4 - Provo Orem Word

POW 

The Provo Orem Word 

April 2010 

Issue No. 3

2 


lunch 

tuesday-friday 

11:30am-2:30pm 

dinner 

tuesday-saturday 

5:30pm-10:00pm 

102 north university ave provo 

801-373-8000 

communalrestaurant.com 

communalrestaurant.blogspot.com 

Reservations now being taken. 

L U N C H 

M O N - F R I 1 1 : 3 0 A M - 2 : 3 0 P M 

D I N N E R 

M O N -T H U 5 P M - 1 0 P M 

F R I - S AT 5 P M - 1 1 P M 

3 2 0 S S TAT E S T R E E T # 1 8 5 O R E M 

8 0 1 - 6 2 3 - 6 7 1 2 

p i z z e r i a 7 1 2 . c o m 

p i z z e r i a 7 1 2 . b l o g s p o t . c o m 

R E S E R VAT I O N S N O W B E I N G TA K E N .


April 2010 

“Home” 

4 Letter from the Editor 

6 Contributors 

8 Calendar 

PERSONAL HISTORY 

Patrick Madden 18 “Hepatitis” with art by Alicia VaNoy Call 

FICTION 

Stephen Tuttle 26 “New Father” with art by Zachary Proctor 

POEMS 

Lance Larsen 24 “To Late Fall in Santiago, Chile” 

Jacqui Larsen “Eleven ways to Garden” 

Lance Larsen 25 “To My Mother, Chewing” 

Jacqui Larsen “Day Star” 

Lance Larsen 28 “To the Ode” 

Jacqui Larsen “Dreaming the Canopy” 

CRITICS’ CORNER 

Book Review 

Ashley mae Christensen-Hoiland 30 Pat Madden’s “Quotidiana” 

Visual Art Review 

Candace DeYoung 32 Painting a Room 

A post-modern look at local muralists 

Theater Review 

Eric Samuelsen 38 “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels” at Hale Center Theater 

Have you seen something on our calendar? 

Review it here, after reading our submissions 

policy here. 

FOR FAMILIES 

For Teens by Teens: Personal History 

Kit Slover 42 “Slovers in Their Natural Environment” 

Young Adult Fiction 

Krista Isom 46 “Seven Alone” The first installment of a new novel 

Out On the Town 

Eric Samuelsen 54 “Alice in Wonderland” 

Family Art Project 

Rebecca Packard 56 “Alice” at Home 

How to put on a family theater production 

Cover Art: “Humming Chair” By Jacqui Larsen 

Back Cover: detail from “Humming Chair” 

April 2010, Issue No. 3 

18 

28 

56 

3

4 


Letter 

from 

the 

Editor 

College kids are going home for the summer, and we 

year-round residents are spring cleaning, preparing 

houses to sell, house-hunting, and moving. In 

this issue, our writers and visual artists look at home life. 

Sometimes it’s about how illness can wreak havoc not only on 

our routine, but on our sense of safety and on our world view 

(“Hepatitis”). Sometimes it’s about feeling like we’ve found 

our way of relating to the world (“To the Ode”). And sometimes 

its about the mystery and adventure that come with 

relationships in our families (“New Father”). 

Readers will also find more criticism in this issue. We’ve 

got a postmodern look at murals, a review of “Dirty Rotten 

Scoundrels,” and a book review about a collection of literary 

essays that explore the beauty in families and other aspects of 

the every day 

I hope you enjoy the irony and insight in this month’s offerings 

and wish you the best in your home- -making, -moving, 

-coming. 

Rebecca Packard 

Publisher/Editor 

The Provo Orem Word


A P R I L 2 0 1 0 – I S S U E N O . 3 

Editor In Chief 

Rebecca Packard 

Photography Editor 

Alisia Packard 

Graphic Designer 

Julia Wrigley 

Web Developer 

Jay Packard 

The Provo Orem Word is an online literary 

magazine celebrating the art and artists 

of the Provo-Orem area of Utah. The main 

literary content changes monthly. Reviews are 

updated throughout the month. All material 

in The Provo Orem Word is copyrighted. The 

copyrights belong to the works’ creators unless 

otherwise indicated. Those interested in using 

POW materials in any way beyond fair use can 

contact the Publisher, Rebecca Packard, at 

editor@provooremword.org. 

Submissions can be sent to submissions@ 

provooremword.org. Authors should indicate 

whether they are affiliated with the Provo- 

Orem area in their submissions, and whether 

or not the material has been published else- 

where. Not being affiliated with the area will 

not hurt an author’s chances of publication; 

the information will simply help keep a sense 

of proportion. 

Editors of The Provo Orem Word reserve the 

right to edit or remove content from the 

community reviews page. 


5

Rebecca Packard Alisia Packard Julia Wrigley Jay Packard Jesse Erasmus Patrick Madden 

STAFF 

Rebecca Packard [Publisher/Editor] has written 

about 400 articles in the past six years as critic and reporter, 

freelancer and staff. Her music criticism for The Tri-City 

Herald won her a fellowship to the NEA Arts Journalism 

Institute for Classical Music and Opera at Columbia 

University in 2005. The next year, she became a staff 

reporter for Times/Review Newspapers in New York. As such, 

she enjoyed getting to know her community through writing 

about many topics, including all the arts. 

She originally moved to Provo in 1993 to go to Brigham Young 

University. She liked it so much she married a native and 

joined a family that has been part of this community for 

more than 30 years. The growing local arts scene is a large 

part of what brought her back to this area in 2009. 

Alisia Packard [Photography Editor] studied art and 

philosophy at BYU before becoming a freelance photographer—shooting 

for various non-profit organizations, advertising 

agencies and magazines. She has worked for Martha 

Stewart magazine, Oprah magazine, Utah Valley and Tourism 

Campaign, Desert Book and various acting schools. 

Julia Wrigley [Graphic Designer] has been working in 

graphics and marketing for the last five years. She lives in 

the Seattle area, and hopes to someday move to the coast to 

be an organic goat farmer and very bad poet. 

Jay Packard [Web Developer] has been developing 

software and web applications for 10 years at Pacific 

Northwest National Lab in Washington State, Brookhaven 

National Lab in New York, and currently at One on One 

Marketing in American Fork, Utah. He is a film and religious 

composer hobbyist. 

6 The Provo Orem Word 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Jesse Erasmus [Photography] loves telling stories 

through his pictures and the human interaction that comes 

with photographing people. He’s currently a fine art, 

photography and pre-med student at Utah Valley University. 

Patrick Madden [Personal History] is the author of 

Quotidiana (Nebraska, 2010), a collection of personal essays, 

some of which have appeared in the “Iowa Review,’ “Hotel 

Amerika,” “Fourth Genre,” “Portland Magazine,” and other 

journals, as well as in the “Best Creative Nonfiction” and 

“Best American Spiritual Writing” anthologies. He teaches 

creative writing at Brigham Young University and lives in 

Lehi with his wife and six children. He’s also publisher of 

Quotidiana.org, a website dedicated to the essay. (photo 

credit: Greg Deakins) 

Alicia VaNoy Call [Paintings] is a self-taught painter 

and mother of four living in Provo with her husband, Tyler. 

Alicia was raised in Arizona and takes inspiration for her 

colorful paintings from the desert Southwest. She loves art, 

literature, film, music and photography. Alicia dabbles in 

creative writing as well as painting and has been published 

in UVU’s university press anthologies “Touchstones” and 

“Warp And Weave”. She is currently studying Illustration at 

UVU. 

Stephen Tuttle [Fiction] joined the faculty of 

Brigham Young University in 2006, the same year he 

completed his PhD in Literature and Creative Writing at the 

University of Utah. He teaches courses in creative writing, 

fiction writing, and American literature. 

As a writer, he focuses on short fiction, and his stories have 

appeared in “Crazyhorse,” “Black Warrior Review,” “The 

Gettysburg Review,” “Indiana Review,” “The Colorado 

Review,” and other venues.

Zachary Proctor [Painting] is a Utah born painter 

who studied at the University of Utah under Paul Davis and 

Dave Dornan. He is currently working on an MFA at Utah 

State University. He is working on various projects including 

painting 100 heads for an upcoming installation. 

Lance Larsen [Poems] is the author of three poetry 

collections: Backyard Alchemy (2009),In All Their Animal 

Brilliance (2005), and Erasable Walls (1998). His work has 

appeared in New York Review of Books, Paris Review, Poetry 

Daily, TLE, Slate, Best American Poetry 2009, and elsewhere. 

He has received a Pushcart prize and a fellowship from The 

National Endowment for the Arts. A professor at BYU, he will 

shortly direct a study abroad theater program in London. 

Jacqui Larsen [Paintings] is a painter and mixedmedia 

artist who has exhibited her work widely. Highlights 

include The De-Constructed West, a Four-State Fellowship 

Exhibition at the Millenium Arts Center in Washington, DC, 

and Metaphorically Speaking, BYU Museum of Art, UT. Larsen 

is the recipient of numerous awards, grants and honors, 

including two Utah Visual Arts Fellowships, and a Lieutenant 

Governor’s Award. She has taught at Northwest College 

in Houston, Houston Community College and at Brigham 

Young University, and has served on the Board of Directors 

for Art Access Utah. Her work is in many public and private 

collections. 

Ashley mae Christensen-Hoiland [Review] 

is a native to Provo. She earned her BFA in painting at BYU 

and is currently working on her MFA in creative writing at 

BYU. She served a mission in Uruguay. She loves to ride 

her bike with her husband to the Provo Bakery and then as 

far west as she can go so she can turn around and see the 

mountains the whole ride home. 

Candace DeYoung Eric Samuelsen 

Kit Slover Krista Isom 

Alicia VaNoy Call Stephen Tuttle Zachary Proctor 

Lance Larsen Jacqui Larsen Ashley Mae Christensen-Hoiland 

Candace DeYoung [Visual Art Review] has studied 

art throughout the world in areas such as Kenya, Italy, 

Dubai (UEA), Germany, France, England, Marfa, TX and New 

York. Candace received her BA in Art History and Curatorial 

Studies from Brigham Young University and graduated with 

distinction from the Sotheby’s Institute of Art/University 

of Manchester with a MA in Contemporary Art, thesis topic: 

“The Influence of the LDS Church on Contemporary Art 

Production.” 

Eric Samuelsen [Reviews] is a playwright, translator, 

scholar, critic and teacher. He earned a Ph. D. from Indiana 

University in 1991, and has been on the faculty in the BYU 

Theatre and Media Arts Department since 1992. He has 

written 28 plays, which have been professionally produced 

in New York, Indiana, Utah and California. He has also 

translated three Ibsen plays for productions in Utah and 

California. He has been President of the Association for 

Mormon Letters, and is three-time winner of their annual 

playwriting award. He is married, with four children and 

two cats. 

Kit Slover [Teen Essay] is a senior at The Walden School 

of Liberal Arts, where he a teaching assistant in a high 

school creative writing class. He is an enthusiastic storyteller 

and an accomplished martial artist. He is currently drafting 

a novel called “Even in Arcadia,” and filming one of his 

screenplays “Chosen.” He won a Scholastic and Writing Gold 

Key award this year for the essay that appears in this issue 

and hopes to pursue writing and politics in college next year. 

Krista Isom [Fiction] is an aspiring author whose main 

passion is young adult literature. She graduates in April from 

Brigham Young University with a Bachelor of Arts in English 

and a creative writing emphasis. After April she will teach 

what she has learned as a high school teacher and always 

continue to write. 


7

April 2010 

dance 

visual art 

family 

theater 

film 

pop music 

art music 

literature 

other 

beyond 

city limits 

LITERATURE, VISUAL ARTS, MUSIC, DANCE, ETC. 

