O Pioneer!

I have never been so excited about a random state holiday in my life. I had completely forgotten what a big deal the 24th of July was in Utah (especially in The Frontier) until I moved back. Lo and behold - it was a paid holiday for me (I made sure to mention that to my East Coast friends, in an attempt to show them that there are some benefits to living in The Frontier).

As a kid, the 24th of July meant a car trip to visit my maternal grandparents. The weekend before, we would dress up in pioneer garb and walk in the local children's parade. The day of, we would gather at my great-aunt's home, conveniently situated along the parade route, and watch the local parade. It was about 100 times longer than any parade my hometown had, and while it paled in comparison to the "official" Days of '47 Parade just to the north, it was the perfect length for my childhood attention span. We would visit with relatives we only saw while watching the parade on the 24th of July. Then we would eat.

The last time I remember thinking about the 24th of July as a holiday seven years ago, while working in downtown D.C. I was pitching Hurricane Disaster Relief PSAs to major television stations across the country, including the three major network affiliates in The Frontier. I happened to be doing the last of the states (T-W) on the 24th of July. Guess who had messages saying they would be out for the holiday? The Frontier's stations. I paused, thought, "wow, if I was in Utah now, I would be celebrating," and didn't think about it again until a few weeks ago.

The 24th of July in The Frontier is a BIG DEAL. Fourth-of-July-in-DC-level Big Deal. I discovered there is a whole non-profit organization that is in charge of all the hoopla around the 24th of July celebrations. There were an endless array of opportunities in which to celebrate the arrival of weary pioneers into The Frontier. Himself and I, wanting to give Son a taste of a local holiday and our new hometown, discussed which event(s) to attend. (Really, I presented a list of potentially acceptable events to Himself, who, not being from Utah, still is trying to figure out this whole random holiday in July thing).

Were Baby Girl not arriving in six(ish) weeks, I would have sprung the whole shebang on Himself and Son - parade, fireworks, day-long celebration. It's our first Pioneer Day in The Frontier, after all. But something about having my increasingly tender abdomen elbowed by thick crowds and sitting on a curb for hours on end seemed somehow less than appealing. Instead, we ventured up to This is the Place Park to participate in various Pioneer activities.

We wandered through 150-year-old cabins, marveling that 11 people could survive to adulthood in a one-room cabin with a loft, equalling a total square footage something in the vacinity of the Hobbit Hole's living room. We petted Baby Goats (okay, I didn't - I have this weird thing about getting my hands dirty, but Himself and Son did), saw piglets, lambs and calves and marveled at the view from the mouth of Emigration Canyon. We treated ourselves to candy sticks and Sasparilla from the General Mercantile, and reveled in the slightly-less-hot-than-usual weather.

I thought to myself as I looked at the "This is the Place" Statue, "I wonder how many people, as they descended out of the canyon, caught the first glimpse of The Frontier and said, 'This is the place? Are you kidding? Does it look dead on purpose? Who was in charge of this operation? Where is the map?'" Having recently traversed a route similar to that taken by thousands of pioneers headed westward in our trusty Hoopty Mobile, I realize even more now the disparity between the homes in the lush fields of the Midwest and the pre-irrigation desolation of The Frontier. It's beautiful to me because it's part of my childhood, but it's not rolling hills, green grass, verdant fields beautiful. Even now, it would hardly inspire one to run forward proclaiming visions of a thriving life and community. It does look a bit dead, especially during the driest summer on record.

All in all, we had a nice quiet, celebration. Somehow though, after recently moving my family from the heavily forrested East to the barren browns of The Frontier, this year's celebration meant a little more than just a paid day off. It was a reminder of the promises and future this valley held for thousands of immigrants 160 years ago - a reminder that Himself and I cried "Westward Ho!" with many of those sames hopes and dreams.

They were right. Perhaps This Is The Place.