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. ♠