A Tribute to Brother Scott

On the nightstand next to my bed sits an intricately carved wooden statue. It is ten inches tall, and of a man holding a book in his left hand, with his right arm raised and finger pointed to the air. The lecturer is standing, as if teaching a sermon, and speaking through a thick wooden beard. He wears a subtly etched tie on his chest. Over the nape of his neck and extending to the small of his back is a ponytail clasped together. There is no doubt that this wooden figurine is a portrait of the sculptor himself, Dave Scott.
 
In real life, Dave Scott wore a long unkempt gray beard and stood over 6 ½ feet tall. His imposing figure demanded attention anytime he entered a room. Some said he looked like Gandolf. It didn't take long, however, to learn that it wasn't his height that set him apart, but his giant heart. Dave always took a genuine interest in what you and your family were doing, not only toward me, but toward many in our community. Each Sunday at church he would find a seat near the back row of the congregation where he was affectionately known as Brother Scott.
 
Dave never married. I don't know that he ever had the opportunity, but I think it was something that bothered him. Especially to be around so many people that had happy families, he had no choice but to return to an empty home. As with many single people, he didn't know how to cook. He once tried cooking a ham, but burned it. But he loved to eat, and at church parties he would often be the first in line at the food table.
 
But he knew how to carve wood. I guess this isn't surprising considering that he looks like a mountain man. He spent several years living up on the mountain in Duck Creek Village where I'm sure he spent countless hours whittling branches of pine and aspen. There are many more figurines such as mine that Dave created throughout the years, including some that are life-size. Others are smaller and carved from a single block of wood, but in a way that seems impossible. One that I recall is a wooden ball inside of a double-layered cage. The two cages can move and so can the ball. There are no seams or any possible way to have placed the ball inside the cage, other than to carve it there. He had several other “puzzles” of similar ideas, and it is mind-boggling to imagine how he did it.
 
For me, my personal connection with Dave was that we both enjoyed running. Of course, he ran a lot more than I did. At one point I believe he was running seventeen miles a day. That was amazing for a 65-year old man. Often we each ran the Snow Canyon Half Marathon, and I remember warming up in the pre-dawn freezing staging area among 2,000 other runners, and happily coming upon Dave Scott, my neighbor down the street. I was proud to know him because it was kind of like knowing a celebrity at those race events. Dave would genuinely talk to me for a few minutes, but then, without fail, there would be someone else come along, anxious to talk to the tall man in the long gray beard.
 
When Dave ran a race, the bathroom situation was always important. As he got older, he developed health problems, including a shortened intestine. He had to stop at every porta potty along the route, in addition to having to make an escape or two into the bushes. Eventually his health issues put him more on the sidelines than on the race route.
 
There was one year that I registered to run the “Huff to Bluff,” a marathon in Bluff, Utah, but I got injured. Mindful as always, in every year that followed, Dave Scott never failed to ask me if I was going to run the Huff to Bluff, and he even knew the date it would be held. He also had a knack of memorizing every finishing time of many of my half-marathons. I later learned that mine weren't the only times he memorized.
 
One day at church he handed me a page torn out from a running magazine that showed how to treat plantar fasciitis. I had some running pains, and obviously he spent as much time as I did trying to find a solution. I still have the folded page in my suit jacket.
 
Dave was also very conscientious in other areas. After my daughter passed away, he knew that she loved apples. He said, “Don't be surprised if one day you get a knock at the door and find a box of apples on your front porch.”
 
As I mentioned, Dave developed health issues that kept him from racing as often as he'd like. Often he served as a volunteer. The last time I saw him alive was near mile 12 at the Parowan City Half-marathon. As usual, he became the tallest, loudest and most masculine cheerleader I ever had. No matter how fatigued or worn out I may have been, to see Dave Scott's gesticulations and to hear his voice was a breath of fresh air.
 
