I’m proud to be a Utahn. It’s vital to my public persona, but I’m as much of a homer in private. It’s just a place (some say the place). And yet—like a farmer who has to be up at dawn—I can talk about the 45th state well into the night.

I like that we’re seen as peculiar people. Heck, we are peculiar. I’ll concede Austin has weird on lock, but I’d bet my last buffalo nickel more tourists look at each other and say, “huh, that’s odd” in Utah than in any other state.

I don’t know how much fiction’s blended with fact, but the FX television series “Under The Banner Of Heaven” isn’t doing The Beehive State any favors. For example, on the fact-checking front, I’m not sure it’s legal for a family sans the surname Huntsman or Eccles to be referred to as the “Kennedys of Utah.”

I like Detective Jeb Pyre. Maybe because Andrew Garfield is an incredible actor, or perhaps because ol’ Jeb reminds me of a person or two. Either way, I like him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.

I haven’t spent much time delving into what parts of “Under The Banner Of Heaven” are true or false, but I have been thinking about the environment I grew up in. The traditions passed from generation to generation until their weight arrived on my shoulders.

So I wrote a poem.