[Click on an event for more information] 

April 1 

dance 


First night of New Works Concert--The Dancers’ Company in 

Brigham Young University’s RB Dance Studio Theatre 

visual art 

“Mirror Mirror,” continuing exhibit at Brigham Young 

University’s Museum of Art (free) 

“The First 100 years:Collecting Art at BYU,” 

continuing exhibit at the MOA (free) 

Utah Valley University Student Art Show continues 

at Woodbury Art Museum (free) 

UVU BFA Final Project Showcase at Woodbury Art Museum (free) 

family 

Kinnect, a dance education company performs in BYU’s MOA 

First Thursday Storytime of the month at PCL (free) 

First Thursday Toddler Time of the month at PCL (free) 

First Library Kids Jr of the month at PCL (free, registration required) 

First Library Kids Sr of the month at PCL (free, registration required) 

First Thursday Laptime of the month for infants and 

toddlers in OPL’s Hogwarts Corner (free) 

First Thursday Storytime of the month for preschoolers 

and up in OPL’s storytelling wing (free) 

First Thursday storytime of the month at Borders 

theater 

April Fools, Tall Tales & Liars Contest in OPL’s storytelling wing (free) 

“Dirty Rotten Scoundrels” continues at Hale Center Theater

This calendar is not all-inclusive. If you have an event you would like to see on our calendar, email 

the information to calendar@provooremword.org by the 15 th of the month prior to the event. 

*“As You Like It” continues in the 

Pardoe Theatre at BYU 

“Casey at the Bat” continues in 

Margetts Arena Theatre at BYU 

First New Play Project Writing Workshop of 

the month at 285 E 2020 N in Provo (free) 

“A Doll House” in Noorda Theater at UVU 

“Les Miserables” continues at SCERA 

pop music 

Hardcore at Muse Music 

Chamber Orchestra with guest artist Nancy Peery Marriott 

art music 

Chamber Orchestra with guest artist 

Nancy Peery Marriott, soprano 

in the de Jong at BYU 

Daniel Johnson’s student piano recital in 

Madsen Recital Hall at BYU (free) 

Quinten Knudsen’s student organ recital 

in Provo Tabernacle (free) 

other 

First night of “American Regional” at Greg’s 

Restaurant (UVU, by reservation only) 

April 2 

dance 

First night of Senior Capstone II 

Concert in Ragan Theater at UVU 

visual art 

Provo Gallery Stroll and art 

chase at various venues 

“Desert Wanderings,” watercolors 

by Mary Jane Grow opens at 

Terra Nova Gallery (free) 

Blown glass show by Treavor Holdman 

opens at Painted Temple (free) 

Rick Nye and Patrick J. Ascione artists’ 

reception at Utah County Art Gallery (free) 

Glass Sculpture by Andrew Kosorok; 

artist’s reception at Covey 

Center for the Arts (free) 

family 

First Book Babies of the month at PCL (free) 

First Friday Spanish Storytime 

of the month at PCL (free) 

First Mother Goose of the 

month at PCL (free) 


9

film 

“Il Postino” in OPL’s media auditorium (free) 

pop music 

Pop/rock at Muse Music 

Indie-pop-jam at Velour (free) 

art music 

The Steve Call/Bob Bailey/Bart Gibb 

Trio by the OPL fireplace (free) 

Andrew Snow’s viola student 

recital in the MOA (free) 

Laura Snow’s vocal performance 

student recital in the MOA (free) 

Carlene Albrechtsen’s piano student 

recital in the Madsen (free) 

Quinn Boyack’s cello student recital 

in E-250 in the Harris Fine 

Arts Center at BYU (free) 

Brigitte Dean’s piano student 


Mallory Wahlstrom’s harp student 

recital in the Maeser Building 

Lecture Hall at BYU (free) 

Emily Bateman & Carli Downs 

vocal performance student 


April 3 

family 

First Super Saturday Storytime 

of the month at B&N 

Easter Egg Hunt at B&N 

Springtacular Kids Event at Borders 


pop music 

Pop-rock at Velour 

literature 

Author Signing with Phillip Jones 

at Barnes and Noble 

Conference Saturday Signings and 

Ladies’ Night at Deseret Book 

beyond city limits 

“Cabaret of Fools” fundraiser for Ririe- 

Woodbury Dance Company Rose Wagner 

Performing Arts Center in SLC 

April 4 

pop music 

Seattle/Portland indie-folk at Velour 

April 5 

family 

First Monday Spanish Storytime of the 

month at Provo City Library (free) 

Rhyme and Rhythm: Rock to the 

Beat of Kid’s Poetry in OPL’s 

storytelling wing (free) 

pop music 

Open Mic at Muse Music (free) 

Film 

Rockumentary Film Night: “New 

York Doll” at Muse Music (free)

“As You Like It” at the Pardoe Theatre at BYU 

“Il Postino” in OPL’s media auditorium (free) 

art music 

Music Faculty Chamber Recital 

in GT 416 at UVU 

April 6 

family 

First Tuesday Storytime of the 

month at PCL (free) 

First Tuesday Toddler time of 

the month at PCL (free) 

First Tuesday Laptime of the month 

for infants and toddlers in Hogwarts 

Corner at Orem Public Library (free) 

First Tuesday of Storytime of the 

month for preschoolers and up in the 

Storytelling Wing of OPL (free) 

film 

SCERA Cinema Classics 

pop music 

UVU Concert Choir by 

OPL’s fireplace (free) 

First night of Music Dance Theater 

BFA Senior Showcase in the 

Nelke Experimental Theatre 

art music 

Group for New Music in the Madsen (free) 

BYU Symphony Orchestra in de 

Jong Concert Hall at BYU 

April 7 

family 

First Wednesday Storytime of 

the month at PCL (free) 

First Wednesday Toddler time at PCL (free) 

First Wednesday Laptime of the 

month for infants and toddlers in 

Hogwarts Corner at OPL (free) 

First Wednesday Storytime of the 

month for preschoolers and up in the 

Storytelling Wing of OPL (free) 

First Wacky Wednesday Storytime of 

the month at Barnes and Noble 

pop music 

Punk/alternative at Muse Music 


11

Talley’s Folly at the Covey Center 

for the Arts 

pop music 


Open-Mic Acoustic 

Night at Velour 

art music 

String chamber night 

in the Madsen (free) 

Synthesis in the de Jong 

April 8 

dance 

Synergy Dance Concert in 

Ragan Theater at UVU 

family 

First Magic Treehouse Book 

Club of the month at B&N 

(pre-registration required) 

theater 

Indie/folk at Muse Music 

Touring alt-indie at Velour 

Jazz voices in the Madsen 

art music 

“Single and Looking” 

opens in BYU’s Margetts 

Arena Theatre 

Wind Symphony in the de Jong 

Aurelia Andrews piano student 


April 9 

dance 

First night of Ballroom in Concert: 50th 

Anniversary of the Ballroom Dance 

Company in the Marriott Center at BYU 

film 

Dean Duncan Presents: The Poetry of 

Cinema and the Cinema of Poetry 

in OPL’s media auditorium (free) 

First Day of Sego's Stephen Groo 

Symposium at PCL 

pop music 

Acoustic/pop/rock at Muse Music 

CA Americana at Velour 

art music 

Panoramic Steel &Percussion Ensemble with 

Gamelan Bintang Wahyu in the de Jong 

Honors Brass Quintet in the 

MOA auditorium (free) 

Curtis Smith guitar student 


Jaxon Williams guitar student 


Daniel Rulon Bailey clarinet student 


Karen Baron vocal performance student 



Christine Messick, piano student recital in 

the SLC Temple Square assembly hall (free) 

Rachel Ostler violin student recital 

in E-400 of the HFAC (free) 

Brtiny Clark piano student recital 

in the Madsen (free)

other 

First night of Humor U in the 

Pardoe Theatre at BYU 

April 10 

pop music 

Indie rock at Muse Music 

Piano pop-rock at Velour 

art music 

Jazz Lab Band in the Madsen (free) 

BYU Philharmonic in the de Jong 

Daniel Stratford media music (piano) student 

recital in the Maeser Lecture Hall (free) 

Matt Slack percussion student 

recital in E-250 of the HFAC 

John Wilson composition student 

recital in the de Jong (free) 

Marielle Smith harp student student 

recital in the Maeser Building (free) 

Emily Duncan & Jubal Joslyn 

vocal performance student 


Megan Beardall oboe student 


Lorenzo Verde guitar faculty 

artist in the MOA (free) 

Stephen Tobian saxophone student recital 

in the Tanner Building, room 251 (free) 

Holland Hettinger harp student recital (free) 

Blake Allen viola student recital 

in the Madsen (free) 

Caitlin Johnson & Emily Bean violin student 

recital in E-251 in the HFAC (free) 

Shadow Hansen vocal performance 

student recital in the Madsen (free) 

Ty Turley-Trejo vocal performance 

student recital in the Maeser (free) 

literature 

Author Signing with Guy Galli, Joe Evans, 

Terri Ferran and Kerstin Daynes at B&N 

other 

19th Annual Utah Puppetry 

Festival at SCERA 

April 11 

pop music 

Indie dance/soul at Velour 

April 12 

film 

Rockumentary Film Night: “The 

Carter” at Muse Music (free) 

“Bright Star” screeni�� in OP L’s 

media auditorium (free) 

pop music 

Open Mic at Muse Music (free) 

art music 

UVU Chamber Choir Performance 

at OPL (free) 

other 

Remembering Our Culture Multicultural 

Showcase at the Covey Center 


13

Utah Valley Symphony at the Covey Center for the Arts 

April 13 

visual art 

“Twelve Moons” by Kathy Perterson 

opens at Communal 

family 

Sound Poetry for Kids in OPL’s 

storytelling wing (free) 

pop music 

Touring electronic at Velour 

art music 

University Chorale in the Provo Tabernacle 


University Bands in the de Jong (free) 

Brass Chamber Night in the Madsen (free) 

April 14 

pop music 

Open mic at Velour 

April 15 

family 

Orem Arts Council Presents: Mark Pulham 

Puppetry in OPL’s storytelling wing (free)

pop music 

Live Sound Presents Brandie 

Frampton at the Covey Center 

Rock at Velour 

literature 

Author Signing with Luann Staheli at B&N 

April16 

dance 

First night of “Hansen and 

Gretel” at the Covey Center 

theater 

“Short Attention Span Theatre” opens 

in UVU Library Audiorium 

pop music 

Touring rock at Velour 

literature 

A Night with Poets featuring Alex 

Caldiero in OPL’s media auditorium 

April 17 

pop music 

Rock at Muse Music 

Rock-pop at Velour 

art music 

Small Ensembles Performance 

in GT 416 at UVU 

UVU Chamber Orchestra Spring 


literature 

Fancy Nancy Poet Extraordinaire at Borders 

April 18 

pop music 

Pop-rock at Velour 

April 19 

family 

Alpine School District Storytelling Showcase 

in OPL’s storytelling wing (free) 

film 

“Bright Star” screening in OPL’s 


pop music 

Open mic at Muse Music (free) 

film 

Rockumentary Film Night: “Kurt Cobain: 

About a Son” at Muse Music (free) 

“Bright Star in OPL’s media auditorium (free) 

April 20 

family 

“Once On This Island” opens 

at the Covey Center 

pop music 

Irish singer/songwriter David 

Hopkins at Velour 


15

art music 

UVU Percussion Ensemble Spring 


literature 

The Art of the Everyday: Patrick Madden 

reading in OPL’s storytelling wing (free) 

April 21 

pop music 

Open-Mic Acoustic Night at Velour 

art music 

UVU Symphony Orchestra Spring 


April 22 

family 

Author Signing with Julia Lawrence at B&N 

theater 

‘Talley’s Folly” opens at the Covey Center 

pop music 

Chicago Americana at Velour 

art music 

UVU Symphony Band Spring Concert 

in Ragan Theater at UVU 

other 

“Italy” at Greg’s Restaurant (UVU, 

by reservation only) 



“Propel” opens in the Rose Wagner Performing 

Arts Center in SLC 

April 23 

film 

“Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams” in OPL’s 


theater 

“Once Upon a Mattress” opens at SCERA 

pop music 

Benefit concert at Velour 

art music 

UVU Jazz Ensemble Spring 

Concert in Ragan Theater 

literature 

Poetry Open Mic Night in OPL’s 

Storytelling wing (free) 

April 24 

pop music 

Indie rock at Muse Music 

Indie synth-pop at Velour 

April 25 

pop music 

American/indie at Velour 

theater 

“A Chosen Generation” at SCERA (free)

April 26 

family 

Learning Through the Lens with Mario 

Ruiz in OPL’s storytelling wing (free) 

film 

Rockumentary film night: “Spinal 

Tap” at Muse Music (free) 

“Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams” in OPL’s 


pop music 

Open mic night at Muse Music (free) 

April 27 

literature 

Author Reading: Greg Park in 

OPL’s storytelling wing 

April 28 

pop music 

Open-Mic Acoustic Night at Velour 

art music 

Utah Valley Symphony “Songs for 

Stage and Screen” with Jenny Oaks 

Baker at the Covey Center 

April 29 

pop music 

Acoustic at Velour 

literature 

Word Weaver poetry reading in the 

Brimhall room at Provo City Library 

Author Signing with Jay Buckley at B&N 

April 30 

film 

Cinematic Poetry in OPL’s 


pop music 

Hard rock at Muse Music 

Post-rock at Velour 

art music 

Utah Premiere Brass at the Covey Center 

Utah Premiere Brass at the Covey Center for the Arts 


17

18 

{Hepatitis} 

By Patrick Madden 

This was in the early days of the new millennium, some 

dawning of something or other, no doubt we’ll learn 

in the distant future. Delaying my entry into the “real 

world” yet another year, I had procured a Fulbright fellowship 

to Uruguay, where I was to ensconce myself and my little 

family, observe customs and explore curiosities, live the life of 

a local, albeit one with a small stipend and no laboral responsibilities 

other than to write about our quotidian adventures. 

