Halls of Olympus

  I spent a blissful vacation with family in the emerald summer hills of northern Utah. On my last day in town, I decided to borrow my folks' car and take a little tour of Holladay, a section of Salt Lake City where I was raised from ages 1 to 21—what I'll call "the Halls of Olympus."

Into the misty colosseum of my past and the pillars of assumed-to-be-lost memory, I drove. Up Highland Drive from 56th South to Millcreek Way, with a quick right turn, I launched into a two-hour journey that transformed poignant recollection into a surprising flow of grateful laughter and respectful tears.

I first paused at Sid Harmon's, in whose pool I’d learned to swim, along with the myriad other neighborhood kids fortunate enough to receive the weekly Open Pool invitation. I passed the Morgans, the Waldrams, the Miners, and the Fredricksons—just some of the priceless people who made the effort, each in their time, to help parent me as if I were one of their own. I traveled on to the Patches, Roaches, Downards, and Poulsons, all locations bringing back vivid memories of fun and fury, sin and salvation, love and lust, pride and pain.

The home I grew up in sits at the apex of Millcreek Way, a large circle that, when turning, becomes Millbrook Lane. As I passed, I decided to keep those memories of home separate from this journey so as not to overshadow my growing appreciation for the many who, outside that home, had affected me.

I passed the homes of some who had long since traveled beyond life, though they had eternally touched mine: the Mangums, the Marz, the Sills, and the Chipmans. I passed the homes of friends and enemies, and those who turned out to be the opposite. The Trishow Boys, the Jensen Clan, the Harris Brothers, and the great Anne Watson—all now sweetly savored thoughts of late nights, lawns, secrets, and, really, no true secrets at all. Turning back to the west, I passed the Pattersons, Greens, Browns, and Dr. Wright (another great swimming pool), rounding out my first, most formative village and primary column of my young Olympic beginnings.

The second circle connected to the first, creating an omega figure-eight that I’d have gladly spent forever wandering. Passing the ages, wandering from friend to friend in eternal freeform navigation—if only I could stay 12. The second circle brought the Bagleys, Moffats, Evans, and Clarks. Friends of this tight omega, so ingrained and dear to my soul, I am still in awe that I was so gifted with the honor to have known them all. I can truly say, I was somewhat haphazardly raised by a village and have deeply missed the bonds I’d found with so many of that golden extended neighborhood family. Near none I knew now fill these homes. New families send their youth beyond the doors. I pray these young ones find the magic I found and the simpler joys of ages gone by. Any greatness I preserve, I feel, is a gift from those who walked with me along these hallowed halls. Olympians all.

-Hermit King-