For four days I’ve been visiting family and friends in the Salt Lake valley. When we moved to California, I didn’t think I had left anything behind. The first time I went to the store in our new place, I felt like I was really at home, I had arrived at the place I felt I had always belonged to. Eleven years later, I find I am wrong.
Here they have cotton ball clouds, summer rainstorms, and God uses a camera with a flash. I have experienced no less than 7 rainbows, 2 lightening storms, and countless yards with native grasses, sunflowers, and inviting seating arrangements as part of the landscaping – not the water thief also known as your front lawn. Here, you know (and are friends with!) your neighbors, you sit on the front porch in the evening while your kids ride bikes off a makeshift jump, and your little brother can indian leg wrestle you right over your fat self.
My heart is full as I catch up with friends of old. We talk kids, husbands, jobs, friends who couldn’t be there, and laugh until we cry. We visit old haunts like The Pie and Training Table for cheese fries and ultimate dipping sauce. There are remembrances of school days, of phone numbers given to the drive-thru guys after late night (or should I say early morning?) shifts, and an all night trip to Vegas with 6 a.m. drive back to St. George with Bonnie Tyler blaring in the back.
I love this place.
I love my CA home.
I’m glad they’re close enough for me to be part of both.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Originally written on a page carefully torn out of my library book (SHH!) on my sister’s front porch, Friday, August 6th