Soon after we arrived from Ohio, we rented a small white 

cinder-block house in northern Montevideo, a few blocks 

away from my wife’s parents’ apartment. I spent my days reading 

and wandering, interviewing revolutionaries, attending 

soccer matches and poetry readings. 

Several months into our adventure, on a Wednesday, our anniversary, our 

son got sick, throwing up in his bed and on the wall in the middle of the 

night, then again in the bucket I had placed next to him after the requisite 

sheet stripping and floor mopping and teeth brushing. On Thursday, our 

daughter got sick, throwing up—or “growing up,” as she calls it—with enough 

warning to make it to the bathroom sink. On Friday, the dog had trouble 

breathing and would fall suddenly, hard, thudding on the concrete path that 

connects the iron gate near the street with our front door. 


Excerpted from "Quotidiana," 

by Patrick Madden by 

permission of the University 

of Nebraska Press. © 2010 

by the Board of Regents of 

the University of Nebraska.

My wife’s little sister had fallen ill with 

hepatitis a couple of weeks earlier, one of 

thirty-eight children and two teachers at a 

school in northern Montevideo whose pipes, 

rumor had it, were broken somewhere outside 

and mixing outgoing bathroom water with 

incoming drinking water. A few days after 

her little sister, Karina’s father fell ill. Years 

of heavy drinking had left his liver in bad 

condition, and his hepatitis would confine 

him to his bed for four months. Karina had 

had hepatitis when she was a kid (the disease 

is common in Uruguay), and I assumed that 

my children and I, born in the United States, 

had been vaccinated against the disease. Only 

after Pato spent the night vomiting did I call 

Ohio to ask for his and his sister’s vaccination 

records and learn that they were inoculated 

against hepatitis B, but not A. That vaccine, 

said the nurse, was given only if parents 

requested it, for instance if they were traveling 

to South America. 

“Bailey Beeson” 

by Alica Vanoy Call 

So Karina spent Wednesday morning at 

the hospital getting an appointment so she 

could spend the afternoon at the hospital 

getting the children’s papers straight (they are 

Uruguayan citizens, and therefore qualify for 

public healthcare) so they could spend the 

evening at the hospital getting the blood test 

that would confirm the bad news that Pato 

had hepatitis. Because Adi was then skittish 

and happy, they wouldn’t test her. I spent the 

day researching hepatitis on the Internet to 

channel my nervous energy to some kind 

of solution. I fretted, feeling I had left my 

children unprotected, had put too much 

faith in the forcefield granted by science and 

medicine in the First World. What I found 

was both interesting and frustrating. There 

was a lot of information about contracting 

the disease, or avoiding it, through vaccinations 

and precautions, but almost nothing 

about treating it. From the Center for Disease 

Control’s site I learned that hepatitis A is a 

virus that attacks the liver, often leaving the 

infected person jaundiced, tired, nauseous, 

without an appetite, with diarrhea, with 

vomiting, with fever, which is not very different 

from having the flu, except that it lasts 

longer, usually about a month. Some people 

never show any symptoms and their bodies 

fight the virus quietly, behind the scenes, with 

no glory or recompense. Hepatitis A has no 

long-term effects, and once you’ve had it you 

can’t get it again. Uruguayans are convinced 

that once you’ve had hepatitis A, you can 

never donate blood or organs, but nowadays, 

this is not true. 

In the United States, you’re most likely to 

find hepatitis A in the West and Southwest, 

where many counties reported more than 20 

cases per 100,000 people during the decade 

of 1987–1997. There were far fewer reported 

cases in the East, with West Virginia and 

South Carolina leading all states in hepatitis 


19

A safety (less than 5 cases in any given 

county). There are between 125,000 and 

200,000 cases of hepatitis A in the United 

States each year. Internationally, Uruguay is 

one of the countries with the highest danger 

of hepatitis A infection, along with basically 

all of Africa, Southern Asia, Central America, 

Paraguay, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Greenland. 

I was curious that Greenland would be a 

high-risk country for hepatitis, especially 

being situated in the Arctic, in the neighborhood 

of Iceland and Canada, which both 

have very low risk. I learned that Greenland 

is a home-ruled province of Denmark, having 

achieved its semi-autonomy only in 1979 

after centuries of Nordic rule (first Norway, 

then a combined Norway and Denmark, 

then Denmark). It’s true that the name 

Greenland (Kalaallit Nunaat in Greenlandic 

and Gronland in Danish) was a Viking trick 

to get settlers there in the centuries after Leif 

Ericson discovered it, and that the island (the 

largest island in the world) is mostly buried 

under ice and only green on the coasts during 

summer. I’m always happy to find out that 

some crazy rumor I’ve heard here or there 

is true, because, basically, that story about 

Greenland’s etymology always sounded too 

tidy, kind of suspect. I was also happy to find 

that Greenland’s National Tourism Board 

owns Greenland.com instead of some parasitic 

cybersquatter. Nothing on Greenland. 

com indicates why the country has such a 

high incidence of hepatitis A. 

On Thursday, fearing I would be next to 

fall, I went to the British Hospital to get a 

gamma globulin shot to boost my immune 

system’s ability to fight off contagion. On 

the bus there, I read from José Saramago’s 

“Blindness”—a dystopic novel about a plague 

of blindness, whose Portuguese title, “Ensaio 


Sobre a Ceguera,” translates to “Essay on 

Blindness,” which I like much better than the 

market-driven, unchallenging, purely descriptive 

title it ended up with—in which the 

aphoristic omniscient narrator invited me to 

“consider the circumvolutions of the human 

mind, where no short or direct routes exist.” 

Hepatitis A has maybe the worst way of 

spreading of any disease I’ve ever heard of. 

Clinically, it’s a “fecal-oral” transmitter, which 

gives new meaning to the old vituperation 

“eat s--t and die.” (Vituperation, I admit, is 

a retrofound word, from the fairly common 

Spanish “vituperación,” which happens to 

exist in English, but is, I realize, not common 

at all. It means a malediction, a curse, an 

insult. I think the word vituperation, despite 

Ferdinand de Saussure’s assurance that words 

are arbitrary signs unrelated to the things 

they signify, sounds like it should be a word 

that means insult or curse. Sounds like you’re 

spitting at someone.) I had such a hard time 

believing that, or believing that that was the 

only way it could spread, that I asked Dr. 

Kleist, of the British Hospital, when I went 

in. He confirmed it. Hepatitis A spreads only 

from oral ingestion of feces. To me it seems 

like a body ought to always react with nausea 

and vomiting when it ingests human feces. 

The thought staggers the mind: if a disease 

like this can spread to new hosts, and they’ve 

all eaten fecal matter infected with the virus, 

then how often do people eat non-infected 

fecal matter? I don’t really want to know. 

Of course it’s not so simple as eating the 

stuff. People get infected by drinking unclean 

water, by close contact (sharing a cup, utensils, 

foods) with an unwitting carrier of the disease 

who hasn’t washed his hands after using 

the toilet, by eating raw or partially cooked

shellfish caught 

in polluted 

waters. You can 

get the disease 

without engaging 

in overtly risky or 

unhygienic behaviors. 

But still. 

It’s no wonder the 

disease is stigmatized. 

It spreads where water and people are 

unclean, but also where people are clean and 

unlucky. 

Gamma globulin, I should mention, 

does not impart superhuman powers like 

you might expect given its name. It simply 

strengthens a person’s immune system to 

fight off infections like hepatitis, but it only 

works for about three months. What’s good 

about gamma globulin is that it can be 

administered after you’ve been exposed to 

a disease (it works for measles and rubella 

as well). That’s why I wanted it. Dr. Kleist 

explained that a product such as the one 

he gave me (manufactured by Bayer, which 

is “almost an American company,” he said, 

I think to inspire my confidence) is made 

from human plasma, and the manufacturer 

cannot guarantee that its product will not 

give me some disease that it should protect 

me from, even AIDS. I realized that he was 

bound by law to explain this and get my 

consent before giving me the shot, and that 

there was probably no real chance that I’d get 

infected, but the information gave me a hard 

pause. I kept my questions and my doubts to 

myself, though, afraid of breaking rhythm, 

offending protocol, like a person who really 

tells you how they’re doing when you ask. I 

had had gamma globulin shots before, and 

Bayer certainly wouldn’t be very successful 

“S 

o my children spent a month at 

home, out of school, partly in 

bed, driving Karina and me crazy, while 

gamma globulin and I warded off the 

disease entirely, which was good in a 

practical way—I could help Karina with 

the kids—but which compounded the guilt 

I already felt. I had saved myself.” 

in business if its products infected or killed 

people. I remembered that there was strong 

opposition to the polio vaccine when it was 

originally developed, that people worried 

that the vaccine would give them the disease, 

which, coincidentally, is also a fecal-oral 

transmitter. Even today, in 2004, clerics in 

parts of Nigeria, which produces half of the 

world’s new polio cases each year, are advising 

their people not to take the vaccine because, 

they say, it is actually part of a Western plot 

to render Islamic women infertile and curb 

Africa’s population. Their resistance in the 

past has led to reinfection of children in six 

neighboring countries previously declared 

polio free. With India, Nigeria is the last bastion 

of the disease that once affected millions 

of children. Last year only 700 cases of the 

disease were reported worldwide, which is a 

vast improvement from 1988’s 350,000 cases, 

but a step up from 2001’s 483. 

Nigerian clerics are not alone in their 

wariness of vaccines. One in 2.4 million 

people inoculated with oral polio vaccine 

does contract the disease. Edward Hooper’s 

1999 book “The River” theorizes that 1950s 

polio vaccines developed by Dr. Hilary 

Koprowski, which used polio virus grown 

in Asian monkey kidneys, caused the current 

AIDS epidemic. Hooper points to the 

coincidence of early HIV infections and 


21

oral polio vaccinations in Central Africa, 

speculating that Koprowski or his associates 

grew some of their polio virus using tissue 

from chimpanzees, which carry the SIVcpz 

virus, which is believed to have mutated into 

HIV in humans. Because Koprowski’s vaccine 

was also administered in Poland, Croatia, and 

Switzerland, where no early HIV infections 

were recorded, it is probably more likely that 

the first human contraction of HIV occurred 

through contact with chimpanzee blood 

in areas where chimpanzees are hunted for 

food. More radical in their claims of vaccine 

contamination are the dozens of conspiracy 

websites that accuse Jonas Salk, who developed 

the first polio vaccine with dead polio 

virus in 1954, and Albert Sabin, who one 

year later developed the oral vaccine with 

weakened polio cells, of advancing a Jewish 

plot to infect the Christian world. So I got 

my gamma globulin shot. 

