Blue No. 1

Blue Pancakes.

No, really, blue pancakes!

Thanks to literally buckets of Blue No. 1 BYU dishes out the bluest pancakes permitted by the FDA each year for homecoming to thousands of hungry college students.  Being the recipient of such blue benevolence my freshman year I could hardly wait to celebrate this delicious tradition this year.  I wasn't disappointed.

Blue pancakes with Carolyn in 2011.

Following the blue breakfast, the marching band led a parade through the streets of Provo while various BYU club members hurled candy at me and the young 'uns surrounding me.  I let them keep all the saltwater taffy, but I mercilessly grabbed every Reese's peanut butter cup that landed on the ground.  Sorry, kiddos--survival of the fittest.

Amidst all the fanfare and freebies, I glanced down at my watch and thought, "Shoot! I'm late for my hair appointment!"  Yes, I'm secure enough of my masculinity to go to hair salons. But before I lose all my man points I'll add that the only reason I had a hair appointment in the first place is because of a marvelous thing called a starving student card, which grants the owner of said card (cough, cough--me) to get sucked into all sorts of freebie and BoGo gimmicks around town.  You can tell I'm a college student on a budget because I used the word freebie twice already in this paragraph.

And so there I was, cheering at a parade getting free candy and missing my free haircut.  I weighed my options and decided that missing the latter wasn't worth enjoying the former, so I grabbed my roommates, Scott and Miles (who also had hair appointments :) and bounded for Scott's car.  We were about to whisk away to our appointments when we realized our parking lot was blocked off by the parade.  Grrrr.  So we waited for a gap in the parade to bolt across the street and prayed the police man supervising the parade would have mercy on our late souls.  He did.  But then I ordered Scott to slam on the brakes, because just as we had successfully froggered past the parade my favorite BYU group came up--the folk dancers!!  Scott obliged, and I got my fill of folk dancing through the rear window of the car, waved good-bye to the cop, and then we sped off.  Thankfully, our hair salon was only five minutes away, so we made it fairly on time despite intentional and unintentional delays.

Blue pancakes in 2014--just as yummy.

Walking into the salon, I felt like what Dorothy must have felt like walking into the Emerald City for the first time, except for the commercialized ambiance and little Effie Trinkets running around trying to convince customers to buy the store's beauty products.  Judging by how out of their comfort zone Scott and Miles were, it was clear to me they had never been to a beauty salon before.  I on the other hand had previous experience in this exotic environment thanks to starving student escapades before my mission.  But none of my prior experience involved what happened next as I was browsing the product shop.  A girl walked up to me and with no warning grabbed my hand and squirted a glob of lotion onto it and started massaging it into my palm and fingers.  "Don't be freaked out," she said, "Here at Aveda we like to give our clients the best treatment possible.  This is your complementary hand ritual before you meet your hair stylist. Would you like any water or tea while you wait?"  Whoa!  Talk about customer service.

Eventually my stylist, Makaela, came out to save me from the awkward, yet soothing hand ritual, and took me to her booth.

"How much would you like taken off?" she asks.  I never know the answer to this question because Mom always takes care of those kinds of details.

"Um, I don't really know.  Maybe short on the sides with a little something to play with on top?" I reply.  "Actually, I was hoping you could make me look like Andrew Garfield.  Do you know who that is?"

To my disappointment she didn't, so she quickly pulled out her iPad and google-imaged my hair hero.  She must have understood what I was going for because she said, "Oh, I know just what to do."  With an extremely attractive Brit as her muse Makaela set to work.

Andrew Garfield, my hair hero.

But before she set the scissors loose I got my preliminary essential oil massage (part of the package deal, I guess).  I selected vanilla cream oil, and inhaled the oil out of Makaela's hands in three deep breaths before she rubbed my shoulder muscles with it for a fleeting three minutes.  If my hair weren't so dang long I would've traded in my free haircut for a free massage.

By this point I had spent a good half hour in the salon and my hair wasn't any shorter than when I started.  So I was glad when Makaela finally brought the scissors out, because I was going to be late for a lunch date at noon if she didn't get the show on the road.

She trimmed and cut, and cut some more.  She cut and cut until her cutter was sore.  Not really, but points to anyone who caught the Dr. Seuss allusion.  After what seemed like hours of cutting each of my hairs individually, Makaela escorted me to the wash room where I got a luxury shampoo and condition, and a hot-towel facial treatment.  The fanciest lotion that had ever touched my skin up to that point in my life was ProActive's anti-acne cream, so my skin was feeling all kinds of happy after the facial.  And voila!  after a quick application of product, my hair was finished.

