Derus or Bizarro Wolfords

From Kids

So a couple of days after Jane Ella was born, I took a trip over to Patti's place to see the baby and have a visit. We'd asked them if could we bring them dinner, and since they live in Slaterville and have a functional relief society, they told us to hold off, Mary decided to make them a freezer meal. Korean Stir Fry - if you haven't tried it, check the recipe.

From Kids

So as we're chatting, Kayla brings up the idea of getting all four girls together (the Joe & Lynette grandkids) for a picture. They start naming names, and they are all my kids. Ellie, Anna, Jane, and Kathrine have all been used. I made an off-hand remark about them copying all my kids, and furtive glances were shared amongst all the Derus present (including Patti.)

From Kids

Now I'm not one to toss out accusations lightly, but those Derus are name stealers. If they ask you what the names of your kids are, just tell them that you number your children. Otherwise - watch out! You may be next. If they don't get one of you guys, their next girl will have to be named Thomas.

From Kids

Writing Sample

From 24th of July

This past winter I put in an application for the governor's fellowship. It's like an intern for old guys like me where I am borrowed by the governor's office for 6 months. In the application process they asked for a writing sample. As most of you already know, I trend towards the silly when I write. The instructions on the application form were ambiguous, so rather than write a professional document, I decided to pen down a story about the Army Band that I had been wanting to write for some time.

Here goes -- Thanks to JPE for the photos.



Approaching my senior year at Ogden High School, military service was something that I was sure was good for many people but not something for me. The church requires two years of me, and military service would put off career aspirations far too long for my liking. Compounding the time delay was the inevitable torture of basic training which left me more than happy and content to leave the defense of our nation to other more physically capable candidates. It was with some surprise that I found myself enlisting in the Army Reserve to be part of the Judge Advocate General’s Corp at Fort Douglas.

After returning from my missionary commitment, all of the slots were full in our slimmer more responsive unit and after a stint with a logistical unit, I found a home with the Utah National Guard’s 23rd Army Band. The intent was to finish up my initial six-year tour and then get out, but I quickly found that this was going to be a life-long commitment that I was happy to make. One of the advantages to being a bassoon player is that you don’t have to be very good to get opportunities to play; there just aren’t that many of us.

Each summer the band plays a host of summer concerts. It’s really the same, or nearly the same, concert multiple times, but we make sure that we invite all concert-goers to our next one hoping that all of the Sousa marches sound enough alike that they won’t be able to tell that we are playing the same ones. I think of it as like listening to a CCR album: didn’t I just hear Proud Mary?

The first concert of the season is always in Brigham Park just east of Temple Square in Salt Lake. It’s an enjoyable concert to play and hopefully to hear as well. The church volunteers and employees set up lawn chairs and the water on the east side makes a nice backdrop for our makeshift stage.

One year, being particularly memorable, I had been unable to find a parking place close to the park, so I parked a couple of blocks east of the park at an LDS Church. I figured I was playing a concert on church property, so the sign saying that there was no parking except for church functions obviously didn’t apply to me.

I arrived at the park a little out of breath and quickly assembled my bassoon. I always enjoy scanning the crowd and trying to guess how well some of the selections will go over with the crowd. We had chosen a piece that was modern and a little dissonant which tends to not appeal to the older crowds. Brigham Park usually attracts an older audience, so I was a little nervous that we’d get a letter or two through the adjutant general’s office telling us that we need more Sousa and less Ives.

As I looked around the crowd, my eyes kept returning to a man in the front row just off center from the front of the band. He was wearing grey slacks and a white shirt that showed, by the straining buttons around the midsection, that life had been good to him. His countenance and demeanor seemed to radiate with such outward happiness betraying an inner joy so complete that it just had to be let out. My images of Santa Clause have been immutably changed since that day because of a deeper appreciation for the adjective “jolly.”

As the concert progressed, we reached what continues to be my favorite part. During nearly every concert we play an arrangement of the military service hymns. Before we play, the commander asks that individuals in the audience who have served, or have a family member currently serving, stand during the hymn of their branch.

It has always fascinated me to watch the men and women who served in the military and the reaction of the audience during this medley. The Navy Song begins after a brief introduction. Typically, probably because it is the first song, there is some trepidation for those sailors to stand up. Eventually they all get up, sometimes in several waves, which garners multiple stages of applause, and the college-fight-song type melody results in clapping with the beat of the song.

The medley then progresses to the Marine Hymn. Those marines have by far the most recognizable hymn, and when those lean and muscular old men come to attention bellowing out the words of that beloved song, you get a hint of the fear that island enemies from long ago must have felt anticipating these devil dogs making shore.