In talking with Dr. Kleist, I also confirmed 

my suspicion that members of the hepatitis 

family of viruses (A through E) are not 

related to each other except in their effect on 

the human body, which is that they inflame 

the liver, which is what hepatitis (from 

Greek) means. Other hepatitises are more 

dangerous, can cause death, must be treated 

aggressively with medicines, are transmitted 

mostly through blood. Infants in the United 

States today are vaccinated against hepatitis 

B as a matter of course. The vaccine for 

hepatitis A was only approved for general use 

in 1995, which explains why I hadn’t gotten it 

before I came to Uruguay in 1993 and why I 

had to get gamma globulin shots every three 

months. Hepatitis C can work undetected 

during several years until the liver is scarred 

or fails entirely. There is no vaccine against 

it. Both B and C may stay with a person for 


life, resurging at inopportune times. D and E 

are mysterious, the one needing the B virus 

to exist and the other appearing quite like A 

but not exactly. Hepatitises affect in greater 

proportions the same demographic group 

that is at high risk for AIDS. And when your 

immune system is already crippled by AIDS, 

hepatitis of any strain can damage your liver’s 

normal functioning and be quickly fatal. 

“Scooter” 

by Alica Vanoy Call 

The kids were basically fine after a couple 

of days, though they were still contagious 

and supposed to be resting, and I found that 

hepatitis A and its treatment are common 

knowledge in Uruguay. There is no medicine 

to combat the disease, only bed rest and 

a special diet that avoids oils and fats and 

sugars. People asked me all the time how I 

dealt with the kids, how I kept them still. I

usually said, “barely” or “it’s hard,” never quite 

hitting on the right humorous response to 

give them, and I wonder now why I felt I 

had to be humorous. So my children spent a 

month at home, out of school, partly in bed, 

driving Karina and me crazy, while gamma 

globulin and I warded off the disease entirely, 

which was good in a practical way—I could 

help Karina with the kids—but which compounded 

the guilt I already felt. I had saved 

myself. 

The dog suffered through two days of pain, 

wheezing, and valiant attempts to remain 

standing and awake, but these always ended 

in thudding falls and nails scratching quickly 

against the tile floor of the kitchen where we 

kept her because it was raining. Each day, in 

spite of the various medicines the veterinarian 

gave her, she got a little worse, and I was 

amazed that a body could hang on for that 

long. The diagnosis was heart and kidney 

failure and fluid in the lungs so that her 

blood was not properly oxygenated, did not 

filter properly in the heart, whose swollenness 

meant that its valves did not close properly. 

Pressure on her torso, from lying down for 

instance, made breathing even more difficult, 

and she strained forward, eyes bulging, nose 

wide, seeking air. Each breath bared her 

ribs through taut skin and short yellow hair, 

made a sucking, liquid sound, then she would 

hack ineffectually, trying to loose something 

to make breathing easy again, involuntary, 

reflex. The causes and effects tangled: she 

could barely lie down because that made her 

lung capacity smaller and put pressure on her 

swollen organs, so she could hardly sleep, so 

she could not recover, could not rest from the 

pain and strain, would stand for as long as she 

could will it until her body simply gave out, 

another crash to the floor, then a struggle to 

stand again and again and again. 

By Sunday afternoon we had lost hope. 

The dog could no longer stand. She couldn’t 

even lie down correctly. She just splayed her 

legs wherever they fell and gasped for air. 

Animals don’t get surgery or morphine or 

respirators in Uruguay, so we decided, on 

the veterinarian’s advice, to put her to sleep, 

which he did by administering a relaxant 

and then the lethal injection right there on 

our front stoop while Karina held the dog’s 

head, crying, gently whispering and caressing 

her fur, while I ran to get paper towels to 

wipe up the blood from the injection, while 

the veterinarian snapped off his latex gloves 

and stowed his medicines and poisons in a 

tackle box, while the dog strained, slowly 

convulsing, holding on, conscious but leaving, 

stretched full length pointing, wanting air 

and inner mysterious processes circulating 

replenishing growing, for far too long, I 

thought, and then was still. There are people 

who see this sort of thing all the time, but I 

think I had never before witnessed the death 

of any living creature bigger than a breadbox. 

I had long ago given up crying over dead 

dogs, but I cried for Karina. 

Then Karina is gone to the pet cemetery 

to witness the burial, to say goodbye one last 

time, and I am home with the kids, struggling 

to keep them still, not fighting, out 

of the fridge, with slippers on their feet. A 

glance out the front window toward the gate 

reminds me that the dog is gone. The trees 

are losing their leaves in May; the winds are 

bringing cold from the South. Pato’s shoelace 

is still hanging tied in a square knot from the 

window latch in the kitchen, in case we have 

to give another i.v. It was raining steadily and 

gray and I can’t get it out of my head how 

small the dog looked, bent, doubled over and 

bundled in a white sheet tied at the corners 

leaning against a tree. 


23


To La te Fall in Santiago, Chile 

Dirt combed free of snarls twice a day, 

tree trunks white washed as high 

as arthritis can reach. 

Make of me, late fall, what this peasant 

has made of her poverty. 

Flung potato water gleaming on bricks 

outside her window, an albino dog 

licking up what is wet if not 

holy, legs splayed to keep his paws dry. 

– Lance Larsen 

“Eleven Ways to Garden” 

by Jacqui Larsen 

Previously published in Alaska Quarterly Review.

To My Mother, Chewing 

You made the most of every asparagus tip and sliced 

peach, every syllable of Waldorf salad, 

relaxing as you chewed, fork 

hovering, as if obeying some metaphysical fermata. 

This held true, even if you lacked plate 

and utensil and had joined me in the kitchen 

to save me from a late dinner alone. 

“You’re doing it again,” I’d say—“trying to help me 

eat.” And we’d laugh off your vicarious 

chewing, some maternal carryover 

from baby food days. Still I found myself swallowing 

faster than I meant to, lasagna, French bread, 

peas, lemon pudding, snatching the world 

from your mouth before you had a chance to taste it. 


Previously published in Chariton Review. 

“Day Star” 

by Jacqui Larsen 


25

The New Father 

by Stephen Tuttle 

The new father knows the weather better than his job requires he should. He knows, for example, 

a dozen names for rain. He knows a dozen more for frozen precipitation that is not 

yet snow. He knows what clouds will be in the sky before he looks to see. He knows what 

lightning should be feared and which it is safe to watch from a rooftop. He knows why it is cold 

when it is cold, he knows why it is unlikely that certain heatwaves will end so soon or last so long. 

He knows winter winds, tropical storms, cold fronts, low pressure zones, doppler radar, cloud 

seeding, drought, flooding, inversion. The new father knows that his son, not yet one year old, was 

born at the tail end of a period of anomalous winter heat. Heat that in January fooled more than 

a few of his fellow citizens into thin shirts and sandals. This was weather that couldn’t last and he 

knew not only why but also when it would end. His son was born into that heat but couldn’t have 

known it, and still the new father feels a certain timidity around his son, who is precocious and 

active and certainly prepared for a life of cruel deceptions. But he can read the conditions of his 

son’s birth as a precursor of better things. He can imagine a future that is dedicated to surprising 

people with good things they can’t expect. He can imagine his son growing into a man who fights 

convention and who introduces levity where there had been only pessimism. But he also fears 

that the heatwave that saw his son’s birth ended too abruptly, just as he said it would, that frostbite 

and pneumonia and colds and flus and RSV hit his city as weather-induced illnesses often 

do: swiftly and with force. Which is to say: the new father has every reason to believe that his son 

will be a thief and a liar. He has every reason to fear that the boy he holds in his arms, the boy 

who is sleeping now, and snoring just a little, the boy who started crawling early, doesn’t cry often 

and eats like a champ, the boy who has his fathers eyes some say, and his nose, and who looks 

so adorable in a hooded towel or emerging from under a fleece blanket, or while trying to make 

sense of the noises around him, that this boy of his cannot help but face a life in which he keeps 

from people the information they most desperately need but could never know to ask for. Petty 

theft, the new father suspects, will be another of his son’s impossibly early accomplishments. He 

looks at his son and quietly sings: The winter wind blows, the winter wind blows, it gives me the 

shivers from my head to my toes. 


“Agape” 

by Zachary Proctor


27


“Dreaming the Canopy” 

by Jacqui Larsen

To the Ode 

True, you intimidate me, but when I slip you on, 

like Horace’s bathrobe, all things come 

to life: an ant as worthy of praise as a phoenix, 

a Styrofoam cup as capacious 

as a Grecian urn. Nothing too trivial for you. 

Not clouds, not the bent spoon 

carrying oatmeal to the dowager’s mouth, 

not spotted dogs in heat. 

Under your watch, Dejection and Joy 

smoke the peace pipe and take up 

residence in adjacent flats. 

Thanks to you, I talk to my orange juice 

before I drink it, I begin a Q and A 

with the rain, sadness and greed 

converted into longing. Behind my sternum, 

an ancient Mayan city. What is water, 

but a confessor, willing to wash away my grit? 

What are train tracks but a ladder to heaven 

turned on its side? What is a rotting 

mouse but a country of flies buzzing with praise? 


Previously published in Prairie Schooner. 


29

BOOK REVIEW 

30 

Patrick Madden’s 

Quotidiana 

Review by Ashley mae Christensen-Hoiland 

I 

read Pat Madden’s essay “Hepatitis” 

days ago, but still, this morning, even 

while rounding the corner on my bike 

and riding into the back yard, I couldn’t 

help but be reminded of the final image, 

“It was raining steadily and gray and I can’t 

get it out of my head how small the dog 

looked, bent, doubled over and bundled in 

a white sheet tied at the corners leaning 

against a tree.” These final lines invoke my 

heart to stop and look for beauty and significance 

in places I am not usually inclined 

to. This morning, I thought about how the 

smallest, even absurd comforts construct 

our sense of home. 

My two-tiered grassy yard is shared with the neighbors and every spring 

there emerges a small fleet of inbred cats from the bushes along the side 

of this house. Last year’s crop, (which has now grown far beyond charming 

kitten stage), of more than a half-dozen cats is replete with crossed-eyes, a 

stubby tail, and every fur color imaginable. I am both annoyed and enamored 

with them. They creep around along the edge of the fence and scamper 

when we put out our hands to pet them. Once, while cooking dinner in our 

little basement kitchen, I was startled as I looked to the window and saw a 

whitish-grey whiskered face peering in at me with the brightest, most crossed 


pair of eyes I had ever seen. I love these cats. 

I love the fact that they are there, in my 

backyard, living cat lives while I live my human 

life. It was with these creatures in mind 

that I entered the back yard this morning. I 

thought of the family dog in Pat’s essay, and 

how even he was the impetus for beauty and 

understanding in this life. 

Pat writes in an honestly inquisitive tone 

throughout the book, and he seems willing to 

redefine his understanding of home throughout, 

both metaphorically and physically. He 

is the character upon which discovery pivots. 

In the collection, there are places home is 

connected to: his childhood neighborhood in 

New Jersey where every kid loved the band 

Rush, Notre Dame, Uruguay as a missionary 

and Uruguay as a resident, and the landscape 

of both Utah and BYU. In some essays home 

is dealt with more metaphorically. In “Garlic,” 

home is in learning about his wife’s family. In 

the essay, “Remember Death,” he considers 

the many interpretations and writings about 

death on a philosophical level. He considers 

what it means to be home on this earth and 

what home will be after death as he writes 

about various “Momento Mori,” the danse 

macabre, cemeteries and then he comes back 

home, and writes about death from his personal 

experiences. He goes out into the world 

to discover what it is that he is curious about, 

but brings the information to his literal home 

to write to make sense of what he’s learned. 

He writes a lot about his kids and his wife, 

it is obvious that they have created familiarity 

and home in this expansive world for him. 

