Two Wannabe Cowboys

"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."

Robert Frost
"The Tuft of Flowers"

The Littlest Viking and Indiana Jones

Whenever any combination of our 8 grandsons comes over to play, they always head for the newly renovated boys' room and its cache of costumes, toys, and weapons. Miles (2) and Luke (5), pictured here, have spent the most time with us lately because their parents, Travis and Heidi, have been extremely busy with the triathlon season. Miles tends to choose the Viking costume, complete with a horned helmet and a double-bladed axe, while Luke favors the Indiana Jones look, with the addition of a sword or two. However, Miles has been known to play Indiana himself on occasion, most notably once when Luke was in time-out: Miles put on the famous hat and, rotating his hips from side-to-side, mocked his incarcerated older brother with "Jo-o-nes, Jo-o-nes!"

They all have Jack to thank for the plastic armory he's put at their disposal. It helps to have an uncle who was preoccupied with medievalism during his childhood (although I suspect it will be a long time before Jack's willing to share his Playmobile castle and figures). Even Travis had a couple swords during his childhood, named Naegling and Hrunting after the famous Beowulf blades, with which he would defend his sister's, his mother's, or his blankey's safety whenever they were threatened by me.

Thus, the brave comitatus tradition continues because, as the Beowulf poet observed long ago, "Wyrd oft neareth unfaegne eorle thone his ellen deah."

France Belgium Mission Crepes

The Salem 12th Ward Relief Society invited me to do a crepe-making demonstration for a midweek activity a couple weeks ago, and, because I owe them big time for a long history of gracious acts of support for me and my family, I was very happy to comply. I'm not Emeril Lagasse or Wolfgang Puck or one of those Food Network celebrity chefs, but I do have a certain charm and facility in the kitchen, so the activity went well.

Because the sisters don't have my intuitive je ne sais quoi savoir faire with crepes, initially developed over the course of my two-year mission to France and Belgium, I had to come up with an actual recipe for them. They published it in their weekly newsletter, so I thought I'd publish it on my long dormant blog. There's nothing like a little French cooking to resurrect something.

France Belgium Mission Crepes
Elder Snyder

1 Cup Flour
2 Tablespoons Sugar
Dash of Salt
1 1/2 Cup Milk
2 Tablespoons Oil
1 Egg
Vanilla to Taste
[Almond Extract to Taste]

Mix dry ingredients together with hand mixer. Then add wet ingredients. Mix well to avoid lumps. Heat crepe pan over medium heat. Add a bit of oil and use a paper towel to distribute oil in pan. Add ½ cup crepe batter (depending on size of pan), moving pan with circular motion to distribute batter evenly. Use just enough batter to cover pan. [Add a bit more milk to batter if it doesn’t flow smoothly.] Hover. As crepe cooks, lift sides all around with thin spatula. When crepe is ready for flipping, use spatula to lift crepe enough to grasp gently with fingers. Lift crepe with fingers enough to slide spatula under crepe. Flip crepe. Crepe should have a lacey, light brown look. [If it’s too dark, turn down heat; if it’s too light, turn up heat.] Cook other side of crepe, but it won’t get that same lacey, light brown look and doesn’t need to cook as long. Place cooked crepe, good side down, on plate. Fill with whatever you wish. [Purists prefer butter and powdered sugar.] Roll and eat. Use oil-saturated paper towel to re-oil pan between crepes. France Belgium Mission crepe-eating record: 45 crepes by Elder Austin in March 1973. Bonne chance!

March Sadness

For the first time in decades I'm facing a March without any madness whatsoever because my beloved Tarheels finished an unspeakably horrific season without their customary invitation to the big dance.

True, my second favorite team, BYU's Cougars, have a 7th seed and a first round game with Billy Donovan's Florida Gators, but, after losing in the Mountain West Tournament yet again to UNLV (and I don't care that they hold the tourney on UNLV's home court--the Cougars still should have prevailed because they're a much better team), BYU just doesn't seem poised to get past the first round for the first time in nine (yep, nine!) tries. But, then again, they might just surprise me and lots of other doubters; at least they earned the chance to try. Go Cougars!

What a difference a year makes. Last year I was contemplating the return from injury of Carolina's jet (no offense, Kenny Smith!) of a point guard, Ty Lawson, and a run toward the national championship with a truly outstanding basketball team. It turned out that the Heels had a relatively easy time dispatching the pretenders they faced on the way to the title game, which turned out to be a rout of Michigan State. It turned out to be the most dominant tournament the Heels ever played to win the national championship. And a perfect finish to the incomparable college career of Tyler Hansbrough.

This is supposed to be the point where I wax philosophical about the ebb and flow, the ups and downs, the wins and losses of life--and perhaps throw in a nice quotation from, say, Rudyard Kipling about "meet[ing] with Triumph and Disaster / And treat[ing] those two impostors just the same."

