Donna noticed Margo's eyes roll.

"It isn't that kind of marketing," Margo said, raising her voice a bit and speaking slowly and distinctly.

"What aspect of marketing are you involved in?" Margo asked. Margo was normally energetic, but she seemed even more enlivened now.

"I watch for new products and connect them with agents, promoters. If my intuition is good, we all skip merrily to the bank," she explained with a chuckle.

"I do my shopping at Star Market and they have bank machines now right next to the check-out counter. It's very convenient," said Elizabeth. "You should try it."

"Sounds like a good idea," said Lucy graciously. "How about you ladies? Who are you? How do you fill your time?"

There was a moment of silence at the table. This, Donna assumed, was the time required for the mental gymnastics demanded by the question. Margo leaped out with hearty introductions. No one needed to make up games about what kind of animal they would like to be when Margo could cover that in a bullet point or two, all neatly packaged. Donna smiled.

"The matriarch among us," Margo began as she took hold of Elizabeth's two frail shoulders, "is Elizabeth Potter. Mother of eight, grandmother and great-grandmother, and an extraordinary quilter. She has practically memorized all the scriptures, including some of the more lurid passages of the Old Testament, and she can tell you her genealogy back to four separate royal lines. She has also experimented with sericulture just like in the nineteenth-century."

"What's sericulture?" asked Elizabeth.

"You know, when you try to raise silk worms in your basement."

"Oh, yeah. I guess I've settled for vermiculture under the kitchen sink."

"Here's Juliet," Margo continued undaunted. "What's your last name, Juliet?"

"I'm Juliet Benton," she said quietly. She seemed ready to speak for herself, but Margo carried on.

"Why, you and Juliet have something in common. Juliet just moved here from New York City, didn't you?"

"I moved from Ithaca, not Manhattan. It's nice to meet you."

"Anyway, there is a common ground there, I'm sure. Juliet's our ward scholar. If you want to know anything about German history, just call her."

"Actually, it's art history," Juliet corrected.

"I'm sorry, Juliet." said Margo. "Art? Don't let anybody know that or they'll nab you for the visual aids!"

"I don't do art, I teach it. The painters, the periods, the influences," she said.

"I still think they'll nab you," Margo cautioned. "Next we have Doreen whom you know, and I'm Margo Cabot. I work in the dental offices of Drs. Abbott and Costelli. Is that hilarious? I can't tell you how often we hear patients comment about that. Anyway. I've got two daughters off at college. One at the Y and one at Amherst. I'm a transplanted Idahoan, and I freed myself from the world's worst husband ten years ago. I'm a frustrated capitalist and I want your life!"

Everyone laughed, but it was true, Donna knew.

"And last but not least, we have Donna Brooks. Donna is smart as a whip, double major in college. She has four lovely children and a husband who is a bit of a hunk, if she doesn't mind me saying so. Donna is really creative. Why, these jars here at the table are her brainchild." Margo held up one of the little bottles of oil.

"Just what is this, Donna?" Lucy asked. "It looks so lovely."

"I thought they were for consecrated oil," Margo whispered to Donna out the corner of her mouth.

"I haven't quite thought of the right name for it, but it's like an essential oil. I wanted a fragrance that brings to mind home and hearth," she said, remembering her daughter's alliterative description. "I'm quite fond of it. It smells great, and everyone at home is pleased with it. Take out the corks and dab a little on. You don't need to get anywhere near your hearts."

The five women gamely uncorked their vials and sampled the oil. Once again the reaction was euphorically positive. The ladies at the neighboring table became aware of the subtle fragrance and soon everyone in the room was dabbing on their cinnamon scented oil.

Suddenly Elizabeth Potter stood up and began reciting verses from the Bible in a louder voice than anyone had ever heard from her:

And cinnamon, and odors, and ointments, and frankincense, and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots, and slaves, and the souls of men. For who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She girdeth her loins with strength and strengtheneth her arms. Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in the time to come. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates!

Lucy Hobbes leaned over to Donna, handed her a business card, and whispered, "Could you give me your phone number? We've got to talk business."