Happy Birthday, Mr. President . .

We all have guidelines that we live by - written or unwritten. We find them in scripture, health and fashion magazines, employment requirements and in the people we love or envy.

I dabble in guidelines from all of the above, but I’m now adding George Washington’s list to the mix.

His list is known as the “Rules of Civility.” His rules were his primer on life. He learned them in school, wrote them down and then they became part of him.

I want to live by my guidelines in the depth that George did - I want them to become part of me.

Because his principles were clear he led a great people, who made a great land. And together they created a better world.

On February 22, 1732 a hero was born.

And two hundred and eighty years later he is still a hero. Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

I'm accepting my outdoor-self . .

A note to remember . .

A dear friend of mine, a B.F.F. even, sent me a note when I left for London that I think of and smile.

It went like this:

Have a safe and comfortable flight, my BFF! I spent the summer of 1974 in England and loved it! Especially the rainy night I went to a pub with two handsome Englishmen. As the patrons in their Burberry trench coats came into the pub, they shook the water off their umbrellas and settled at the polished wood tables with their drinks. I think someone brought a large dog in as well. The rainy drive over the green downs, the Englishmen, the pub, the warm lager – this evening could have been a scene from a movie! I hope you have your own move-scene evening in England! Let me know when it happens.

Your BFF, Ronnie

Another full day . .

It may be called the London temple but it is nowhere near being within the city limits. But either way we loaded up the bus and set off to spend a few hours in the House of the Lord.

In true British fashion, we were greeted very politely, shuffled through and sent on our way. It was a perfect morning.

When we got back to the city, a group of us hopped on the Tube towards Picadilly Circus for a matinee of The 39 Steps. What talent, what humor, what entertainment.

And without a moment to catch our breathe after the show, we headed to the Aguirre family’s home on the outskirts of London.

In true Argentine fashion, we were greeted with shouting and enthusiasm, flooded with food and chatter, and hardly able to leave. It was a perfect evening.

British with a capital b . .

Before June 7, 2011, I had never felt more British.

A game of cricket in Hyde Park in the morning.
Afternoon tea at Kensington Palace in the afternoon.
And an evening showing of Mouse Trap, the world’s longest running play, at St. Martin’s Theatre.

Oh London, how I’ll miss thee.

Bathing in Bath . .

Visiting the baths in Bath, England was a treat. I’ve been hot tubbing in Provo more times than I can count so seeing the roots of hot tubbing just helped me to justify all of those late night dips during college.

The Romans went for more than to show off their “hot bods” (not why I go either), they went to meditate and worship in the natural springs – genius!

After learning this, five us grabbed our suits, paid our dues and took an overpriced, but much enjoyed, dip in an authentic bath – a roman bath.

This October . .

During my stay in London I received a text that changed everything. Well not quite everything, but it changed something – my plans in October.

The texting conversation went a little something like this.

Mom: I think you drew a deer tag for the Book Cliffs.

Me: Are you serious?

Mom: Actually, I don’t think so. I think it’s just a regular tag.

(She couldn’t believe it either)

(I was thinking, thank goodness)

Kyle: Scott, you got a deer permit to the Book Cliffs!

Mom: Kyle looked at it, and it’s true. You got it.

To most of you this probably means nothing, and quite honestly it didn’t mean that much to me either. The difference between you and me is that I know what this kind of news should mean and what it means to some people – some people like my dad or brothers, or good family friends.

It should have meant the world.

It can take between five and ten years of submission into the annual drawing to draw a deer tag to the Book Cliffs.

I got the permit from my first entry.

Knowing this, I became overwhelmed. In fact, it was more than overwhelming – I felt like I didn’t deserve it (which I don’t) since I didn’t really care. I entered the drawing on a whim, literally because everyone was doing it. It was one more step of what we call the “Scott Accepting His Outdooor-Self” Campaign.

But because I have the tag for this October, I’m going to make the most of it.

The Book Cliffs is where the monster bucks are – or so I’ve been told . . . or so I’ve been told my entire life!

My dad, his brother Dale, and best friends Rob and Byron used to hunt in the Book Cliffs every year during the 80’s and early 90’s, and according to their stories, they almost died every year. Because in every Book Cliffs hunting story their horses ran away, the snow was up to their waists, they ran out of food, all of their possessions were soaked and they were drinking the only water they could find from hoof prints on the ground.

Oh and I forgot to mention that they always came home with a monster buck.