The next song is the Coast Guard Hymn. Not only do few recognize it (even for sailors who served in the coast guard) but Utah has very few citizens who served in that branch. My thoughts usually turn to nervous anticipation that someone will stand up to be recognized. It nearly always happens, but when we’re eight bars into the song, I’ve all but given up hope just as one or two stand up.

The Air Force Song betrays this unique branch of the service that sends its officers to fight while the enlisted men and women stay on base in support roles. These men and women cheerily stand and usually wave as the audience applauds. They grin while they sing looking more like friends reminiscing about good times of days gone by then fighting men and women. “We happy few” definitely refers to the Air Force.

The medley ends with an energetic rendition of the Army Song. Even with the unfortunate word change from The Caisson Song contributing to a general lack of familiarity with the lyrics, the sheer number of soldiers who stand, usually besting all of the other services combined, elicits such a reaction from the audience that the patriotic zeal drives the song to its conclusion far more than the band does. It fills my heart to be numbered amongst those who served. That feeling hasn’t changed from the first concert I played to the 101st; it remains the high point of every concert.

On this particular day, I began to scan the audience during the sixteen bar introduction to the Navy Song. Because this song is played nearly every concert, the music no longer serves as a road map but more as a reminder for where those fingers need to be. Most of the time the fingers remember just fine on their own. As the sailors from days past began to stand, my eyes once again were trained on this happy gentlemen sitting on the front row.

I recognized that he was going to stand up as the song began, and I expected him to gingerly emerge from his lawn chair with an appreciative grin to those who were already recognizing his service with thankful applause. A transformation occurred as I watched: gone was the happy man approaching his twilight years and in his place was flint-jawed, steely-eyed sailor. His posture was straight and sure. His fingers were gently curved finding the seam of his trousers on each side. The flash of his eyes was that of an able-bodied sailor standing ready for a torpedo strike, an enemy aircraft attack, or to oppose the very gates of hell herself if aligned against the interests of the United States Navy.

My amazement was so sudden that I began to miss notes and had to drag my eyes away from him to return to the road map of notes before me on the music stand. By the time I could look back, the sailor was again gone replaced by the happy man who had been there before.

I have thought often about this sailor in the years since this concert. Part of me regrets not finding him afterwards and thanking him for his service. Most of all I am amazed that even with the passage of what must have been many years since his active service, those emotions were rekindled to pyre-like intensity by the first three notes of Anchors Away.

From 24th of July

One of the things that I love about Brigham City is the tabernacle on Main Street.

I can remember driving through Salt Lake City when we were young. Mom would comment that when she was little you could see the Salt Lake Temple from all over the valley because it was the biggest building downtown. She lamented the growth of the other high-risers obscuring the view of that magnificent building.

When we pass the Perry rest area going north, I always look to see the white spire of the Brigham Tabernacle. I imagine Brigham must look a little bit likethe Salt Lake valley did years and years ago.

Taken conference Sunday using my 18-55 "kit" lens.

It could even convert a vegetarian

We got this from this Ashley & Matt -- Ashley did an eighteen month stint in Korea. The lettuce wraps are divine, but it really shines in stir fry.



Korean Bulgogi
3-4 lbs thinly sliced beef (just thicker than lunch meat - the butcher will do this for you and you don't even have to ask very nicely
1/2c. soy sauce
3 T. sesame oil
4T. roasted sesame seeds
1& 1/2 T. beef boullion
1 c. chopped green onions
2 T. chopped garlic
1 T. garlic powder
2T sugar
1/2c. water

Mix everything except the beef in a mixing bowl. Make sure the sugar and boullion have a chance to dissolve. Mix in the meat and thouroughly marinade for at least 2 hours. On medium high heat cook the strips of beef on an outdoor BBQ or broil, or stir fry with vegetables. I always broil on a cookie sheet that is covered with tinfoil. Serve with rice. The best way to eat this is to take a piece of lettuce, put some rice in, a piece of BBQ beef, and a drop of seasoning called Sam-Jang (you can buy it at any Korean market and sometimes in the ethnic food section of your local megamart) wrapped up like a tortilla. But the meat alone is also delicious.

Poetry Sample

I wrote this a couple of years ago for the David & Patti Forum. It's one of those that I probably find more amusing than others do, but here ya go anyway

Ode to the utensils



The quandary with those tricky foods
Is which utensil should I choose.
As not to vex my company,
I sacrifice efficiency.