The name tag that smuggled Claire and I past the
big, mean security guards at the alumni luncheon.

Another glance at my watch, which had been kept hidden beneath the hair cape, revealed that I was officially 20 minutes late to my lunch date.  So I bolted with Scott and Miles to the car to pick up Claire.  We sped once again on our way to the Hinckley Alumni Center on campus where I had lunch reservations waiting for two.  Now before you think I'm important or fancy enough to merit lunch reservations for a prestigious alumni event, I'd better explain how I got them.  My uncle Dave Litster once upon a time was student body president at BYU and former alumni board member, so he gets invitations to the homecoming luncheon every year.  He accepts every time, but only goes once every three years or so and bequeaths the reservations on the odd years to someone at BYU.  That happened to be me this year, much to my pleasant surprise.

At the luncheon we were served lots of delicious food buffet style, but the only thing I really remember is the peach pie served with a mountain of ice-cream and whipping cream on the side for dessert.  Did I mention this was a buffet? :)  Oh, and we ate our lunch a few tables away from Julie B. Beck, which was really cool.  I could feel myself wanting to join the Relief Society sitting in such close proximity to her.

So what did I learn from this day?  A) Be sure to have cool connections like being related to former BYU student body presidents,  B) always budget at least two hours for hair appointments, and C) never park on the wrong side of a parade, because you may not always get a nice cop that will let you sneak your way to the other side of the street.  But if he is stringent, then just feed him blue pancakes with lots of whip cream and you'll be sure to get a police escort to where ever it is you need to go.

Observations on a Catholic Mass

I received the following text message on Thursday:

"Dear Owen.  I here by officially invite you to mass in the glorious cathedral of Madeleine.  Your options are at 8:30am or 6:00pm on Sunday.  Please send word of your availability.  Refreshments may be provided.  Cordially, Claire Michelle."

To my delight I found out that refreshments were indeed provided in the form of a tupperware bowl filled with German potato soup presented to me by Claire early Sunday morning.  I have since consumed said bowl of soup and can attest to its deliciousness.  But the story neither ends nor starts there.  The proceeding series of events are merely repercussions of (A) agreeing to attend mass in the first place and (B) opting for the 8:30am service.

I'll go from (B).

So 8:30am mass turned out to be pretty early, especially when the mass was 45 minutes away in Salt Lake City, necessitating a departure time of about 7:15am to allow for delays.  And 7:15am was made unrighteously early because I had fallen asleep just three hours prior.

Why was I playing insomniac?  Well, you try watching a theatrical presentation of Stephen King's  novel 1408 and you might find your serotonin levels depleted and replaced with sleep depriving levels of adrenaline.  The show ended right at midnight, so to calm myself down I discussed international affairs and politics with my roommate Stephen for three hours (which only gets me more riled up), and then I began watching another movie before passing out on the couch.  So after three hours of sleep, I get a knock at the door and a bowl of German potato soup.

Although my eyelids weighed at least ten pounds each and my brain was functioning in a semi-comatose state, I had to be bright-eyed and perky to impress Claire.  Gotta impress the ladies, right?  So I faked being alert for the car ride to Salt Lake City, but then I stopped pretending once I stepped through the doors of the Cathedral of the Madeleine.

These pictures capture the moment much better than I can:

Besides the bold architecture and breathtaking artwork that adorn the walls of the cathedral, I was most impressed by the reverent atmosphere that filled the vaulted ceilings.  There was a good size crowd at church that morning, but all were reverent and intent on the service.

Claire and I took our seats and proceeded to experience mass.  The only other mass I attended was in high school.  I was in a quartet that played at weddings and one of the gigs was at a Catholic wedding.  After playing "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" for what seemed like 20 minutes while the bridal procession inched down the isle, I took my seat in the pews and observed the ceremony.

Mass at this cathedral was similar, except I wasn't dressed in a tux.  There also seemed to be a lot more priests and interludes.  I noticed that mass was read in English instead of Latin, which I believe to be a fairly recent alteration to the ceremony.  Also, there were a few women officiating in the ordinances, which is a major change as of recent years.

But my favorite part was singing the masses under the direction of a little soprano girl.  When she sang, her pure, beautiful notes transported me to Middle-Earth, and I felt like I was worshipping amidst elves in one of their temples in Rivendell.

At one point during the mass, I saw everyone begin to hug each other, clasp hands, and wish the peace of Christ upon each other.  Claire and I followed suit by first hugging each other then clasping hands with those all around us, wishing the peace of Christ upon them.  I felt that at any moment our true identities as Mormons would be exposed and we'd be run out of the cathedral while being beaten with the collection baskets we opted not to put money in.  But, no, we were treated warmly and respectfully, even though I'm sure everyone around knew we weren't Catholic.  I think not knowing when to cross ourselves gave us away.

