'Stud muffins,' mormon style.

When I was riding my bike to campus I saw two guys headed my way, walking down the sidewalk in a residential area. Dressed in tidy black slacks, immaculate white shirts, conservative neckties, each carrying a well-worn dark-bound book, even at half a block away, I recognized who they were and what they were up to.

I hailed them warmly: "Good morning, Elders!" And with huge smiles and great gusto, they returned the greeting, "Good morning, good morning!"

They were, of course, young men on mission with the Mormon church, visiting Corvallis for an extended period to go door-to-door spreading the word about their faith. That takes the kind of nerve I couldn't work up if I tried for a year. But I love people who are in the fires of a spiritual quest, so of course I smiled and waved.

I have always liked these guys. They get the door slammed in their face, they get cussed out, and yet they remain endlessly courteous, with bounteous good humor. Mormons are famous for their good-neighborliness, hearty energy, and general all-around, clean-cut demeanor. They have radio and TV commercials that take a stand for decency and compassion, and they comb their hair. They make our nice Catholic kids look rather scruffy by comparison. I like 'em.

And I found myself recalling a day in late autumn, some years ago, when our two oldest daughters were teen-agers They were at home alone, and two elders came to the door. Our daughters engaged them in conversation for a considerable time. The elders said they would come into the house only when we, the parents, were at home, and indeed they did.

In the parlance of the girls at the time, these guys were "stud muffins." Hunks. And the nicest guys you'd ever hope to meet. Of course, as elders, they had serious business, and they withdrew with our kids downstairs into the family room to discuss their faith. One visit ended about dinner time and we invited them to dine with the family. They were most grateful for the free food. This was the first of several visits and sharing of table, and always, either before or after dinner, the elders went into the family room to counsel with our teen-aged daughters. It sounded to us a lot like kids just having fun, whooping it up.

Now, I don't know if this is true or not, but our daughters told us several things. According to them, while the elders were on a mission, they were refraining from certain things, like, they didn't listen to rock records. But, said our teen angels, they apparently were not refraining from playing footsie under the dinner table. Well-balanced youths, those.

When Christmas came around, we invited the elders to have Christmas dinner with our family, and our daughters-knowing full well the mischief they were making-gave them a Christmas present: Billy Joel's recording of "Uptown Girl."

Bad girls, we said. Bad, bad girls. The poor guys aren't supposed to listen to pop music; you are very wicked. The elders opened their present in the family room, and shortly after we were surprised to hear Billy Joel: "Uptown girl..." (boom boom). Turns out that the elders had expressed concern that our kids might have spent their hard-earned allowances on a record that was defective, and to be sure that it was not, it would only be prudent to test it. They tested it about twenty times, and-admit it-everybody danced. To do otherwise, explained the elders soberly, would be to dishonor their hostesses.

Then one night, the session in the family room was going on longer than usual and the voices were muffled. Suddenly, our eldest daughter whooshed up the stairs and came leaping into the kitchen, "Mom! Dad! When the elders come upstairs, just agree with everything they say!"

What? What? "Well, the guys said that they had been wondering for a long time why we were all nice to them, and we told them that actually, we are Mormons."

"What?"

"Yeah"-(breathless, fast)-"we told 'em that we are a Mormon 'Test House,' to be sure that the elders are behaving themselves on missions, and that this is a big secret. Nobody ever tells the elders about the test houses."

Before we could gather our wits, our other daughter and the two elders romped into the kitchen, laughing hysterically "Wow, the elders said, wow, wow, wow!" They pumped my husband's hand energetically, beaming, and before they left, we shook hands all around, saying things like "So, how about that!" and "Oh, my!" and "Well, well, well!"

"Wow," they said when they left, still laughing, "wow."

The visits continued throughout their mission, with nothing more said about our being a test house, and we all hugged when it was time for them to leave Corvallis.

A couple of years later, one of the two hunks returned with pictures of his wife and baby. I didn't ask if they had really believed our very bad daughters. All I know is, it was a lovely episode, and when I saw those two guys on the sidewalk, I really meant it: "Good morning, Elders, great good morning. Just watch out for those test houses with the very bad girls."

Judy Ringle lives in Corvallis, Oregon. This article first appeared in the Oregon State University Daily Barometer.