In the essay “Asymptosy” he ends with these 

lines, 

My son smiles from under his spacealien 

bicycle helmet. He seems content 

never to arrive at that bridge to the 

afterlife, that chariot of the gods or cloak 

of the Great Spirit (whatever we may 

name it, to approach it); he is okay just 

being near his father, riding east, doggedly 

pedaling. 

In his essay “Panis Angelicus” he writes 

about his grandmother’s life. In this scene she 

is singing a song to his grandfather shortly 

before her death, “She gave them ‘Dear Old 

Girl,’ in a voice undiminished…She died a 

few weeks later, in her bed, with her family 

by her side. My father was reassigned to a 

base in Chicago, then received a hardship 

discharge, then married my mother, finished 

school, had a son.” He writes about the 

origins of his own family and sense of home. 

Madden’s family often is the taking off 

point for his essays. In “Hepatitis,” we follow 

him as he learns about the origins of 

hepatitis, the history his wife’s family has 

with the disease, and in particular, its history 

in Uruguay. We follow him through 

his wanderings because as a reader, we trust 

that he will take us somewhere. In the epigraph 

of Madden’s new collection of essays, 

Quotidiana, Montaigne, the father of the 

essay is quoted, “From the most ordinary, 

commonplace, familiar things, if we could put 

them in their proper light, can be formed the 

greatest miracles of nature and the most wondrous 

examples.” Madden holds true to this 

form of essay making throughout his book. 

Again and again the reader is taken down 

the most commonplace path, only to be lead 

someplace they could have never expected. 


31


Painting a 

Room: 

A post-modern look at 

local muralists 

by Candace DeYoung 

There is no better time than 

now to cultivate a greater 

interest in the mural arts for 

two major reasons: first, decorative 

murals currently demonstrate a fad 

like popularity within our community, 

and specifically our homes, and 

second, the last time a significant 

number of public murals were executed 

for the benefit of the viewing 

public, at least in recent memory, 

was during the Great Depression. 

With the current poor economy it 

seems appropriate to focus on the 

mural as an artistic medium because 

like in the depression era, the government 

is sending unprecedented 

amounts of money into the economy 

in the name of job creation, which 

may set the stage for the resurgence 

of the federally funded mural, and 

other public art projects. 

© Jesse Erasmus, 2010

Murals, considered works of art permanently 

affixed to wall space, have been employed 

by artists for millennia. Arguably the 

first site-specific works of art, one might also 

deem murals the original wallpaper. Unlike 

other media murals lend themselves to the 

expression of the contemporary political 

atmosphere illuminating the hopes, aspiration, 

anxieties, social ills, and economy of the 

communities which they represent. Murals 

also typically serve both the decorative and 

artistic dictates of the time and place in 

which created. 

However, like other forms of art, there 

are two buzz terms to keep in mind while 

discussing murals: fine art and decorative art. 

Murals are simultaneously artistic and decorative 

and with counterparts in artistic fields 

beyond itself, the mural poses the ultimate 

example of postmodernism, a term used to 

describe our current era: one without the leisure 

of a clear trajectory, or distinct labels and 

therefore an era in which the lines between 

fine and decorative art are unclear. Contrary 

to formalist art critic Clement Greenberg’s 

beliefs that the quality of the object is directly 

related to its autonomy, the mural is composed 

of everything but autonomous parts. 

Rather, the mural is an eclectic compilation 

of architecture, decoration, painting, history, 

propaganda, didacticism, and even escapism: 

the tension between fine and decorative art 

present throughout the history of mural 

making. 

Several artists employ the mural arts to 

bring the benefit of art to people of diverse 

means and artistic tastes, and have done so 

throughout the history of mural making. 

Two local artists who have adapted the 

medium to their own artistic and professional 

needs are decorative muralist and artist Brian 

Scott, and emerging landscape artist Conrad 

Nebeker. While Scott and Nebeker approach 

the medium from different perspectives, and 

execute noticeably different murals, both are 

rooted in the history of mural making as both 

a fine and decorative art. 

In our community the mural seems most 

popularly used in the home as a decorative 

tool to transform mere wall space into a 

Tuscan getaway, Disney fantasy, or Wild West 

saloon. Decorative murals are so popular 

in our community one can hardly enter a 

neighbor’s basement without a theme park 

public service announcement, “for your safety 

please keep your eyes, ears, mouth, and nose 

inside the ride at all times. As you enter this 

“Playhouse” 

by Brian Scott 


© Jesse Erasmus, 2010 

33

© Jesse Erasmus, 2010 

teleportation you may experience an extreme 

sense of disorientation… Thank you for visiting 

the Thomas family basement. Please exit 

to your right.” Obviously an extreme exaggeration 

of the actual experience, decorative 

muralists like Brian Scott offer patrons their 

artistic skill to transform conventional space 

into clients’ fantastical getaways. 

Scott suggests, “I choose to express my 

own artistic views through my personal fine 

art projects and view murals as a way to express 

the client’s ideas.” Decorative in nature 

Scott’s work has the power to bring client 

fantasy to life, a relationship demonstrating 

likeness with the great room painters who 

provided an alternative to wallpaper in the 

early post revolutionary years. 

However, Scott’s skill set is not limited 

to fantastical villages. Like the depression 

era artists who lauded the strength of the 

American worker, Scott’s “Murray City 

Commemorative Mural” honors the industrial 

origins of a changing urban landscape. 

True to the dictates of public art critics of 

the sixties, prior to executing a public mural 

Scott researches the community the mural 


will represent allowing him to create a work 

that illumines not only the history but also 

the traditions of the surrounding community. 

Scott states, “I research the community so 

that I can create a mural which reflects its 

history and traditions. For example, when 

the city of Murray decided to remove their 

smelter and landmark smokestacks I was 

commissioned to paint a mural to commemorate 

their historical importance. Today 

the mural serves as a constant reminder 

and tribute to the city’s history.” Like the 

federally funded murals of the depression 

era, Scott’s “Murray City Commemorative 

Mural” anchors the community in its history 

connecting the past, present and future. 

Conrad Nebeker is an emerging landscape 

artist who finds inspiration and connectedness 

to his origins through painting the 

landscapes he encounters in daily life. 

According to Nebeker, landscape painting is a 

means of relating back to biblical origins, specifically 

the Garden of Eden. He also finds 

particular interest in the verticality of the 

landscape, and the tension this vertically creates 

between the sky and the earth. Nebeker 

dabbles in other media, experimenting with 

“Murray City Commemorative Mural” 

by Brian Scott

“Mount Timpanogos” 

by Conrad Nebeker 

Jason Metcalf, and other artists in the Provo 

art community responsible for the rise of the 

Sego Art Center. Yet he continues to return 

to the Zen of the landscape. Liberated by the 

borderless options offered large-scale surfaces 

Nebeker is not necessarily a muralist, but an 

artists who typically works in large formats 

that confront the viewer not unlike the vast, 

engulfing canvases of the abstract expressionists. 

Nebeker’s mural piece at the Farmicia 

Restaurant in Philadelphia, “North Eden” 

measuring 93”x165,” is an excellent example 

of his affinity for borderless expression. 

Executed on canvas, and then permanently 

adhered to the wall, the mural demonstrates 

Nebeker’s belief in the landscape as an 

ancestral threshold, and as such recognizes 

that connectedness to ancestry can be estab- 

lished through the landscape. As a mural 

North Eden serves a decidedly decorative 

purpose in its restaurant environment, but 

like the Renaissance murals of Michelangelo, 

Raphael, and Da Vinci it also speaks to the 

artistic project, the cognitive discovery of the 

artist, and to Nebeker it serves as a portal to 

connect with his origins. 

The oscillation between fine and decorative 

art murals, as exemplified by the differing 

perspectives of Scott and Nebeker, is 

also significant within the history of the 

mural arts. Take for example the following 

selective history of mural making: the 

genesis of mural making dates back to the 

cave paintings of the Paleolithic period. 

Arguments for the decorative, artistic, and/ 


35

“Red Barn” 

by Conrad Nebeker 

or utilitarian use of the cave paintings are 

inconclusive, though the paintings appear to 

have served a communal purpose. Proceed 

approximately 10,000 years to the Roman 

Republic, and murals decorated the walls 

of luxurious villas throughout the republic: 

the greatest example of interior decoration 

in the ancient world (though some murals 

served ritualistic purposes as well). The four 

styles of Roman mural painting are known 

as first, second, third, and fourth style. First 

style imitated the look of natural stone, a faux 

granite. Second style aspired to trompe-l’eoil 

(hyper real) illusionism (the escapist approach 

to mural painting). Third style championed 

small intimate pictures against monochrome 

color, and fourth style was a cocktail of the 


three previous mural fashions. Renaissance 

examples of the fine art mural (like Nebeker’s 

approach to mural making the artist’s agenda/ 

artistic, cognitive discovery preeminent) are 

endless. 

In the tradition of didactic religious 

art Michelangelo (1475 – 1564) executed 

the Sistine Ceiling (1508 – 1512) under 

Pope Julius II’s (1443 – 1513) iron fist. An 

example of the difficult relationship between 

artist, patron, religious concerns, didacticism, 

decoration, and artistic aspirations embodied 

in a work of art, Michelangelo’s commission 

enabled him to fine-tune his relative inexperience 

with fresco painting, creating one 

of the world’s most recognizable murals and 

satisfying the decorative, didactic needs of 

the patron as well as the artist’s disposition to 

humanize biblical figures, sculpting the ideal 

human figure reductively in fresco. 

The tendency toward decorative murals 

within the home is again exemplified by 

post-revolutionary decorative trends. As 

infrastructure and access to remote areas increased, 

American cultural enthusiasts began 

commissioning artists to paint their great 

rooms. Similar to Brian Scott’s approach 

to mural making, entrepreneurial artists like 

Rufus Porter (1792 – 1884) traveled about 

paint living spaces according to the tastes of 

his patrons. Of the belief that the arts should 

be accessible to the entirety of the young 

nation, Porter created “A Select Collection of 

Valuable and Curious Arts, and Interesting 

Experiments which are Well Explained, and 

Warranted Genuine, and May be Prepared, 

Safely and at Little Expense.” A document 

of formulations rather than aesthetic considerations, 

Porter’s writings demonstrate a 

purely decorative approach to mural making

within the home. Depression era murals 

are not only simultaneously decorative and 

artistic; they are also propagandistic, didactic, 

nationalistic and monumentalized the worker 

as the strength of the nation. Under Franklin 

Delano Roosevelt the Treasury Department’s 

Section of Painting and Sculpture commissioned 

artists to create murals for schools, 

post offices, state capitols and other government 

buildings that might lift public moral 

and accessibly demonstrate the government’s 

responsibility to the citizen. And there you 

have the severely selective history of the 

mural arts. 

P roceed approximately 10,000 years to the Roman 

Republic, and murals decorated the walls of 

luxurious villas throughout the republic: the greatest 

example of interior decoration in the ancient world 

Today our society, or at least our community, 

appears to align most closely with 

the historical trends of Roman wall painting, 

and post revolutionary house painting (the 

decorative murals an artist like Scott creates 

according to patron wishes). Like murals in 

the Roman Republic, contemporary decorative 

mural painting follows the changing 

fashions and fads of interior decoration. 

Exposure to murals considered for their fine 

art merits (murals like Nebeker might create 

through which the artist attempts to realize 

cognitive conjecture, and may also serve 

decorative purposes) is significantly lower. 

However, the fine art mural is not extinct and 

can often be experienced in the public realm 

like Nebeker’s “North Eden” at Farmacia. 

