To my great delight, I was given a wonderful present for my birthday onJune 4th. My wife had arranged for us to spend about 24 hours in Salt Lake City, and while there, we would have a party at ou, just east of downtown, with friends and family.
We woke up early on the 4th and flew out of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Upon arrival, we were picked up by my wonderful sister-in-law, Janeen. On our way to her home, we stopped by a Davis family favorite, Crown Burger, to buy and take with us some of their delicious specialty: the Crown Burger--a burger with pastrami. Yum! We sat around their table and savored this delight along with some onion rings, and had a lively discussion about my recent blog posting. We were then given the keys to Janeen's car, and left to embark on an excursion to the Westside, the area where I grew up, in honor of this my 60th birthday.
Because we had to pick something up downtown, I decided that we would start by visiting nearby West High School, my alma mater, that looked to be closed for summer recess.
A little over a mile west of West, on the other side of the railroad tracks, we drove by the location of my maternal grandfather's grocery store and meat market. It was also where his family lived and where my mother was raised. When I attended Jackson Junion High, a mere 200 yards from this structure, I would sometimes park my bike behind it, because at the time my sister and her new family lived in the little apartment adjacent to the store/residence.
Throughout my life, my mother would tell stories of her upbringing there with her 10 siblings. It is located at the corner of 800 West and 300 North. It lookes to be in decent shape for being as old as it is. To me, it's
interesting that as buildings age, and others occupy them, the lives, the history, the stories of those who have occupied them are inevitably lost, hidden in the walls. But if walls could speak, particularly these walls, what stories they could tell!
We drove around that area, looking at the empty lot of where a home stood, the home to where I was brought from Holy Cross Hospital where I was born. We looked at where Jackson Junior High, my junior high, once stood. It likewise is gone, existing only in my memory. We looked at the old 28th Ward building, which I was told was now a sober living residence and where a great-nephew of mine currently resides. We looked at the home of my childhood friend, Richard Jacobsen, where I spent hours playing after school on my way home.
About a quarter mile, some three blocks from where my mother was raised, we parked the car and walked around the immediate area near my childhood home. How small everything seemed! The streets, the homes, the alley way, everything, had been so signficant, so large, in my memory. But I was small at the time, and now being of adult stature, everything is so small, so modest.
We walked around, ultimately heading toward my childhood home built in 1953. Its current occupants have lived there longer than I did, and they have kept it up and have made changes to suit them (like the fence in front). Within the walls of this very modest brick home, my early life took place, and those memories are abundant and remarkable. So many stories. So many feelings. So many hearts.
One building in my neighborhood in which I spent countless hours and which is likewise filled with so many stories, is my church buidling. For within its walls, I first came to know my Savior, Jesus Christ. and was loved by good, salt-of the-earth people. Now vacant it looks forlorn and overgrown by weeds and trees which are in need of trimming, with wood-covered windows. What occured inside the walls will forever exist vibrantly in my memory. The building will not be shabby, but new and fresh and well-kept. 
