Entertaiment

For the two decades we lived outside Utah, I was personally aggrieved when we had to work on the Twenty-fourth of July. As far as I was concerned, it was the best of all possible religious holidays on the grounds that-

• It didn’t require special costumes, extra meetings or gift exchanges,
• You could go boating and barbecue everything that couldn’t flee for its life, and
• It included the only parade in the world where the Grand Marshall also happened to be the mouthpiece for the Creator of the universe.

Put that in your giant SpongeBob balloon and smoke it, Macy’s.

So naturally, I felt that somehow, something was owed me when the July 24 came and went without fanfare from the community.

Of course, this isn’t to say that Church members didn’t make a big deal of it anyway, no matter where we were living.

I suppose that on some level, Church-wide recognition of the day that Mormon pioneers first entered the Salt Lake Valley, took one look around, and said, “Seriously? This is the place?” makes sense. At least it would, if the first pioneers actually rolled in on the twenty-fourth. Know-it-alls like Yours Truly love to point out that Erastus Snow and Orson Pratt got there on July 21.

(Don’t you wish your name was Erastus? Or Orson? No? Huh.)

And I guess it would be logical to schedule an LDS religious observance if doing so marked the organizing of the Church. Or Joseph Smith’s birthday. Or the first time someone told a congregation that their heart was very full.

But July 24^th is none of those things, either.

So what is it that compels us to celebrate Utah’s Founders’ Day from points all over the globe? I’d like to think there are other groups that do funny things like that; I only have data on the one I pay ten percent of my income to.

Picture this: A church parking lot in San Juan, Puerto Rico. It’s-hang on, let me check the almanac- exactly two billion degrees with 700% humidity, and the heat is radiating off the pavement like Lucifer’s Laundromat.

Now, add a couple dozen gringos attempting to cook blueberry cobbler in a Dutch oven, right there on the blacktop. They’ve got BBQ briquettes fired up and everything. Although they know they left the Suburbs of Sanity a long time ago and are barreling right into the heart of Downtown Dementia, everyone’s rejoicing because the crust is starting to brown.

Why are these foolish Americans doing this, you ask? Well, because they’re a bunch of ex-pat Utah Mormons, it’s the Twenty-fourth of July, and that’s just what you do.

Duh.

It wasn’t much different in Las Vegas. I don’t know if you were aware of this, but Las Vegas is known for its extreme warmth, which being interpreted means hot enough to strip down to one’s BVDs and run hysterical through the Bellagio Fountains.’ Also, Vegas has a well-established reputation for consistently not being in Utah.

To outside observers (we’ll call them normal people’) these would be two excellent points against dragging an entire stake to a mosquito infested hot spring-left to the Church by Howard Hughes moments before the guys with the butterfly nets showed up-and inviting them to play pull-the-stick.

But outside observers have clearly not spent enough time with their Mormon neighbors, this being evidenced by the fact that the outside observers are doing their observing from inside, the permanent habitat of all rational Las Vegans from May to October. For the Mormons involved, however, it simply would never do to let the day pass without simmering in the desert heat over a plate of lukewarm potato salad, all in the name of commemoration.

I suppose the desire to mark the Twenty-fourth of July in some extreme and noteworthy way could have to do with the sheer audacity of the people we’re celebrating. I had ancestors in those early pioneer companies-relatives who, in the balance, had a bit more determination than common sense. And I can’t help but feel proud to be their daughter.

I’m not sure we’ll go to the parade or even fire up the barbecue. Being back in Utah somehow makes it a little less urgent, as though living surrounded by the pioneer legacy means it’s Founders’ Day, every day.

But I wouldn’t say no to a dish of Dutch oven cobbler, if you’re offering, especially if it’s cooked over briquettes in a sweltering, Caribbean parking lot.

Throw in a little pull-the-stick, and we’ll have ourselves a party.