Returning to the question uttered in the 

beginning stages of this article, “How does 

one navigate between the fine art mural and 

the mural to be considered on its decorative 

merits?” we live in a postmodern world where 

the disintegration of designations like the 

difference between fine and decorative is so 

far progressed one cannot safely make overarching 

statements like, “This is decorative 

art, and this is fine art.” However, acceptance 

that they influence one another for the better, 

and that labeling designations are not essential 

reveals a need for different verbal cues to 

enter the conversation, a conversation which 

may soon expand 

as the influx of 

government money 

is realized and 

artists respond 

to the political 

atmosphere polarizing 

contemporary 

society. In a political 

and economic environment like ours, one 

cannot help but recognize parallels with both 

the environment in which other government 

funded murals have been commissioned, 

and the environment in which subversive 

socio-political art is often made, and as such 

we may witness a reinvigorated passion for 

both federally funded murals extolling the 

virtues of ordered government, and subversive 

murals questioning the virtues of government 

altogether. Because the last time a significant 

number of public murals were commissioned 

was during the Great Depression, and considering 

a similarity, and margin of difference, 

between then and now, it seems appropriate 

that the mural medium may find resurgence 

in the near future as the government sends 

large amounts of money into the economy 

funding endeavors like public art. 


37

THEATER REVIEW 

38 

Dirty Rotten 

Scoundrels 

Review by Eric Samuelsen 

Rotten Scoundrels,” the musical now running 

at the Hale Center Theater in Orem, is a ball, a 

“Dirty 

blast, a gas. I don’t know when I’ve had this much 

fun in a theater. It’s what happens when a dozen or so of the 

smartest, sharpest theatre people in Utah Valley get together 

to just play. 

“Scoundrels,” which opened on Broadway in 2005, was loosely adapted 

by Jeffrey Lane (book) and David Yazbek (music and lyrics) from the 1988 

Steve Martin film of the same title. Lawrence (Dave Tinney), is a conman 

working a casino near the French Riviera, with his help of his sidekick Andre 

(Greg Hansen), who is also the local police chief. When the callow interloper 

Freddy (Brett Merritt) shows up, demonstrating rudimentary conman skills of 

his own, Lawrence agrees to mentor him. Freddy proves his worth by helping 

Lawrence disentangle himself from an engagement to an Oklahoma mark, 

Jolene (Kelly Hennessey); the two thieves then wager on which of them can 

gull another innocent and wealthy American girl, Christine (Hailey Smith). 


The story is, of course, unmarred by even 

the tiniest vestige of morality. The charm of 

the show is its rogueish, impish wit. As in 

such films as “Ocean’s Eleven” or “The Italian 

Job,” or “The Sting,” the cleverness of the con 

draws us in, keeps us guessing. A caper has 

to surprise us, it has to misdirect us, it has to 

throw us red herrings, and the payoff has to 

be dazzlingly inventive. Lane’s book meets all 

those challenges. But turning a caper into a 

musical introduces another requirement—the 

songs need to be lyrically and musically 

inventive to match the cleverness of the plot. 

And the songs in “Scoundrels” are comically 

brilliant. At one point, Freddy, who has 

feigned paralysis as part of his con, overcomes 

his (fake) handicap because of his great 

love—also fake—for Christine. Their love 

duet, “Love is my legs,” is one of the funniest 

ballads I’ve ever heard. Freddy’s dream of illgotten 

wealth, “Great Big Stuff,” hilariously 

mocks American consumerism, while Jolene’s 

rousingly terrifying “Oklahoma” extols 

virtues of her native state never considered by 

Rodgers and Hammerstein. 

Of course, “Scoundrels” does not include 

another staple of contemporary musical 

theatre, the soaring inspirational power ballad. 

There’s no “Defying Gravity” (Wicked), no 

“Easy as Life” (Aida). The closest “Scoundrels” 

comes to musical uplift is “Love Sneaks 

In,” in which Lawrence sings of his growing 

admiration for Christine, who represents 


39

something brand new to him, a genuinely 

good person. And, of course, the song is 

mostly there to set up the show’s final plot 

twist. 

The great writing obviously wouldn’t mean 

much if the theater company wasn’t of the 

same caliber. This company was. Over the 

past ten years, Christopher Clark has established 

himself as perhaps the most exciting 

stage director in Utah Valley: his 2009 

“Nosferatu” set a new standard for innovative 

experimentation. His direction of “Scoundrels” 

shows a thorough professional in complete 

command of his craft. His staging was precise 

and clear, the comic timing impeccable, 

the characterizations sharp and distinct. I 

especially enjoyed his use of comic pauses, 

the way he allowed the audience to take in 


a perfectly realized stage picture. I loved the 

precision of Cory Stephens’ choreography, the 

way he filled the tiny Hale Center space with 

life and energy. Singing to a recorded score 

presents actors with challenges most audiences 

don’t notice: Jeremy Showgren’s music 

direction met that challenge meticulously. 

And the cast was splendid. Dave Tinney 

created a calm, unhurried Lawrence, confident, 

but also melancholy. Merritt’s Freddy 

had a kind of loose-limbed casualness that 

initially seemed to lack Tinney’s comic exactness 

and precision, but after his first scene, he 

really grew on me. He’s a marvelous physical 

comedian, and the funniest scenes in the play 

were his wheelchair scenes. I’ve always loved 

Hailey Smith’s work as an actress, and in this, 

she manages to turn Christine’s naiveté into

comic gold. And Hennessey’s Jolene blew 

the stage doors off with sheer raw American 

energy. Greg Hansen and Natalie Wheeler 

were equally outstanding in the quieter roles 

of Andre and Muriel (a woman discarded 

by Lawrence, who Andre falls for). Clark 

begins a ‘morning after’ scene with them with 

a lengthy pause as funny as any of the play’s 

more manic moments. 

I saw the Monday, Wednesday, Friday 

cast: I’m less familiar with the actors in the 

Tuesday, Thursday cast: David Walker, Darick 

Pead, Shayla Osborn, Jeremiah Ginn, Laurel 

Lowe, Bronwyn Tarboten. I have no doubt 

their performances have the same comic 

precision as the actors I saw. And I must 

mention the superb 8-person chorus, whose 

ensemble playing was a particular delight. 

“Dirty Rotten Scoundrels,” in short, shows 

how much fun theatre can be when talent 

and craftsmanship come to play. The Hale 

Center space may be small, the seats are 

surely uncomfortable. But this is a great 

night’s entertainment. 


41

42 

by Kit Slover 

by Kit Slover 

Slovers are characterized by their attention to the insignificant 

parts of life, most prominently: cleanliness and 

creature comforts. In that order. It is not uncommon to 

see a Slover on hands and knees vigorously scrubbing the little 

board where the wall meets the floor and muttering curses 

about the inconsiderate nature of others and their wet sloppy 

shoes. Or putting oven mitts in the washing machine after a 

single use, or spending 45 minutes straightening a tablecloth, 

or vacuuming the porch, or buying new furniture after it 

meets Diet Coke for the first time. My brother refused to loan 

me his copy of Dune because I “open books too widely” and I 

have dry hands (sometimes I use lotion and the oils could… 

you know). 


The only thing that gives the lives 

of Slovers more meaning than cleanliness 

is perhaps creature comforts. My 

father goes through a good 90 bottles 

of shampoo a year, not because he takes 

too many showers—although he does 

take many—but because he simply wants 

to try a new scent. My mother enjoys 

nothing more than sitting with a cup 

of tea while having her feet rubbed by 

whatever strong handed cretin she can 

lay hands on. Because we live in Utah, 

my generally easygoing brother often 

spends hours scouring the land in search 

of gourmet coffee. He doesn’t drink that 

“instant crap.” So how, in the midst of 

all this cleanliness and pleasant physical 

indulgence, do I fit into the Slover family? 

I don’t. 

For many years now I have lived a secret 

life. My room is messy, I wear my clothes 

until there is some offensive smell or stain on 

them, and I change my sheets a mere twice 

monthly. Secretly, I put the can opener back 

in the drawer after simply rinsing the implement. 

I am an alien to my family. More of an 

observer really. 

The Slover obsessions—cleanliness and 

comfort—unite in gourmet food. Because 

we do not much like cooking, we don’t. But 

we do like eating. We eat out more than any 

family I have ever known. We’re the familiars 

of every restaurateur in the greater Provo area, 

and quite a few in Salt Lake. Some families 

save for vacations in Hawaii. Slovers save 

for pan-seared Ahi tuna with a pear cilantro 

emulsion. I have never had a big problem 

with this, but my tastes differ in the extreme 

from the rest of my family’s. While most 

Slovers prefer butter braised mussels at a 

three and a half star restaurant, I enjoy eating 

an In ‘N Out burger in my bedroom, watching 

TV on my laptop. Which I frequently 

do. (This particular practice of mine has been 

devastating for my closest kin: it violates, 

completely, their treasured ideals of hygiene 

and formal dining.) More than anything else, 

my take on life’s truly basic pleasures differentiates 

me from my family. I like a good 

foot massage as much as anyone, but it’s not 

my literal picture of heaven. And, sure, new 

scents can be fun—for a second or two. 

But when it comes to . . . that herb . . . 

Slovers and I are irreconcilable. 

People say that a person’s like or dislike 

of cilantro is genetic. They say if your family 

enjoys it then so will you. Well they’re wrong. 

I hate it. My family loves it. I am afraid of 

cilantro, and I don’t just mean I “dislike it” 


43

or “find it displeasing” or “would rather not.” 

I’m referring to hair-standing-up-on-theback-of-my-head 

scared. The three-inch 

goose bumps kind of scared. The cold-sweatrunning-down-your-back 

brand of fear (well 

that’s not true, I don’t actually sweat, but that 

must be due to a glandular problem). With 

its soapy flavor and stick-between-your-teeth 

tendency, cilantro inspires terror in me. 

I think this is largely because cilantro is 

so unexpected. Cilantro just happens. It’s 

like getting pregnant: one moment your life 

is happy and carefree and the next you’re 

sobbing and rushing off to the bathroom 

to vomit and making ludicrous promises to 

Jesus. 

I first discovered cilantro when my mother 

put it in a salad. 

“So, how was school?” my mother asked on 

a typical day around 3:45 p.m. 


“It was fine. You know. It’s school.” 

“No, I don’t know. Why would I know?” 

She pulled out a salad and started pouring 

dressing on it. 

“It was just, you know, stuff. There was 

definitely some stuff,” I said. 

“What did you do? What classes did you 

go to? Who said what?” My mother always 

likes the details. 

“I dunno. How was work?” 

“Oh, I can’t talk about work right now.” 

I forked some of the salad. “Well, I think 

I’m gonna go—”Oh no. NO. This isn’t good. 

This is very much the opposite of what I call 

good. What is this?! And then I didn’t care 

what it was. I mostly just wished it wasn’t. I 

rushed over to the sink and rinsed and spat

and spat and rinsed. It was no good. I was 

going to die. 

And then I was gagging and my mother 

was hysterical and the salad was laughing. 

And this was hell. I was in hell. 

After that I decided that I maybe didn’t 

like whatever had been in that salad. I found 

out later it was cilantro. However, I find the 

herb near unavoidable these days because 

the whole bunch of my family finds it to be 

heavenly. In fact, nowadays they choose only 

restaurants that serve cilantro as liberally as 

water. 

Being forced to hide—or not hide as the 

case may be—my true nature from the rest 

of my family has played a significant role 

alisia@alisiapackard.com 

801.836.5276 

alisiapackard.com 

in carving out my personality. Slovers are 

competitive performers by nature and I’ve 

had to learn to be twice as funny as the whole 

bunch so as to maintain the illusion that I am 

completely one of them. I must say here that 

I do adore my family. My meticulous parents 

are unsurprisingly meticulously thoughtful. 

They care deeply about other people and are 

more capable of sensing the needs of those 

around them than anyone I know. 

But despite their sensitivity—and the fact 

that they surely deserve mine—I have no 

plans to “tidy up” my room this week, and I 

will never, never eat another leaf of cilantro. 

(I would ask you to keep this confession 

between us; I live in constant fear of being 

found out, as I’m sure you understand.) 

Wish Your 

ad were 

here? 

Contact 

Rebecca Packard for our 

special introductory rates 

ads@provooremword.org 


45

46 

S e v e n A l o n e 

by Krista Isom 

John Sager leaned against the barn and pulled a dime novel 

from his back pocket He flipped it open to a dog-eared 

page and ran his hand over a sketch of a man riding his 

horse through a ravine. He started to read. The sound of 

hoof beats grew louder as a vibrant picture came to life in his 

fourteen-year-old mind. 