Instead I think I'll simply count the blessing of not having to spend the rest of the month in my usual gut-wrenched, overwrought state of madness. I'll be able to watch games without pacing the floor, driving my family crazy with my negative nervous energy, and startling the cows next door with my cheers every time the Heels make the great play. I'll also have time to consider whether watching the Heels should continue to be an ontological exercise for me, a matter of life and death. Maybe I'll emerge a calmer and brighter Tarheel fan in time for next year's tournament and truly believe, for the first time, that it really doesn't matter whether they win or lose.

Seriously doubt it.

Go Heels!

Arch Madness

"I'm on intimate terms with this prairie."
True West by Sam Shepard

I'm not sure how many times I've been to Arches National Park over the years, but every time I return there I feel the presence of all the other visits and the people with whom I made them.

My most recent visit was a few weeks ago when I took my Western American Literature and Culture class on a field trip. We were reading Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, once a part-time ranger at the park and now its patron saint. I thought that the students would understand the text much better if they had a chance to spend some time in Abbey country. In fact, whenever I teach a course on Western themes, I like to get my students out and about on field trips--riding horses, touring ranches, visiting museums, taking some hikes, and so forth--so they can get a corporeal feel for the West.

We had a great Saturday with perfect weather, but it was also in the middle of a Utah public school holiday, so the park was more crowded than I've ever seen it--hundreds and hundreds of people scattered all over the trails and slick rock. As I surveyed the scene while racing the BYU van toward the parking lot at Devil's Garden to get a parking spot ahead of the hoards behind me, I imagined Abbey (wherever he's buried in some secret wilderness spot known only to a select few of his ecological compatriots) spinning in his grave at the fulfillment of his dire predictions regarding the rise of "industrial tourism."

Despite the crowds, we had a fine but tiring one-day visit. We started with the Devil's Garden hike past Landscape Arch and on to Navajo Arch, Double O Arch, Partition Arch, and the rest. Then we made the pilgrimage to Delicate Arch and hung around the Windows area before heading back to Provo. Of course, my students were enthralled with the park. On that long drive north I thought about how cool it's been for me to be the one who introduced so many people to Arches National Park--family, students, ward members, and so on.

My first trip to the park was in connection with a Utah Humanities Book Group discussion I was doing with the Senior Citizens Center in Moab on Ivan Doig's Dancing at the Rascal Fair some time in the early nineties. Travis went with me. He earned the trip by reading the novel himself. We stayed at the Comfort Inn (the first of many stays there). As a boy, Travis loved the motel life with fast food, swimming pools, and color T.V. with cable. It was worth reading a big novel and hanging around a bunch of old people while his dad led a literary discussion for a chance at the easy life for a day or two, not to mention getting out of school for a couple days. Actually, I think Travis even contributed a comment or two to our discussion himself.

On our way home the next day, we decided to visit Arches. It was a cold winter day with flurries, but we had the park virtually to ourselves. We could spend only a few hours there, but we made good use of our time and saw most everything. We did the Delicate Arch hike in record time. I even walked the snow-encrusted path cut out of the side of the rock to get to the top and, for the first and only time, stood out under the arch itself. (As most of you know, I'm not too fond of heights.)

Standing there with my son taking in the majesty of a truly unique landscape spread all around us, I had only one thought, which I articulated to Travis the best I could: "Travis, if you so much as touch me, you'll have to walk home, so help me. I'm not kidding."

Of course, he immediately reached out with his index finger and touched me . . . and he got exactly the response he wanted from me, the details of which I'll keep private, but I was so grateful to get safely back across the bowl and down the icy path that I let Travis ride home with me and even bought him some lunch and the way.

That was the beginning of Arch Madness for me.

Four Luke Anecdotes

1. A couple Sundays ago we were busily getting ready for a family dinner with the house full of people. I was on table setting duty, but I somehow had neglected to put a knife at Luke's place. As always, he called me on it because he's always insisted on equal treatment with the adults at the dinner table (with the exception of his special John Deere plate). I apologized for my oversight saying that it was my bad. Luke responded very earnestly, "You're not bad. You're Travis's daddy. Remember?"

2. This one comes from Sharleen Nicosia, president of our ward Relief Society. One weekday, we had a ward crisis situation sort of blow up, so Sharleen drove over to the house to see if I was home so I could lend some assistance. She rang the door bell and Luke answered the door. (He, Miles, and Heidi were there working on something while Delys and I were at school.) He said to her, "Hi, you must be looking for my Grandpa Phillip."

3. Last night the Scotts from our ward kindly dropped by some brownies for family home evening. All 10 of them came along and crowded into the house. Luke and company were there for dinner, so he quickly made himself acquainted, especially with Jacob and Linda, two of the youngest Scotts, who had come running up to me for a hug saying, "Bishop, Bishop!" Luke must have felt the need to restore some order, so he got between me and them and said,"I'm Luke. This (pointing to me) is my Grandpa Phillip. He's Travis's daddy." Then off they went to play together.

