Where I now live is a significant distance from where I work. With no traffic, it takes over a half hour for me to get to the office. During rush hour, it can take up to an hour. The most interesting aspect of this is that, each day, I travel the entire width and breadth of the city in which I spent my teenage years. From the southwest corner to the northeast corner, from city limit to city limit.
I find myself straying from the beaten path on most mornings. Mostly as self-defense because practically every main road is currently under construction. (I am truly surprised there are not more incidences of road rage here in Utah.) Being that I learned to drive on the streets of this city and had a propensity, back then, to seek out the least vehicularly-populated roadways, I am familiar with the side streets. The idea of taking the side streets is so that I can wend my way toward my destination without the bother of having to stop every 2.9 seconds. As I meander under the (probably false) perception that I am making better time than I had been making on the main roads, I do a lot of rubber-necking. The bonus is there is a lot to see.
This city, West Valley City, Utah, was not a city when we moved into the area. It was loosely known as Granger until a group of little nearby towns decided to combine forces and incorporate into a city in 1980, just one year after we settled into the fourteenth and last house of my youth. The area is filled to the brim with people now. Back then, there were more open spaces, farms and the such. Many of the houses in the older part of this city are all-brick ramblers. Some of the neighborhoods exhibit signs of neglect and uncaring. In the obviously financially poorer areas of the city, the houses are beginning to look decrepit.
I have memories nestled in many of these houses I pass on my jaunt to work. There, that one… that’s where we had the sleep over and did “light as a feather, stiff as a board” and freaked ourselves out. That is the home of my first highschool boyfriend. One of my best friends from junior high lived there. That used to be the most filthy home on the block – food all over the counters and tabletop, laundry on the couch, inches of garbage on the floors. The cute boy lived there. That house was where I met my first crush. I slept mostly-naked in my late teens in a bed in that house with my first crush, even though I was still a virgin. There is another best friend’s house. The sexiest place in that house is in the television pit, especially on Thursday nights. I remember lying out under the stars with my best guy friend, falling in love, learning to kiss and listening to the doves in the mini-aviary in the backyard of that house there. And, there, that house? THAT house was MY home.
So many memories. I feel sad now, though, as I drive along these streets that I used to know so well. Many of those same houses, especially the much-loved home of my teenage years, are completely neglected and falling apart. Some of the houses have yards full of garbage and weeds. Others have so much junk piled in the rooms that you can see the mountains through the torn curtains. Other houses have blinds hanging in the windows, all skewed, bent and threatening to fall from the rods. I wonder… what happens that all these people have seemingly just stopped caring?