Kit Carson raced off on his dusty horse towards the Indian camp with his rifle 

clenched in his fists. Justice needed to be met. 

As he arrived upon the camp five braves came out to meet him, still dressed for 

battle and streaked in war paint. Kit and the Indians stared each other down as 

sweat dripped down Kit’s scowling face. 

Suddenly, an arrow grazed past Kit’s ear. Kit reared his horse and charged 

forward as the Indians screamed out war cries. They raised their tomahawks as he 

raised his gun. 

It was only a matter of moments before the-- 

“John!” 

John blinked. He gripped the pages of the book, sliding himself down to 

a sitting position. His hand made its way through his tousled hair, and he 

sighed as he saw his father’s shadow loom over him. 

John looked up at the silhouette of his father against the sun. The form 

gripped the end of a shovel on his shoulder and swung it to the ground at 

John’s feet. 


Film novels invite us to create 

a movie in our heads: the 

dialogue provides the exact 

words of the characters, the 

description just what we see, 

and the narration precisely 

what we hear as voice over. 

Well written film novels 

engage us so totally in 

interpreting the movie we 

are creating that we must 

reinterpret our own lives. 

This is the first installment of a 

young adult novel that will be 

serialized in this magazine.

“I found this shovel trying real hard to 

clean the pigpen all by itself. It was a sad 

and disappointing sight.” He looked down at 

John’s hands and frowned. “Are you reading 

that Kit Carson book again?” 

John muttered to himself and stuffed the 

book back into his pocket with a scowl at 

the ground. He didn’t look up again until his 

father spoke. 

“Well, what does the great hero have to say 

about doing his chores?” 

John glared up at him. “He doesn’t do any 

chores. Not ever.” 

His father gave him a half-smile that 

didn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like he’s got 

himself a devout follower.” He picked up 

the shovel again and held it out to John 

who only stared at it. Neither budged for a 

few moments until John finally got up and 

dusted himself off. He took the shovel from 

his father’s hands and walked away without 

another word. 

— 

At the mouth of the hog pen, John sniffed 

and crinkled his nose. Inside, a huge sow 

was fighting against the chaos of her eight 

piglets, all competing for her milk supply. Kit, 

the family dog, added to the chaos with his 

animated barking, and John could only frown. 

He held the shovel and looked around the 

pen, focusing on a pile of manure. A cry of 

disgust escaped him. 

“Of course they‘d pick today to do their 

biggest bit of business,” he mumbled to himself 

and pushed the gate open with another 

unhappy grunt. “Move it, stupid pig.” 

John glanced behind him to see his 

younger brother Francis come around the 

corner with a small bucket of eggs. He turned 

back to the sow, urging her toward the gate 

with his boot. 

“Pa said you ain’t supposed to let Angel 

out of the pen,” Francis said behind him. 


47

John put his hands on his hips and faced 

him. “Just keep an eye on them while I clean 

the pen.” 

Francis put down the bucket of eggs and 

pointed a finger at John. “You do it! I’m not 

getting around her when she’s near them 

piglets.” 

John pointed a finger right back. “Don’t be 

a baby.” He gave Angel another shove with 

his boot. “Go on now. Get out of here!” 

Angel raised her snout and grunted at him. 

John raised his eyebrows and took a couple 

steps backward. He turned to Kit. 


“Go get her, Kit.” 

Kit charged the sow, causing the piglets to 

squeal and scramble for the gate of the pen. 

John turned to Francis in a panic. “Just 

don’t let them near the house!” 

“This ain’t my job!” 

John waved his arms in a frantic motion, 

gesturing toward the open gate. “It is now! 

Just do it!” 

Angel charged after her piglets and 

knocked John backward in the process.

Then, she made a fast break toward the gate. 

Francis stumbled in front of Angel, calling 

and motioning her back toward the pen, but 

Angel charged right past him. 

John lay on his back in some manure, eyes 

wide and mumbling to himself. After a short 

moment of shock, he started to pick himself 

up. 

— 

On the side of the house, the boys’ younger 

sister Catherine washed white sheets while 

another sister, Elizabeth, hung the bright, wet 

sheets on the clothesline. The wind made it 

hard for Elizabeth to get one of the sheets to 

swing over the line. She started hopping as 

she swung the sheet. 

“I can‘t…quite…reach—” 

Catherine smiled and got up to help her. 

Laughing, they finally managed to get the 

sheet to hang nicely. They stepped back, still 

giggling. Elizabeth wiped her forehead with 

her arm. 

“That sheet was a trouble-maker!” 

“He likes soaking in the washtub, I guess!” 

Catherine said, laughing and putting an arm 

around her sister. “But we got him hanging 

just as straight as mommas’ linens ever do!” 

The sounds of barking and oinking made 

them turn toward the barn. They looked at 

each other in concern. 

— 

In the garden, their youngest sisters, 

Louisa and Matilda, had nearly filled their 

aprons with a variety of vegetables. Matilda 

stood up from the muddy garden in her bare 

feet and looked up toward the sounds coming 

from the direction of the barn. The eight 

piglets were barreling toward her, followed by 

Angel, Kit, with John and Francis in the rear, 

struggling to catch up. 

“Matilda, head her off before she gets to 

the garden! Francis, get in front of them and 

herd them back,” John said in a huff. 

Matilda stood frozen for a moment. Her 

eyes widened. The parade of pandemonium 

was making a beeline for where she stood. 

She dropped her vegetables and ran toward 

the house. 

The piglets came running through the 

muddy garden, followed closely by Angel. 

John came to a halt and squeezed his eyes 

shut, putting his hand up to his forehead. 

Francis stopped and glared at John as John 

opened his eyes and turned to him. 

“Don’t you say a thing!” 

— 

A little way off, John’s father, Henry, on 

one knee beside his mule, frowned as he 

rubbed the leaves of a brown, dying corn 

plant. He looked up as he heard Catherine’s 

scream. He stood and gazed across the 

distance to the house, shading his eyes as 

he surveyed the chaos. He groaned, put a 


49

hand over his face, and stood that way for a 

moment. The sound of high-pitched squeals 

stirred him again. He looked down as a stray 

piglet ran past him. He stared at it as it raced 

away. 

“Uh huh!” he said and stomped toward the 

house. 


— 

John stared at the ground, digging the toe 

of his boot into the dirt. His father gripped 

his leather belt in his hands and sighed. 

“What you think, John? You think a belt 

whipping’ll help you obey?” 

John shifted his focus from his boot and 

looked up at his father. “Truth is, don’t think 

it’ll matter much one way or the other.” 

Henry clenched his fists around his belt 

for a moment and then his grip loosened. 

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his 

neck. “Reckon you’re right.” 

John furrowed his brow and looked closely 

at his father who only draped his belt over his 

shoulder. 

“You’re fourteen now, near a man,” Henry 

said. “You’re made of good stuff, John. Just 

don’t know if I’m gonna live long enough 

to see it come out.” He glanced anxiously 

toward the house, then across the distance to 

the field. 

“Maybe I’m just not meant to be a farmer,” 

John said, and his father turned with a weary 

look to face him. 

“What you think you want and what 

you’re meant to be may not be the same 

thing.” 

He turned back to look at the field, and 

John followed his gaze. After a long moment, 

John broke the silence. “We gotta leave here 

sooner or later. I can see the crops ain’t no 

good, and we can’t—” 

Henry held up a hand to stop him, finally 

turning to face his son. “I know the situation, 

John. But I’m not the only one making decisions 

around here.” He put a hand on John’s 

shoulder. “Man to man? A woman’s heart is 

stronger than reason.” He chuckled. “And 

often a lot wiser, too.” 

John nudged the dirt at his feet, and 

Henry sighed, dropping his hand from John’s 

shoulder. “Go on and help your ma clean up

that mess you made with them piglets.” He 

turned and walked toward the house. John 

followed slowly behind him with his hands in 

his pockets. He saw Catherine glaring at him 

around the corner of the barn as he walked by. 

— 

Naomi stood at her stained glass window, 

her hand playing in the kaleidoscope of colors 

filtering through from the setting sun. Her 

eyes followed the light across the dirt floor of 

their cabin, and took in each family member 

one at a time. Catherine sat in a chair, journal 

propped on her knees, all her attention on 

her writing. John sat at the kitchen table 

across the room, thumbing through the Bible. 

Francis sat on a stool near the table as Henry 

cut his hair, and Elizabeth washed the dishes 

with Matilda. 

Henry looked over at Naomi and smiled. 

“Them stained glass windows cast a mighty 

nice spell this time of day.” 

Naomi looked at her husband and returned 

his smile. “They’ve always made me 

happy.” 

Catherine looked up from her journal. 

“Why?” 

Naomi reached out and touched one of 

the panes. “Your great-grandpa gave these 

windows to your grandma—from the church 

where he was reverend.” She crossed the 

room to sit on the arm of Catherine’s chair. 

“She always said seeing their beauty was like 

seeing her parents’ love. It’s what I see too, 

ever since my momma gave them to me for 

our wedding.” 

“So you always hang them,” Catherine 

said, looking up at her. 

Naomi smiled and nodded. “They’ve been 

in every home I’ve ever had.” She squeezed 

Catherine’s shoulders. “I gotta have my pretty 

things.” 

“That’s what she said when she first saw 

me,” Henry said from across the room. “I 

didn’t stand a chance.” He winked at Naomi 

and everyone laughed. 

“We ain’t had Bible study in a while,” John 

said after a moment. 


51

Silence fell, and all eyes turned to John. 

Francis broke the silence with a laugh. 

“Johnny wants to read the Bible?” 

The other children laughed, and Henry 

thumped Francis on the head with his comb. 

Francis winced. 

“I’d like to see what he has for us ‘fore he 

changes his mind,” Henry said. “Everyone 

come sit at the table.” 

They all followed their father’s instruction, 

with John sitting on a bench by himself at the 

end of the table. He glanced up toward his 

mother who was once again sitting against 

the stained glass. He looked back down at the 

Bible and began to read. 

“’Wives, submit yourselves unto your 

own husbands, for husbands are head of 

the households…’” John glanced back at his 

mother, whose contented expression had 

changed. 

Henry cleared his throat. “That’s enough, 

John.” 

Naomi linked her fingers together on 

the table and frowned at them. “If we go to 

Oregon, it’ll be on the hope that your pa 

won’t have to work his fingers to the bone, 

not because of you twisting the scriptures for 

your own purposes.” She closed her eyes and 

squeezed her hands more tightly. “You need 

to understand we’ll be risking everything. The 

move to Missouri was nothing compared to 

going to Oregon.” 


— 

Catherine leaned forward over the back of 

the wagon, watching her legs as they swung 

with the movement of the oxen. Her father 

and brothers rode in silence on the horses 

next to her. Beside her, she heard her mother 

let out a low sigh. Catherine looked up. Her 

mother’s gaze was fixed on the homestead 

as they continued to roll away from it, and 

Catherine could see water gathering in her 

eyes. Suddenly aware she was being watched, 

her mother blinked hard and smiled faintly 

down at Catherine. 

Catherine returned a small smile and put 

her arms around her mother’s waist. Her 

mother absently put her arms around her, 

but her gaze was back on the cabin as it grew 

smaller and smaller in the distance. Catherine 

finally dropped her gaze from her mother’s 

face, breaking away to pull out her journal. 

She started to write. 

— 

We hitched up the wagons and drove off, just 

like that. The cabin looked so lonely without us. 

And mama’s favorite windows are bare ‘cause she 

wouldn’t leave without her stained glass.


53

MOVIE REVIEW 

54 

Alice in Wonderland 

Review by Eric Samuelsen 

Lewis Carroll wrote two books featuring a young girl 

named Alice—“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” 

in 1865, and “Through the Looking Glass and What 

Alice Found There,” six years later. “Alice in Wonderland” is 

the one where she falls down a hole; “Looking Glass” is the 

one in which the poem “Jabberwocky” appears. Now Tim 

Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland” film adds a third Alice story, 

set some years later than the books. In Burton’s film, Alice 

(Mia Wasikowska) is 19, attending a garden party which, 

to her dismay, is also intended as her engagement party. 