Niblet corn sings fork me please.
It's joined in song by tasty peas.
A quiet chorus joins the tune:
Tis easier to use the spoon.

A dainty shovel to my right
Makes veggies vanish from my sight.
Yet cutting meat is quite a chore;
Excavator, I need more!

Soup of chicken noodles, Hey!
They slide right off my spoon you say.
The darkest region of my soul
Gives vile advice: drink from the bowl.

The fork will scoop those noodles, boss.
It's like spaghetti with thin sauce.
Check for lookers; here's the tip:
Just lift that bowl right to your lip.

Social graces stand aside.
Be gone you bridle of false pride!
When contemplating spoon or fork,
You keep the rest; I'll take the Spork.

For the Birds

We've taken a brief drive out to the bird refuge and a drive into Ogden to go to Beus Pond. Both were fun and it gave me a chance to try to take some nice pictures. My success rate for usable/unusable pictures is about .05% and when you see these you might think it should probably be dropped a little lower ;)

The Scrunch Face

 

So a couple of months ago William Thomas started doing this bizarre scrunch up face thing. At first it seemed like a bad smell face, but it's turned into a semi-permanent fixture.

 

Maybe it's just squinting at the sun.

 

Oh wait -- Ellie does it too

 

At least Anna doesn't do it - oh wait



Uh-oh -- looks like it's genetic.



I guess we should have known from the day we brought him home from the hospital that his face was going to be scrunchy

How I hate to see two turn to three

How I hate to see 2 turn to 3

How does an idea become a cultural icon? A concept so sure, that you just wait for it to happen. Years ago we took our first baby into our pediatrician and my wife announced that he had a runny nose because he was teething. Our pediatrician chuckled with condescension and informed us that babies are always teething. When the nose runs, and you check for teeth, you’ll always find one coming through. If you check when the nose isn’t running, you’ll find one coming through as well.

Leaving his office as better informed parents, and with four more kiddos worth of experience to teach me better, it is still nearly impossible for me not to check for a new tooth every time the nose runs.

I heard a new mother complain about the terrible twos the other day. I’ve been on a one-man campaign for a while now to improve the image of those besmirched 365 days of growth. It’s a year that is so bad that it is referred to in plural form. Is this really fair? Is two worse than one or three? The teenage years spread the derision over 7 birthdays – and even more if you count the preteens and tween years. Two has gotten a bum rap.

I’m no stranger to the one-man public education campaign. I once decided it was my job to inform every person who called 9-1-1 inappropriately that they would need to call a business line. A gentleman who downplayed the reason for his call before informing me of exactly what that reason was, was informed that he needed to call back. When he did, and talked to me again, he promptly informed me that his wife was having a heart attack.

That pretty much took the wind out of my campaign.

Past setbacks aside, I’m sure I have a winnable issue this time.

I have four children who have successfully lived through their third year of life on this planet. I still have one to go, but the odds of him making it are pretty good. My first boy was the first grandson on both sides. We just liked to sit around and watch him do stuff. Every morning he would wake up, run to the bathroom, push all the shampoo and conditioner bottles into the tub, run to the videocassette cabinet, pull all the cassettes out onto the floor, and then go dig in the garbage. It was like clockwork. The glee and zeal with which he performed this duty were contagious. Could we have stopped him from doing it? Of course we could. Did we publicly complain to friends and relatives how hard it was to clean up those messes over and over? Of course we did. Did we absolutely love watching him go through his routine? Of course we did.

I think back to all the funny mispronunciations that my children have used. Anna calling her uncle Dadid, Steven saying Buh-Steven instead of Buh-Anna when he thought it unfair that Anna had a fruit named after her, Rebecca calling herself Bebba for a long time, Rebecca referring to Cathy McComber as “Caffeine,” Ellie refusing to use the possessive pronoun: you car, you hat, you shoes, and a million other ones. These verbal treasures disappear so quickly – teenagers who mispronounce words aren’t cute at all.

One day Mary called kids in for lunch from the backyard of our home in Ogden. Rebecca had been in the tented platform of our swing set and was obviously very hungry. She looked at the two options available: the ladder and the slide, and decided that neither was fast enough. Her two-year-old little body leapt from the platform which was at least 5 ½ feet tall. As she hit the ground, her body crumpled. Then as if made of rubber, she popped back up and finished the journey in for lunch with nary a word of complaint.

