When my great-grandparents left Salt Lake City to colonize the Bear Lake Valley in 1864 in what is now southeastern Idaho, they believed they were still in Utah. Years later, surveys placed them in Idaho; but by then it was too late to go back. Often mistreated by Idaho, the first generations of settlers yearned to be citizens of Utah.
But by the time I came along three generations later, all such yearning had vanished with the covered wagons.In the 1950s, about the worst thing we called anyone was a "carrotsnapper." A carrotsnapper was a Utahn.
Sometimes other words were added to describe out-of-staters, such as blankety-blank. But the word "carrotsnappers" had a more derisive ring than even blankety-blanks.
Carrotsnappers fished in our streams, shot our deer and worst of all, camped in our favorite camping places.
In those days, two cars on the north end of Bear Lake made it crowded.
In our carload of family in a beetle-shaped Plymouth driving along the dirt road along the lake would often be heard:
"Somebody's here already."
Groans would inevitably follow, and some youngster likely observed, "They're probably carrotsnappers."
We felt hemmed in by another car. Pressed by people. Especially out-of-staters.
As kids, friends and I used to roam the canyons and mountains near our home. Coming soundlessly over a carpet of pine needles to a clearing, we could sense when we were not alone in the wilderness. We would hush and peer through the ferns. Often as not, the ungainly hump of a trailer house rose among the shrubbery, a faded blue or red stripe across its walls. Usually, it would have a Utah license plate. Some man with a hat full of fishing flies and a store-bought creel sat on a chair by his trailer.
"Carrotsnappers," somebody would mutter.
We regarded Utahns as a sort of family that went wrong. Whenever we did stop and converse, they turned out to be decent, sometimes even nice, much like our relatives who lived in Utah.
We did not understand other out-of-state vehicles and regarded them as curiosities, like animals from a zoo. Californians were in this category. We could never think of anything bad enough to call them. Mention of them deer hunting was enough to send us back over the mountain.
As I grew up and became less sheltered, I learned that Utahns had names for us - "beettoppers" or sometimes "spuddiggers."
In a rare confrontation, they once threw names at us while we let fly a few names back at them:
"Beettoppers!"
"Carrotsnappers!"
And the smug smiles that accompanied the utterance of such names are indelibly impressed in more memories than mine.
Time has a way of turning in cycles. By age 30, I had lived about equal lengths of time in three states, Idaho, Utah and California. Most of my friends with whom I used to roam the mountains are now full-blown carrotsnappers. And I have lived in Utah for more than 25 years. Trees have grown up in that length of time. And roots sunk deep. My gardens have raised a lot of vegetables in those many seasons.
It's true. I eat a lot of potatoes. I can't ignore that part of my upbringing. Potatoes are homey and wholesome. But in my mature years, I confess that I enjoy eating carrots as well. Carrots are sweeter and crunchy. I particularly like juicy and crisp ones that snap when I bite them.