He died suddenly and unexpectedly a month later. He had been experiencing some severe pains in his stomach and drove himself to the hospital. They discovered he had advanced liver cancer. Dave's aversion to doctors had cost him his life this time as the sickness had grown undetected.
 

David Scott's headstone in the Bountiful City Cemetery in Bountiful, Utah.

Dave's unique signature is etched on the backside of his parent's headstone.

Thirty-eight people showed up at his funeral, most of them from our church. Not only had Dave been unmarried, but he had no siblings, nor any known living family. That is, except his aunt, Marjorie Webb, who was 93 years old and on oxygen. She wasn't able to make it.
 
I knew every person in the room, except for one man, Phil Simonson. He was a High School friend of Dave.  Phil spoke to the congregation and shed valuable light on the early years of Dave's life, an era that none of the rest of us knew much about.
 
The two were neighbors in Bountiful, Utah. In 1966, they found a job working at Lagoon (an amusement park) for 90¢ an hour. He graduated in 1967 and studied mathematics at Weber College in Ogden, where he graduated cum laude. After his father died, he took care of his mother. After his mother's death, he chose to move out of the area. He was an admirer of John Moses Browning, the famous designer of firearms. He used to run past his grave at the cemetery in Ogden.
 
Even though Dave didn't have any next-of-kin or blood relatives, I couldn't help but think during the funeral that those in that room were his family. His aunt Marjorie said that he was never happier than when he had found the church. Not only does the church teach a gospel of peace, but it brings one into a closely-knit family. He visited with us in the chapel, the youth performed service at his home, the ladies brought warm dinners to his door, and the men made him one of their own. I can't imagine how lonely he would have been had it not been for the church.
 
Once in a while I will make the 6-mile run home from my work. As part of my route I cut through a field and onto a dirt road, then past Dave Scott's simple single-storied house. Without fail, I always expect him to be outside working in his yard and asking me if I've signed up for any races. Then, my heart always drops in sadness as I remember that he is no longer here.
 
It has been over two years now since Dave's been gone. I'm not sure if they ever found a will. With no next-of-kin, it has been a long process to figure out what to do with his meager possessions. I was surprised when, a month ago, I received a telephone call asking if I would like to have one of his sculptures. I was honored that they thought of me and gladly accepted the offer. As I described earlier, it is his self-portrait that sits on the nightstand next to my bed. Now, there is hardly an evening when I don't look at that figurine before I turn off the lamp and think of Brother Scott, even if just for a moment.
 
Dave is buried alongside his parents at the Bountiful City Cemetery. ♠

The Greatest Generation

One of the greatest men I ever knew was my grandpa Lacy.
 
When I was a teenager, he and my grandma would travel to Las Vegas, and when they came home they would often bring me a new pair of shoes—the first was a pair of high-top Reeboks. I once asked him why he did it and his response was that he grew up during The Great Depression and often-times they went with no shoes at all, something he didn't want his grand-kids to experience.
 
Tom Brokaw wrote a book entitled, The Greatest Generation. Those he wrote about were men and women who were molded by The Great Depression and then World War II. Although there are great people in every generation, these were a cut above the rest. I couldn't agree more. Although my grandfather didn't serve in the war, his character was certainly sculpted during that era.
 
Growing up in the Mid-west, my grandpa's father was a wrestler with the carnival. They had an old Diana Eight that pulled a small trailer and that is how they lived when they traveled around. He said his dad was always fixing flats because the tires were never good.
 
He further explained the conditions of that era: “There wasn’t any money. We were struggling hard and nobody had any money back in those days. We didn’t eat too high on the hog. When we got out to either grandparent’s place we ate better. Of coarse they still didn’t have any money, but they had farm produce and eggs and stuff like that. We ate good, but we didn’t eat any fancy stuff. If you got a candy bar or a bottle of pop, you were in tall clover. You felt real good. Of course, back in those days you could take a penny and buy some penny candy, take a nickel and buy a Snickers bar or a Milky Way and a bottle of pop, but those days are gone. Yeah, I remember eating a lot of cornbread and beans, and I like cornbread and beans. It got tiresome back then.”
 
