Chillin' like a villain (in Utah County)

Through a combination of circumstances, I find myself in Provo for the day. I’ve spent most of it preparing for next week's WIFYR boot camp at the fabulous city library (I loves it so much!) (and I always feel proud when I see my parents' names on the donors' list as you walk through the south door!) (way to be awesome, Parents o' mine!).

Anyhoo! Here’s what I have to say. When I was growing up here, the locals (at least the kid locals) REALLY resented it when people assumed Provo and BYU were one of the same. But a funny thing has happened since I moved to Salt Lake 30 years ago. I’ve started making the exact same assumption.

Here’s the deal. Watching the patrons drift in and out of the library has reminded me that yes, Provo is predominantly white. And yes most of its citizens probably espouse some degree of Mormonism. But the population here is by no means monolithic. At all. For the record, it is possible to live in Provo and have big tattoos, crazyass multiple piercings, and inventive facial hair. And also for the record, BYU's student body (and faculty) isn't completely monolithic either

What's the lesson I'm taking away from this today? Apparently I've turned into a certain type of snotty Salt Lake East Bencher and that is SO NOT GOOD. Time to lose the stereotypes, she said to herself as she stereotyped a segment of Salt Lake residents, aka "snotty Salt Lake East Benchers."

Provo Tabernacle

Ken has a picture of me on the day I graduated with my M.A. in English from BYU. I'm standing there with my eighties hair wearing a puffy-sleeved dress with a look of happy astonishment on my face. I DID IT! I GOT THAT STUPID THESIS WRITTEN AND DEFENDED EVEN THOUGH MY LIFE WITH TWO BOY BABIES IS OVER-THE-TOP CRAZED!

in this picture I am standing in front of the most beautiful of all buildings--the old Provo Tabernacle which anchored my hometown spiritually, culturally, geographically. And now it's gone.

I hate to sound like I'm engaging in hyperbole at a moment like this, but the burning has felt like a little death to me. I am filled with memory and sorrow.

Feeling humble

Yesterday I went to Provo (family seat and so forth) to hear my mother give a presentation on THREE CUPS OF TEA to her literary club. As I drove south I knew these three things for sure.

1. My mother would give a thoughtful, well-prepared report.
2. She and all her friends would be dressed to the nines.
3. I would be served an excellent chicken salad.

And I was right!

But here was the thing I didn't expect--to be so touched by the all of it. I was touched by my mother's passion for the book. I was touched that some of these women have been getting together for over forty years to broaden their world through literature. I was touched by that generation's commitment to pulling on a pair of pantydamnhose and looking so GREAT in the middle of the day.

They kind of made me feel like an intellectually flabby badly dressed slacker actually. Not that I'll be buying pantyhose any day soon. But still.