Danville: Stripped Down

It's 5:30 in the freaking morning, and I have this blog rushing around in my head. I know I won't be able to get back to sleep until I let it all out.

Many of you know that I grew up in Danville, California. Many people called it a bubble, and it was. Much different from the "bubble" that is Provo, UT; Danville was a bubble that seemed to let in all things beautiful. My childhood was idyllic in nearly every sense of the word. I spent most of my life in one ward that was split, so I was surrounded by many of the same people. There were about 13 girls that were my age, and we became incredibly close friends. Elementary school was "perfect". I attended a brand new school, I rode my bike there with a close friend who lived down the street, and I had one of the most influential and loving teachers I've ever known there. In fact, any penchant that I may or may not have for writing, I attribute to Mrs. Ware.

In Danville, I spent many hours of my adolescence at the Village Theatre, doing over a dozen plays with Terry Rucker, and a few with Pam Greenan. It was there that I learned the freedom of expression. It was there that I basked in the glow of post-show admiration, as my friends and always my family showered me with flowers. I don't think my parents ever missed one show I was in.

In Danville, I attended High School. So many of my fondest memories were centered there. After "begging" my 8th grade choir teacher, the infamous Mr. K, to let me be a soprano, I learned so much, and developed probably one of the greatest talents I've ever been blessed with- my ability to sing. I was dealt one of my harshest blows at San Ramon: not being put into Advanced Drama- because the new jerk teacher even admitted that he knew I would stay around for another year, so he needed to dole out the slot to some people who wouldn't be so patient. Joke's on him. If I had been in Advanced Drama, then I wouldn't have been able to be in both Treble Clef and Concert Choir. Looking back, Mr. Perryman's greediness is one of my greatest blessings, because as a Jr, it was required to be in both of those choir classes to even be considered for Chamber Singers. My time in Chamber Singers and as a part of the choir Presidency are some of my most treasured moments. Letting my singing ability lapse is without doubt, my GREATEST regret. I can only pray that one day, after hiding it under the proverbial "bushel" for so long, I might be allowed to restore it.

I lived at 170 Westwich St for nearly 16 years. It was at that house I watched my older brother and sisters come and go from college, and then go permanently to be with their spouses. It was at that house I watched my parents become grandparents, and I fell into a roll I adored: aunt. I remember checking and rechecking the windows on Sunday afternoons- waiting for my siblings to drive up and spend the day with us. 170 Westwich was the center of many firsts. I fell in love at that house for the first time. I had my heart absolutely thrashed for the REAL first time on the phone in my bedroom. I had many lemonade stands at that house. Many sleepovers, and late-night conversations solidified my deep bond with my best friend at that house. So many friends gathered in safety at that house. I returned there eagerly from college- I spent the last night before my wedding at that house. So many home-cooked meals were made at that house, and a family REALLY loved each other at that house.

Almost 2 years ago, that house and that town betrayed me. I don't know exactly why I'm writing this post. Maybe for closure? Maybe to get out into words why a little bit of my heart hurts every time I hear Danville mentioned? For various reasons- it seemed that so many of the people that I had grown up relying upon turned on my family. All it took were a few paragraphs in a newspaper. Could that really be what destroys almost 17 years of friendship? The figurative "scissors" that clip the ties that bind truly were hard at work over a 6 month period, and in that time, I was hurt more than I ever thought possible. In some ways, one of Jason and I's biggest mistake was deciding to live in San Ramon; where I had front-row tickets to an awful downward spiral- one that my siblings were lucky enough to miss.

That house fell apart. Literally and figuratively. I didn't get the last "fairy-tale" walk through. As I sat with my dad alone, shoving the last remainders of so many years of memories into the back of my Explorer, I couldn't do the final walk. I couldn't risk going through a house that had done so much good, but in the end, torn so much apart. I fear I might harbor feelings of resentment towards that house for the rest of my life. I fear, that when it becomes time for me to take Hazen and my other children to the place that formed their mother, much of the magic will be gone.

The good thing? That house, try as it might, and that town- as apathetic as they were- didn't tear apart the family that learned to love each other. It might have given us no choice but to leave, but the bonds that were formed there still stand strong and true, 800 miles away.