He recalled observing that none of his grandparents had any money. What little cash they had came from selling cream from their farm. His Grandfather Seals used to go into town on Saturday (from Coolidge, Kansas to Holly, Colorado), and even then, didn't spend any money: “They would park on Main Street and open the doors up, and anybody that would walk by that they knew, they would visit with them and everything. I'd never see them spend money. They must have spent some, but I'd never see them do it.”
 
Unlike kids (and adults) of today, Grandpa Claude didn't spend hour after hour absorbed with entertainment that came from a screen. In fact, they didn't own a television in those days. His main source of entertainment came from a small family radio. On Sunday mornings he enjoyed listening to programs such as The Shadow and The Green Hornet. He remembers distinctly on December 7, 1941—the day Pearl Harbor was bombed—and being on the fight because none of his programs were on!
 
When he was older the family lived on a farm outside of Wellington, Utah. Claude was athletic and played three sports in high school: football, basketball and wrestling. After practice and games, there was no “late bus” like there is now days to take the players home. Instead, Claude and his older brother, Earl, had to rely on hitchhiking the nearly nine miles from Carbon High in Price to their home. Sometimes they would find a ride all the way to Wellington and then they would have to walk the final three miles to the farm. Other times times they couldn't find a ride at all and had to trudge the entire distance in the dark. Once they got tired along the way and spent the night in an abandoned cabin.  “Dad, he didn't come and get you. Of course, he had a beat up old vehicle that might not have made it. He didn't worry about you. When you got home, you got home. That was the way he was raised.”
 

My Grandfather, Claude Lacy.

Forty years later I watched my grandpa and concluded that “the way he was raised” must have worked. I saw my grandfather as a tall, soft-spoken and gentle man who was “tough as nails.” I knew of the accomplishments of his past, but to me he was the man who took me out for ice cream and to Bill Foy the barber to get a buzz. Not once did I hear him raise his voice, and all he knew respected him. Never did he boast.
 
Grandpa was always frugal and wise with his money. I surmise that much of this came from lessons learned during The Depression. From nothing he eventually amassed a modest amount of wealth, although you would never guess this from looking at him. The house that my father was raised in was once in a mining camp in Hiawatha, near Price. Grandpa paid $150 for the house and then paid $1,500 to have it moved to Blanding, a distance of 200 miles. He put it on a lot that he purchased for $225.
 
Later in life (when he was in his fifties) my grandparents moved from the Hiawatha house and built a home on a hill. He chose to build on a hill because that's what my grandmother wanted. Unlike the mansions we see today that are being built by people in their thirties or forties, the home of my grandparents was very modest. His sister, Alice, once asked him why he didn't go out and buy something fancy with all the money he had. His response: “Because I would rather have the money in the bank than have something fancy.”
 
As I grew older and started a family of my own, he would always enjoy spending time with me when I came over to visit. He would ask how each individual was doing, and was genuinely concerned.
 
Probably the greatest hallmark of my grandfather is how he loved my grandma. During the final years of my grandmother's life, she became afflicted with Alzheimer's Disease. Even when she became difficult, he chose to take care of her.  It took a great toll on his health. During this period I watched him change from a healthy and active person to a frail old man. After several years, when he could no longer care for her himself, he finally admitted her to a nursing home. He was down there several times a week and would sit with her and talk to her, even when she no longer remembered who he was. He loved her until the day she died, and on that December day he wept because he didn't want to lay her to rest in the cold ground, because she hated the cold.
 

Grandpa loved my grandma to the very end.

Recently I had the privilege of going to lunch with my wife's ninety-year old grandmother.  Joe Ann Smith, or “Gram,” as she is affectionately known, is very much of The Greatest Generation. We picked her up at her home in Bountiful. Like a true lady, she was dressed for the occasion with her hair and makeup done up nicely and wearing pearl earrings, dress pants and a striped shirt jacket. She can't walk as well as she once did, carrying a small limp with each slow step. She chose to eat at a locally-owned Italian restaurant called Robintino's.
 