4. Last night Luke got home from watching his dad play softball around 11:00, so he was tired. They came in through the laundry room, so with the master bedroom door open, Luke could see me in bed reading. Without missing a beat, he kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket, grabbed two of his favorite books from my childhood that we read together, jumped into bed with me, pulled up the covers, and said, "First, let's read Jack's Adventure. Then we can read The Little Cowboy's Christmas." Later he told Heidi, who had come to check on him, that he was sleeping there that night. Sure enough, he fell asleep right there, although this morning he woke up at Tracey's place. I don't think he'll even remember his dad gathering him up to take him out to the car or the ride to Eagle Mountain. Luke is a deep, deep sleeper.

Snyder Spring Quadathlon: Swim, Bike, Run, Move

Because Travis and Heidi will be in no condition for the next couple days to put two articulate sentences together, let alone manage a blog entry, I'm taking it upon myself to report on what I call the "Snyder Spring Quadathlon: Swim, Bike, Run, Move." I regret that I don't have Travis's ability to conjure up cool distinctive "branding" designs for this event (which we hope and pray will not become annual) and that I don't have Heidi's ability to photograph iconic moments and then post them in an aesthetically pleasing layout. Nevertheless, I'll press on using the meager language tools I have in my possession. (Note: that last bit is a nice example of litotes. Look it up.)

Friday Travis and I, along with assorted other volunteers, spent the day readying Salem's lovely Knoll Park for the next morning''s 8th annual Salem Spring Triathlon. (If it were a child, we would have baptized and confirmed it this year.) The highlights of these preparations: Travis's discovery of spray chalk, which comes in different colors and disappears after 10 days (could make "green" graffiti popular); the addition of two motor scooters, which we all enjoyed riding around (even Delys); and the addition of 200 candles (technical term for tall, slim orange traffic cones) marking the middle of the road along the bike course. Most of us got to bed by midnight, while Travis and Matt Ward did the all-night patrol and security watch, with back-up from Salem's finest. Even so, no one is ever ready for that 5 am wake-up.

Saturday, everything went as beautifully as it had the day before: plenty of volunteers, everything done on time, lots of enthusiasm, and lovely mild and sunny weather. Even Chief James complimented me on how well Travis had things arranged this year. Our only real problem was the theft of a box of about 120 extra race shirts by person or persons unknown who have ruined their personal karma for at least a decade or so. If I believed in reincarnation, I'd expect them to come back as Dick Cheney or Bernard Madoff or perhaps something worse, like an ebola virus. Delys took care of Luke and Miles, so Heidi could spend most of the day at the race. Delys says she had the easy job, but tending those boys for 8 or 9 hours is lots harder than yelling at spectator who try and get on the race course. Heidi's custom-made award medals were a big hit. She's getting pretty good at making bling.

Usually, the clean-up after the awards is the bane of triathlon existence because everyone is so hammered (a condition not even hammer gel can remedy), but this year things seemed to go especially well and very quickly, thanks to family and 12th Ward members. We had virtually everything packed in the trailer by around 5. Travis and I both commented that we felt the best we'd ever felt at 5 on triathlon Saturday. My favorite part of clean-up was gathering all the candles from the bike course. We had two teams in pick-up trucks. I was with Sam (1st counselor in the bishopric0 and Doug (YM president) in Doug's SUNROC truck. Sam and I were in the truck bed snatching candles left and right while Doug drove along. Marissa, Brooke, Steven, and Steve Parker were in the other truck. I think it took us just over an hour or so.

We would have been sitting pretty if it weren't for the fact that Travis and Heidi had signed closing papers during triathlon check-in. They had to be out of their house by Monday evening, so we had a long day Monday loading and cleaning. I never knew Marissa was such a great wall cleaner. I'll let Travis and Heidi provide the other moving (and I do mean "moving") details, but I think it'll be awhile before any of us has the distance necessary to report on the move in grim detail.

Except I'll share an image that I'll always remember as the crowning moment of our long, long weekend. When Delys and I were heading down the freeway this morning headed for BYU, I noticed a Titan coming up behind us in the left lane. It was Travis, of course, loaded down with the last of their possessions. He shot us a bemused look that said, "Yes, I'm on the road again doing what I do. Even I can't believe it." The last we saw of him he was heading for Eagle Mountain (where I hope Heidi, Luke, and Miles were still sleeping) talking on the phone with some business partner about some new deal or project.

Here's what I learned over the past few days shadowing Travis:

Entrepreneurs never clock out; they just go on an occasional break.
Entrepreneurs never sleep; they just recharge until the green light comes on.
Entrepreneurs never die; they just move on to a new market.

If I were an entrepreneur myself, these observations would constitute 3/7 of a best-selling non-fiction book, which would probably be enough to get a publishing contract with a cash advance. But I'm going to stop right here. I don't want to make a habit out of this.