Hamish, the wealthy son of her late father’s business partner 

intends to ask her to marry him, and she’s expected to say yes. 

She runs away from the unappealing Hamish in pursuit of a 

white rabbit wearing a waistcoat, and of course, we find ourselves 

again in Wonderland—the fall down the hole, the table 

with the key, the door too small and the drink that shrinks her 

and the cake that helps her grow and so on. 

The difficulty for any film based on “Alice” is that the story has the logic of 

dreams—she meets odd characters more or less at random, and they behave 

arbitrarily. In some respects, the Tom Petty video “Don’t Come Round Here 

No More,” with it’s nightmarish imagery—at one point, Alice’s body turns 

into a cake, and Petty, as the Mad Hatter, slices her up and eats her—almost 

fits the Carroll story better than other screen adaptations have done. What’s 

interesting about Burton’s film is its combination of dream logic and a more 


conventional narrative; the actionmovie 

melodramatic structure built into 

“Jabberwocky.” 

We tend to think of “Jabberwocky” as a 

nonsense poem: “’twas brillig and the slithy 

toves did gyre and gimbel in the wabe . . .” 

But it could be seen as a heroic quest: a boy is 

sent to slay the Jabberwock, which has ‘jaws 

that bite and claws that snatch.’ He uses the 

vorpal sword: “one two, one two, and through 

and through, the vorpal blade went snickersnack. 

He left it dead, and with its head, he 

went galumphing back.” 

Well, in Burton’s film, the citizens of 

Underland (Wonderland is Alice’s childish 

mispronunciation of the ‘real’ name of the 

place) are under the rule of the cruel and 

arbitrary Red Queen (Helena Bonham 

Carter). A scroll prophesies, however, that 

on the “frabjous day,” a hero will restore 

the good White Queen (Anne Hathaway), 

by using the vorpal sword (currently in 

the Red Queen’s possession, guarded by 

her Bandersnatch), to kill the Queen’s pet 

Jabberwock. And Alice, if she’s the right 

Alice, is supposed to be that hero. 

Alice resists everything about it, though. 

As far as she’s concerned, she’s dreaming, and 

she can make her dreams turn out however 

she wants them to. So the film is built on two 

competing narratives—heroic quest, versus 

arbitrary dream-scape. So Alice is told she’s 

supposed to visit the White Queen. She 

insists, however, on first rescuing the Mad 

Hatter ( Johnny Depp), who the Red Queen 

has arrested. Turns out, though, that decision 

actually takes her closer to the vorpal sword, 

and the fulfillment of her heroic destiny. 

Depp is splendid as the Hatter, whose 

specific brand of madness is multiple personalities, 

one meek and kind, and one a 

swaggering Scottish warrior. Thus one of the 

great pleasures of the film: Depp reciting 

Jabberwocky as a Celtish war chant. And 

the film looks great throughout, especially 

Bonham Carter’s Red Queen, with her oversized 

head and tiny CGI body. She looks like 

an evil, petulant bobble-head doll. And her 

court sycophants all have exaggerated noses, 

ears, necks, bellies—prosthetics, it turns out, 

which Alice delights in plucking off. 

So the film looks great, and the acting’s 

consistently terrific—especially Wasikowska, 

who looks a bit like Zooey Deschanel, and 

whose Alice is both courageous and vulnerable. 

And yet, there’s that narrative problem. 

The heroic quest is also a very standard-issue 

Hollywood-action-movie story, and although 

the film pays lip service to Carroll’s dream 

logic, we’re never in much doubt that Alice 

will eventually don her armor and kill the 

dragon. It’s foreordained, determined, 

prophesied on sacred scrolls, and also every 

action movie ever. And so what attempts to 

be a story of young female empowerment 

also ends up preaching predestination—Alice 

can’t escape her fate after all. It’s not her 

dream, it’s Tim Burton’s, and she really can’t 

change how it turns out. 

It’s also a grown-up story, with a grown-up 

Alice, and some pretty scary moments—I 

wouldn’t recommend it for small children 

prone to nightmares. It’s just disappointing 

that a film that looks this great and is this 

well acted turns out so predictably. Frabjous 

day? Calloo, callay? Not quite this time. 


55

56 

“Alice” at Home 

by Rebecca Packard 

Children’s enthusiasm for the new “Alice in Wonderland” 

can be channeled into a deeper engagement with the 

story at home. Try reading the original stories “Alice’s 

Adventures in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking Glass” by 

Lewis Carroll or do an all-ages theatrical reading. Non-readers 

can be fed lines or have non-reading parts. You can do a readers’ 

theater version, where everyone is dressed in normal clothes and 

there’s no staging, or you can add some low-budget costumes 

and a few props. 

In the family production pictured above, we got bunny ears and 

a tall hat from the dollar store, attached paper mouse ears to a 

headband, and used some of the kids’ own clothes for costumes. 

They read the tea party scene in Kathryn Schultz Miller’s stage 

adaptation of the Alice books. (It’s written for two actors doubling 

parts, but you obviously don’t have to do the doubling.) 

According to the script, no one would be having tea, but we 

thought it would be more fun to have a little tea party during 

the reading. Below is the scene for Miller’s play (reprinted with 

permission.) If your kids are like those above, they’ll want to do 

the whole play after getting a taste. 


(LEWIS/HATTER enters wearing large teapot as a 

hat. HE is carrying his tea cup and bread and goes 

about busily arranging for his tea party, humming 

“Twinkle”.) 

LEWIS/HATTER: (speaks to imaginary guests) Ah! 

The March Hare. What a pleasure! What a delight! 

Welcome to my little tea party. Now you sit right 

down there. 

Not there! 

LEWIS/HATTER: Oh no no no no no no. Did I say 

there? Absolutely not. Oh no, that will never do, 

not there. You’ll sit right here. 

(mimes pulling out a chair) 

LEWIS/HATTER: Oh so sorry. So dreadfully sorry. Did 

I say there? I meant over here. 

(sees imaginary mouse) 

LEWIS/HATTER: Dormouse? How kind of you to join 

us. You may sit in the teapot. No? Oh well, then, 

you’ll do quite nicely as my pillow. 

(leans on imaginary Dormouse) 

LEWIS/HATTER: Did you squeak? Mustn’t complain, 

Dormouse. No complaining at my tea party! Is that 

understood? Now puff yourself up! That’s better. 

And try to stay awake! 

ALICE: (entering) A tea party! Oh, I would like to 

have some tea! 

To buy the whole play, 

go to http://www. 

childrenstheatreplays.com/aiw. 

htm. Once you’ve downloaded 

it, you can use it for a family 

production. If you decide to 

do a public production, please 

see the royalty information at 

the end of the script. If you 

want to do a more elaborately 

staged production and want 

some guidance on costuming, 

blocking, direction etc. you may 

want to check out some books 

form the local libraries, such as 

“Break a Leg!: the Kids’ Book of 

Acting and Stagecraft ” by Lisa 

Friedman or “Theater games 

for the classroom: a teacher’s 

handbook” by Viola Spolin. 

The Church of Jesus Christ of 

Latter-Day Saints also publishes 

a theater manual for novices 

(and you won’t get carded when 

you buy one.) 


57 

© Alisia Packard, 2010

HATTER: No room! No room! 

ALICE: But there’s plenty of room! 

(sits) 

HATTER: Have some juice. 

ALICE: I don’t see any juice. 

HATTER: There isn’t any. 

ALICE: Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it. 

HATTER: It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down 

without being invited. 

ALICE: I didn’t know it was your table. You have all 

of these places set and there are only three of you. 

HATTER: You need to cut your hair! 

ALICE: You should learn not to make personal 

remarks. It’s very rude. 

HATTER: Why is a raven like a writing desk? 

ALICE: Riddle! I love riddles, I believe I can guess 

that. 

HATTER: Do you mean you can find out the answer 

to it? 

ALICE: Well, yes. 

HATTER: Then you should say what you mean. 

ALICE: I do. At least, I mean what I say. That’s the 

same thing you know. 

HATTER: It’s not the same thing at all! Why you 

might just as well say that “I see what I eat” is the 

same thing as “I eat what I see”! 

ALICE: But I. . . 

HATTER: You might just as well say “I like what I 

get” is the same thing as “I get what I like”! 

ALICE: Oh dear. 

HATTER: What day of the month is it? 

ALICE: (thinks, counts) The fourth. 

HATTER: (looking at watch) Two days wrong! 

ALICE: What a funny watch! It tells the day of the 

month and doesn’t tell what time it is? 

58 The Provo Orem Word

© Alisia Packard, 2010 

HATTER: Why should it? Does your watch tell you 

what year it is? 

ALICE: Of course not. But that’s because it stays 

the same year for such a long time. 

HATTER: (to Dormouse) Stop that! Stop that! 

ALICE: What is he doing? 

HATTER: He’s singing that song again. 

HATTER: Twinkle, twinkle, little bat... 

ALICE: Oh yes! 

(starts to sing with him) 

HATTER: Stop it! The both of you! 

ALICE: It’s just a song. 

HATTER: Just a song! Just a song? He sang it before 

the Queen, you know. 

ALICE: (impressed) Really? Did she like it? 

HATTER: Like it? He’d hardly finished the first verse 

when the Queen bawled out “Off with his head!” 

ALICE: How dreadfully savage! 

HATTER: Take some more tea. 

ALICE: But I haven’t had any yet. So I can’t take 

more. 

HATTER: You mean you can’t take less. It’s very 

easy to take more than nothing. 

ALICE: Oh, this is all so impossible. 

HATTER: I want a clean cup, let’s all move down 

one. 

ALICE: You just keep moving around the table? 

HATTER: Of course, we keep moving as all the cups 

get used up. 

ALICE: But what happens when you come to the 

beginning again? 

HATTER: Suppose we change the subject. 

ALICE: This is the stupidest tea party I was ever at 

in all my life. 


59

HATTER: Who is making personal remarks now? 

(picks up tea things and arranges the stage as it 

was) 

HATTER: The very idea. Come along March Hare, 

Dormouse. We can do without her very nicely I am 

sure. 

(steps out of circle, removes hat, becomes LEWIS) 

LEWIS: Just as the Hatter disappeared, Alice 

noticed a tree that had a door leading right into it. 

ALICE: (seeing door) That’s very curious! But 

everything’s curious today. I may as well go in at 

once. 


Tea Party Tips

Props: 

Food ideas: 

• a tea pot (or pitcher) 

• (tea) cups and saucers 

• plates for food 

• a tray for food 

• napkins 

There are a number of options you can try for the tea itself. it’s 

nice to have both savory and sweet food at a tea party. If you 

want to go out, you can also have some semi-sweet options with 

condiments. 

Tea: 

• you could try a tisane (herbal tea) 

such as chamomile or a berry flavor. 

If kids are trying this for the first 

time, you may want to add milk and 

sweetener (honey, agave, or sugar) 

• juice or lemonade are also options of 

course, you just may want to make 

sure you have more savory/fewer 

sweet food options 

• water’s always a safe way to go 

Savory: 

• Get some vegetables in there with 

cucumber or radish sandwiches. 

Whichever you choose, slice it thin 

and use just a single layer of it in 

the sandwiches. Put the cucumber 

between two slices of buttered white 

bread (crusts removed). Put radishes 

between two slices of dark rye or 

pumpernickel with cream cheese; you 

can also add butter lettuce if you like. 

• Cater to traditional eaters with options 

such as egg salad, tuna fish, or 

cheese sandwiches. 

• Please more mature palates with options 

such as chicken curry or Brie and 

fig spread sandwiches 

• a child-sized table and chairs 

(optional) 

• a creamer (optional) 

• a sugar pot (optional) 

• tablecloth (optional) 

Sweet: 

• cookies 

• cake 

• shortbread 

• tarts 

semi-sweet: 

• scones 

• crumpets 

condiments for the 

semi-sweet: 

• clotted cream or (freshly 

whipped) butter 

• jam 

• lemon curd 


61

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