As we sat together at our dining table, within a busy and bustling atmosphere, I listened intently to the words Gram spoke. I knew there was wisdom and experience behind her words. She was very personable, and asked us direct questions about our lives, especially to my daughter, Kaitlyn, who was about to enter the National Guard.
 
She explained that during The Depression they would repair their shoes to make them last as long as they could. Sometimes her father would use cardboard from cereal boxes to patch up the holes. She told us about “party lines” in the olden days and how 4-6 families would use the same line, and how you could pick up the phone and listen in on another conversation. She also talked of her own generation, and how she once went to a class reunion where 95% of the couples were still married. “We didn't give up on things just because they were difficult. We worked hard at it.”
 
In her memoirs, Gram tells a story about the first Christmas she can remember, which was during The Great Depression. While many men had a hard time finding one job, her enterprising father had four. One evening he came home with a purse full of coins collected from one of his debtors. He poured the change into his hands to show his wife. This would be all the money they for Christmas that year.
 
Gram writes: “This was my wonderful Christmas. Dad had saved scraps from his building to make me a little doll bed. It was a darling little bed. He saved a little piece of chicken wire for the bottom of the bed. The sides were slats, and they were painted orange and white. Mother had soft flannel to make a thin little blanket to cover the chicken wire. Another little piece of flannel was used to make a blanket that covered my doll. She had also made a nightgown to dress my dolly. My beautiful little baby was about six or eight inches long. I had an orange and an apple and some pieces of candy. I thought I had the world by the tail! I couldn't have been happier! What the other six siblings received, I was totally unaware. This was my Christmas!”
 
This is certainly a contrast to our current society, where we are so materialistic that our homes are cluttered with “things” of which we have forgotten, or that we don't appreciate. Often times we don't even know what to buy someone because they already have “everything.”
 

(L-R) Great-granddaughter, Gram, and Granddaughter.

Gram's sweetheart passed away several years ago and she misses him every day. To us he was known as “Papa,” but to her and many others, he was simply, “Howard.” The two were married in 1947, but not before Howard fought in World War II.
 
He enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen. During the war he spent much of his time on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, fighting the Japanese. It was his job to load the bombs onto the plane, and then take off with the plane, where he became the tail gunner. The story is told about one day after loading the bombs, the officer in command decided that Howard would stay behind on the ship to load more planes, rather than go up with the bomber. When the plane returned, the tail gunner (who had went in Howard's place) was mutilated with combat fire, so severely that the corpse was barley recognizable. Howard knew that this could have been him.
 
Like many of his generation, Howard rarely talked of the war. “It doesn't do anybody any good,” he would say. When I asked his daughter how the war influenced him, she explained that it made him grow up really fast. In high school he was a typical cocky, spoiled kid, but when he came back from the war he was humble, grateful, had a softer heart, and was more devoted to his home, church and country.
 
Howard and Joe Ann married sometime after the war and raised a wonderful family. They built a modest home where they would spend the rest of their lives. I came into the picture much, much later when they were well into their golden years. Great-grandkids were already in the picture and I could surmise from witnessing their fruits that Grammy and Papa had done a good job. All their posterity adores and respects them. They are very honorable people.
 
On more than one occasion I have heard Gram say that if she had a choice to come to Earth now, or back when she was born, she would undoubtedly choose back then. This always comes to a surprise to the younger generation, who can't fathom a life without all the technological advances of our times.  She states they were happier back then and life was much more simple.
 
“I had the best, one of the most challenging, but the best and most wonderful times on this earth. We learned how to work hard! How to give! How to share! How to trust, and how to be trustworthy. How to learn and how to help. I thank my Heavenly Father for all of this!” ♠

Howard (on right) during his time in the Navy.