In that same year, sweet little Rebecca just couldn’t make it until 7:00 A.M.for breakfast. She would wake every morning between 4:30 A.M. and 5:00 A.M. and quietly come into our room.
“Momma,” she would say quietly, “I so hungry.” Her pleading tone would break your heart, and Mary would get up and make her first breakfast. Satisfied after a bowl of oatmeal, she would return to bed until the rest of the family woke up. I don’t think she went back to sleep very often, but waited for the fun to begin and also second breakfast.

These are some of my treasures of the two-year-old. It is the greatest transfiguration children go through, for in that year you begin with a baby and end with a child.

I Love Dogs

I emailed this to friends from the Weber Dispatch Center in March of 2005. I had been in Cedar City for a little over five months. Mary was still living in Ogden and working tirelessly to keep the home with eight little hands clean enough to show to potential buyers. It was hard times for us, but in retrospect, it brought us closer together. Like John Donne's arms of the compass, we leaned towards one another the further we were apart.

I'm leaving the grammatical errors in; it accentuates the story that way.




Three weeks ago one of my dispatchers asked me to transport his dog
from Cedar City to his aunt's home in SLC. He is taking his family to
Disney Land and his aunt had offered to watch the animal.

I thought that by saying, "I don't know that having an unfamiliar
animal in the cab of the pickup is such a good idea." was a good way
of getting out of it. Unfortunately Devin has this handy cage that I
could leave in the bed of the truck.

So last weekend I picked up his dog and started off for the land of
smog and evil dispatch centers.

Devin's wife mentioned as we were getting the dog (a lethargic basset
hound) into the cage, that as an indoor dog it may get too cold for
him. My initial thought was, "he's got fur, duh!" But as I got to the
Beaver Ridge I began to feel guilty. As the elevation got higher I
opened the beer window to check the temperature. Too cold for me to be
in the back of the truck. Mile markers passed and I kept listening for
any movement. Finally I pulled over to check on the dog.

"Come on Dewey," I said. "Get into the cab." A blind dumb stare looked
back at me. "At least you're not dead yet."

Resuming "freeway speeds or better" Dewey and I began our trip
together. Dewey explored the passenger seat for a little while and
then settled down to go to sleep. As the mile markers got bigger, I
began to enjoy the dog. He'd dozed off with his head on my lap.
Driving a pickup with a dog in the cab--I may as well be an Iron
County native.

Around about Cove Fort Dewey perked right up. A little whimpering
began and I began to panic. I bet he's going to squat right there on
the seat. With the cruise control set to 90 mph, I tried to negotiate
Dewey onto the floorboard. Floor mats are easier to clean than the
seats I figured. As I slowed the truck and moved to pull over, Dewey
let loose. 16 pounds of dog vomit had now joined us in the cab. Dry
heaves began to creep up my esophagus. Afraid as I turned on the dome
light, I peeked over to see what Dewey had regurgitated. Macaroni--and
lots of it with some hard-boiled eggs and what could have been
parsley. In the next two minutes I learned two very important lessons:
dogs don't chew very well and they eat their own vomit. At this point
Dewey had any "restroom break" privileges revoked. We continued the
drive with the windows down and the heater on full blast.

I feel pretty fortunate that Dewey, the vomit, and I got to share the
ride together. Any fleeting temptation of future pet ownership got
eaten up with the rest of the vomitous mound of macaroni.

Miss you all,

Scott

First Post

I'm not actually sure why we're doing this. The reasons that Mary has given me are:

-Everyone is sick of your pictures on the Dixon Blog
-The Wolfords can't see your pictures on the Dixon Blog
-Patti wants you to start a blog
-It's the new status symbol of the successful American family

I'm not sure I whole-heartedly believe any one of those except #1, but to appease my sweet wife, here goes the blog.

As to the content of the blog, it will probably be a lot of photos with an amusing anecdote or two. I will probably post a writing sample and maybe some of my favorite poems with semi-critical interpretations (mostly just what I like about them.) To a great extent it will be an attempt to mimic our contributions to newsletters and family-event notifications. Scandal and intrigue probably won't find a home here.

My goal is to keep any critical writing or impassioned speech off the public domain, so work-related topics, unless they are purely for entertainment value, are out.

Also, in order to free us up to post details about our family and keep personae non gratae from learning things about us, it will be an invite only read. The more readers the better, and please let me know about folks that I should invite. I have thoroughly enjoyed the Facebook experience, keeping tabs with relatives and friends who have scattered themselves around the country, and I hope that this can be a similar medium.

I want to offer a prepology to those who find my writing and humor to be irreverent; I will attempt to keep things on the up and up. Really you all know that my sweet Mary keeps me more in check than I'm able to do myself.


So without further ado, let's begin with a story about Dog Vomit.