Probably the most remarkable features of the cathedral are the scores of stained glass windows.  Because that particular morning was mostly overcast, the windows displayed only a portion of their brilliance, but just as the priest held up the chalice of water to bless it for the sacrament, the clouds broke and sunlight suddenly poured through the windows directly onto the chalice of water.  It was kind of surreal watching the sun illuminate the windows (and the ordinance) for a few moments before the sunbeams disappeared.

Overall, I enjoyed my time as mass.  I could feel the Spirit in the huge room as I watched the parishoners worship God the best they knew how.  I felt an almost intense love for them and a longing to share with them everything about the restored gospel that fills my life with light.

Epilogue:

Part I

After returning home, I promptly found a pillow, curled up into fetal position, and abandoned consciousness for an hour or so before it was time for my temple recommend interview. I got to the stake presidency offices at about 12:15pm, which I thought would give me plenty of time to get in and out before church started at 1:30pm.  But such was not the case.  I waited for over an hour and half before my name was called for an interview.  My interviewer began to ask the usual questions about worthiness, and when he got to the question about supporting or affiliating with organizations that opposed the Church, I paused for a moment and for fun answered, "Well, I just back from Catholic mass, but I hope that doesn't disqualify me from getting a recommend."  Then the interviewer got to the question about attending church meetings.  I glanced at my watch and confessed that I probably wasn't going to make it to sacrament meeting today, and he asked me why with a concerned look on him face.  I responded, "My meeting started 20 minutes ago, but surely a temple recommend interview is a valid excuse for tardiness."  Amused, but more importantly satisfied with my responses the stake presidency member signed off on my recommend.

Part II

I totally bore my testimony about the importance of worshipping God with a sincere heart during our church services, a quality that I must admit I more easily sensed among the Catholics in Salt Lake City.  I joked that even though we partake of the sacrament in the MARB (oddly enough in the same lecture hall as one of my previous physics classes), we ought to maintain the reverence due to the Lord's sacrament as if we were in a cathedral or in a temple.

Just Like My Father

When I was a teenager, I harbored an inexplicable loathing common between many boys in their adolescence:  every time someone said, "Oh, you are just like your father," my insides would curdle.

Admittedly, I did not want to remind people of my father.  Granted, Dad was skilled at a lot of things, but he was also cheesy, goofy, and every other word that's synonymous with weird.  At least that's what I called it when he would burst out dancing at movie theaters if a catchy song was playing for the end credits.  Not to mention my embarrassment when he invariably told the same old, corny jokes at every social function.  Ever hear about the kid in Australia who was born with four legs?  Well, I've heard about that poor kid thousands of times, and his condition isn't much different than when Dad first announced it.  And let's not forget the Chinese fire-drills!

"Oh, Owen, you are just like your father," they said.

What's that supposed to mean?

But as much as I've resisted it, I am my father's son.  Here are a few evidences that recently manifested themselves:

Case #1

Tonight, I went on a date with my dearest little sister, Kimberly.  But not just any date; tonight we had the pleasure of attending BYU's annual dance concert, where all the university's top dance ensembles perform.  And when the cloggers made a bold entrance, I immediately turned to Kimberly and we said in unison, "Dad would probably get up and start dancing right about now."  You see, Dad did clogging in college, and the mere mentioning of the word "clogging" sends him off doing heels clicks.  Once upon a time, that was embarrassing, but in that moment I had a feeling well up inside me that seemed to say, "Get up and do a jig!"  I quelled that urge by telling myself, "You can let that out in your next dance class.''  Wait a minute, Dad took dance classes!  And Dad constantly wants to get up and dance!  What's happening to me?

Case #2

The first thing I did when I walked into the DI the first week of school was go straight to the shoe section.  I spent the majority of my time there trying on scores of shoes, and I eventually found two pairs of decent dress shoes for $6 and $8.  Now I wear those shoes just about every day.  The funny thing is that Dad does the same thing the moment he walks into thrift stores--head straight for the shoe wracks.

Case #3

I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I tell the same corny jokes at parties that Dad tells.  And I get the same reaction every time I reveal that the kid's mother is a goat.  I also plagiarize Dad by telling everyone, "If everyone in this world were a little bit fatter, we'd be closer together."

Case #4

We share an intense love of gardening.  And weeds drive us crazy.  While walking to DaLynn and Carolyn's apartment I had to stop and root out a few dandelions in a patch of grass.

Case #5

When we start reading a good book, we burn the midnight oil to read a few extra chapters before going to bed.  I just started reading Outliers, and it has me hooked.