Searching for Sanjo at Mount Olivet

The location of the Mount Olivet Cemetery in Salt Lake City appears to be a paradox. On one side of the road is a quiet graveyard, sacred to those whose loved ones and ancestors are buried here. On the other side is Rice-Eccles Stadium, home turf to the University of Utah football team. The venue holds over 45,000 people, and on Saturday night can become a raucous madhouse.
 
But on a Tuesday morning all was peaceful when I paid my visit.
 
The cemetery is a welcome contrast to the hustle and bustle of the city. Located on the foothills of Salt Lake, there are many gentle flowing grassy slopes. A small herd of deer, including some scraggly bucks, make this their home year-round. The mausoleums, angel statues, and crosses are in variance with most cemeteries in the state, which have a predominantly Mormon flavor. That's what makes Mount Olivet so unique.
 

The cemetery was created in 1874 by an act of congress during the presidency of Ulysses S. Grant. It is the only public cemetery in the country to be created from such an act. Until then, the non-Mormon population was served by the Salt Lake City Cemetery, which had existed since the city's founding in 1847. Although it was all-inclusive, some felt those from other faiths were excluded from the better plots.
 
Property from Fort Douglas was used, and by 1877 the first burial took place. Many people transferred family members, including headstones, to the new cemetery. For this reason, there may be grave markers with older dates. The area to the south was left open for workers to graze their horses.
 

I was by myself during my visit, which is how I prefer it. I had plenty of time to wander through rows of memorials. Some leaned forward and others backward in imperfect rows. I found Celtic crosses and masonic headstones—but most were just rectangular slabs of granite. One in particular caught my attention: “EMILY PEARSALL 1834 – 1872 EPISCOPAL MISSIONARY HELPED SICK, POOR, STRANGERS. RESPECTED AND LOVED”
 
Part of my quest was to find the grave of a distant ancestor. Guglielmo Giosue Rossetti Sangiovanni, more commonly known as Sanjo, was the half-brother to my third-great-grandfather, Horatio Pickett. As I wandered among the graves, I hoped to stumble across Sanjo, although I knew this was unlikely considering there are over 32,000 people buried here. I carried a piece of paper with plot number “R-298-10.” This reference didn't seem to help much.
 

Sanjo on left, with his half-brother, Horatio Pickett.

Sanjo was born in London in 1835 to an American mother and Italian father. Although his father came from nobility, he was a drunkard and abusive to his wife, Susanna.
 
One evening Susanna had a dream where she came upon a number of people gathered around a speaker who held a book. The speaker looked directly at her, telling her that he had come to help, and if she followed him, she would be saved. He reassured her that all would be well.
 

In August the following year, she was walking the streets of London when she came upon a group of people listening intently to a man with an open book. As she drew closer she was astonished to see the men and setting of her dream. The two preachers were Wilford Woodruff and Heber C. Kimball, missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The words they spoke pierced her soul. She then began correspondence with the missionaries and was eventually baptized into the church against the will of her husband.
 
After a particularly difficult period with her husband, Susanna made the decision to leave him and join the Saints in the United States. Susanna and Sanjo left with only a suitcase, aboard a ship from Liverpool. They made their way to Nauvoo, Illinois, and eventually to Utah in1852, where Susanna would spend the rest of her life. (They also came to Utah with another child, Horatio—another story for another time.)
 

I will admit that I don't know much about Sanjo's life. I came to the cemetery at Mount Olivet to perhaps gain a small connection with him. Most of what I know comes from Susanna's biography.
 
Upon entering the Salt Lake Valley, they lived in a small home on Fourth West and Emigration Street, which they initially shared with Susanna's sister, Caroline. Sanjo took an active part excavating the foundation for the Salt Lake Temple and taking guard duty at night to protect the city from Indians. 

