July sparks criteria for being Utah native..... or ....

Published July 2006

It was a question I had been asked before, but this time it sent my mind to wandering, wondering what it is that makes us unique. The closer the date gets to Pioneer Day, the more I ponder such things, I suspect.

"So, are you a Utah native?" she had asked. The question came at the end of a luncheon discussion among a table-full of conference attendees on the West Coast. When she heard I was from Utah, she wanted to know how far Bountiful was from the campground from which "the little Boy Scout" had gotten lost, a big news item, even in Seattle. Once I had drawn a map in the air and made it clear that he didn't just meander out his back door to get lost, she posed her question.

Reminds me of a bumper sticker I had seen not long ago, declaring simply: "California Native." Combined with the overly self-confident, chip-on-the-shoulder mannerisms of the car's driver, the feeling was one of holier-than-thou. I've never seen a sticker that spouts "Native Utahn." Never seen one that says "Native Iowan," for that matter, though there may be some. There probably isn't a bumper sticker that says Native Wyomingite. Or is Wyomingman, or is it Wyomingian? Whatever it is, it doesn't roll off the tongue. I'm told you don't need such a bumper sticker to spot the driver from Wyoming. Instead, check for a Hefty bag being used as a window on the passenger side of the truck or the oily rag used as a gas cap, or look for the tube top of the female driver.

With acknowledgement that the only true Utah natives were here before the Pioneers arrived, we might want to consider some criteria for calling ourselves Utah natives. Some of mine:

You can't call yourself a Utah native until you've hiked Zion Narrows, getting a stiff neck admiring a miraculous canyon that must have been fashioned by the finger of Diety as much as the unique Virgin River underfoot; until you've sensed the insignificance of a single man, a humble understanding that comes while being wedged between these dark, cool cliffs dropped in the middle of a red desert.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you watch "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" with a kind of voyeuristic enthusiasm, identifying at least three scenes -- minimum requirement -- that you know were filmed in Utah because you've been there and you've seen those same backdrops with your own baby blues. You have to know how to find Grafton, home of Etta Place, and you have to know what Butch's real name is.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you can identify where there are road signs -- just a mile or so apart -- that say "Eagles on the Highway" and "Watch for Sanddrifts."

You can't call yourself a true Utah native until you've stood on Red Spur and looked into three states at once and while doing it noticing how clean the air really can be. You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you understand the accuracy of the observation made by the discoverer of Bryce Canyon: "It's a helluva place to lose a cow."

You can't really call yourself a native Utahn until you know where Axtell is, and Cleveland, where Veyo and Meadowville and Yost and Colton are. You must have visited Hatch at least once, or at the very least know someone from there. Of course, you automatically become a native Utahn if you know the little song that lists all the counties in the state.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you catch yourself making excuses as to why you have to go over Monte Cristo. No, it's not always faster, but it's always better. It's a trip that must be made at least once a summer.

You can't call yourself a native Utahn until you know what to do when you drive over a cattle guard ... until you've used a BLM/Forst Service/State Park-maintained public toilet at 4:30 in the afternoon, on a Saturday ... until you can sing at least one line from the Beach Boys tune that was incredibly titled "Salt Lake City" ... until you've purchased a rubber dinosaur in Eastern Utah, be it from a vending machine or curio shop ... until you've had a "famous" raspberry shake ... until you have been disappointed at seeing Big Rock Candy Mountain for the first time ... until you can name all the communities in Utah named after U.S. presidents ... until you know where in the state there is a convenience store in a cave ... where there's a missile in the city park and you can fully explain why it is there.

And while there is a big party called the Days of '47, you can't be a native Utahn until you've appreciated Black and White Days or Raspberry Days or Onion Days, Peach Days, Strawberry Days, Dixie Days or even Health Days.

And you can't call yourself a native Utahn until you realize that he who declared "This is the Place" was himself a native New Englander, a pragmatic vagabond who would roll over in his monument if those of us passing through this unique corner of the world were to assume it is ours and ours alone or forget to fully appreciate it.

And so, I'm relaxing the rules a bit. If you can do any one of these things, consider yourself part of the club. Now enjoy.