These are just a few examples, but at this rate, soon I'll be knitting, running marathons, snoring, and vigorously scratching my head when I'm overly excited.  I'll soon find out what other eccentricities I've inherited from him.  But unlike before, now I'm OK with that.  In fact, I look forward to discovering them and developing a few of my own.  So thank you, Dad, for being every word synonymous with weird.  Because now when people say I'm weird, I have genetic license to say, "Oh, my Dad always does that.  And he's awesome!"

Feeding My Terpsichorean Beast

What do linear algebra and folk dance have to do with each other?  Usually nothing whatsoever, but tonight the answer is, "A LOT!"  Today's adventure begins in math class, but ends on the dance floor.

I prefer to sit in the second row in my classes.  This gives me just the right elevation and vantage point in the classroom, yet affords a protective wall between me and the professor.  The boons of second-row seating extended even further today when I noticed the boy sitting in front of me.  He was dripping with sweat, panting, and vigorously fanning himself with his homework.  Curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "What happened?"

After gulping and catching his breath he answered, "Clogging."

Hmmm, clogging.  Didn't know that was a thing with math lovers.  My puzzled look must have prompted him to expound on his one-word answer.

"Usually, I schedule my folk dance class with at least an hour or two before my next class so I can shower and get cleaned up, but that doesn't work this semester.  So, I have to run straight from folk dance to math class."

Right now I'm taking two dance classes.  Both of them are beginner 100-level courses for people like me who have never danced in their entire lives, but secretly harbor a terpsichorean beast in their souls that begs for release.  To feed my beast, I signed up for social and international ballroom.  We practice footwork for about an hour, set it to music, then call it quits for the day.  As a beginner, it's hard work for me to tell my feet what to do without looking at them, but never have I broken a sweat after a practice.  Which is why I was surprised by this boy in front of me, drenched in sweat, and all from an hour of clogging.

I revealed to him my secret desire to improve myself on the dance floor, and he quickly invited me to a folk dance REC night at 7pm later that evening.  Not sure what a REC night was, I lamely said, "Um, yeah, sure . . . maybe I can come."  Class ended, and I had no intention of attending, but that terpsichorean beast was still hungry.  So a few minutes before 7pm I marched out the door on a quest to do something way outside my comfort zone--I was going to folk dance.

The music was already playing when I got to the dance hall and a huge group was dancing an intricate circle dance.  I was immediately intimidated by how everyone there seemed to know what they were doing.  The only folk dance I knew was the Macarena (is that even a folk dance?), so I was getting ready to leave when a friend from my mission pulled me into one of the circles.  It was like being pulled into a top-loading washing machine, and there was no escape.  At first, I felt like I was getting churned and twisted, but after a few minutes I picked up the steps and started to enjoy myself.

That's basically how the rest of the evening went.  A new song would start, and a new dance would begin.  These songs and dances were clearly from all around the world.  There was an Israeli dance, a Scottish mixer (my personal favorite), and a slew of Romanian and Russian dances that were all incredibly fun.  We ended with a spiral dance that wound us all up tight and close.  By the end of the evening, it was clear that the object of folk dance was to have fun, and the purpose was to grow closer as a community.  And yes, after an hour I was glistening with sweat!

I think I have an idea which dance class I'll take next semester . . . folk dance!

Getting Help From The Help

When my thoughts are kept to myself, I'm rarely amused.  But give me an audience, and suddenly I'm able to articulate my thoughts in a way that pleases me and--in some small way--constructively contributes to society.  A few weeks ago I thumbed through a journal I kept religiously during my Freshman year at BYU.  Quite frankly, I was appalled at how boring my entries were.  I thought, "If I were my great grandson, I wouldn't want to read this!"  This deficiency in adequately capturing memories in writing I attribute to my lack of audience.  I was under the impression that no one would ever see my journal, so I never bothered to put thought into the way I preserved my history.

It's still very possible I will never publish these words, but I feel that at least the illusion of an audience will stimulate creativity in expressing myself.  That way, a decade down the road I won't detest the dullness I would have used to describe moments that were actually quite colorful.

Ever since I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help, I've been fascinated by Aibileen Clark, who wrote down all her prayers.  Her habit haunted me as a senior in high school, a freshman in college, and for two more years serving as a missionary in Ukraine.  Although I don't plan on writing down every prayer or introspective thought that wells up inside me, I do wish to follow Aiblileen's example of thoughtfulness.  And hopefully, through that level of thoughtfulness I can better organized my thoughts and feelings, and better align my will with Father's will.  Is that not the purpose of prayer?