Survival in those early days was difficult. Sanjo gave an account of what life was like in the Salt Lake Valley: “The crops of '52 had been rather poor and in '53 the grass-hopper war commenced. They laid lots of eggs that hatched in the spring, and a big army devoured everything but weeds. We were four weeks without flour. I'd go out in the morning with a sack and fill it with pig weeds, sego roots, and thistle roots to make our three meals straight. Once in a while I would catch a few fish. When somebody would kill a steer nothing was thrown away. Even the hide was eaten. After it is well boiled it resembles tripe in flavor—very glutenous and nourishing.”
 

In 1865 he was called on a mission to Italy and Switzerland. When he returned two years later he moved south to the area of St. George, where his mother now lived. He published a newspaper called The Cactus. He also helped, on one occasion, to fight the Navajo, who had raided some stables and drove off 29 horses.
 
After teaching school in Dixie for a year he moved to Salt Lake in 1869 where he married Mary Ann Brown, an English convert to the church. Two years later they moved to Deadwood, South Dakota where they ran a saloon. At this time the gold rush was in full swing.
 
He lived in Deadwood for 30 years. While there he had two daughters, Mamie and Maude. In 1894 a fire swept through the business section of town and destroyed the saloon. His wife died in 1886 at the age of 36. After working for other people and battling the pain of rheumatism, Sanjo returned to Salt Lake City in 1908. He passed away on December 23, 1916.
 

As I wandered aimlessly about the cemetery, I noticed the grounds keeper walking about, checking on sprinklers. He was a grisly old man with a weathered face and gray beard. I showed him my piece of paper and he pointed to the southeast, to the “R” section. He was friendly, but said if I had any problems to ask the guy in the office.
 
I wouldn't have known for sure which was the “R” section had I not found a small cement disc on the corner with the letter R on it. I began counting 10 rows from the road, then from there walked along every headstone to read the names. Nothing. After half an hour of fruitless searching, I decided to ask the man in the office.
 

The office is located in the northwest corner of the cemetery. The man inside was very nice and helpful. I never asked his name. I showed him the plot number and he pulled a large old book from the shelf. He flipped through several pages filled with grids and names. Finally he found Guiseppe (*) Giosue Rossetti Sangiovanni. It was hand-written in very neat penmanship. I wondered if it was recorded in that book in 1916, the year that he died. He showed me exactly where in the cemetery it was located and eventually drove to the location to help me pinpoint it.
 
So there we were in section R, and my new friend from the office was counting headstones from the road and comparing those we found with what was in the book. In this section, all the grave markers were flat and flush with the lawn. After several minutes of assessment, we found the space where Sanjo was buried and found that there was no headstone at all.
 

Grave of George Dern, sixth Governor of Utah.

The office-man grabbed a spade from his truck and poked it into the ground where the headstone should have been, just in case the grass had overgrown. Nothing. The adjacent headstone was Mamie Forbes, who is Sanjo's daughter. She is buried with her husband and son-in-law, John Sanders, and other members of her husband's family. They all died after Sanjo.
 
I will admit that the conclusion of my quest was anti-climatic. I was happy to find his grave, but sad that no one chose to commemorate his life by placing a headstone at his burial spot. It was as if he had been forgotten.
 
About this time we could hear music blaring from over the trees on the east side of the cemetery. Then came the yelling and whooping. I knew at once what it was. “Isn't that where Utes have their football practices?” I asked the office-keeper.  “Yep. But you won't get a look. They've got the view blocked by walls and tarp. Once in a while we'll find a few stray balls that fly over the fence.” ♠ 

(*) It is interesting that the records show two conflicting first names for Sanjo. In Jane Topham's autobiography of Susanna entitled In Search of Living Water, he is referred to Guglielmo. However, the cemetery records at Mount Olivet Cemetery lists him as Giuseppe. The rest of his names, by both accounts, are identical, including the death date. Mount Olivet adds that he was buried on December 26, 1916. Guglielmo is the Italian equivalent of William, and Giuseppe for Joseph.

Water Flows Through It

"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.  . . . for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.  And the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water." -Isaiah 35:1,6-7