Being raised Mormon (or LDS if you want to be proper), I have family in Utah and some history to go along with it. My father lives in Goshen with my step mom and their children, and seeing as that's on the way to the Salt Lake Valley where my sister lives, I figured I'd stop by. Goshen is probably about as small town as it gets, and just like most of its equivalents in Utah, it has a history steeped in mining. I stopped by and cooked lunch for them, and gave my step siblings a quick ride around the block on the bike. It's always a fine line between exciting and terrifying to take children on a motorcycle. Over lunch, my father expressed his interest to reopen a mine from his father's side of the family. He showed me some samples of ore from the mine, and swore up and down that there's gold in them hills, but I don't exactly know how a man of his age plans on squeezing it out. Being born and raised in Utah, I guess he's deep in the hold of gold fever. I bid them farewell, as it was time to make my way to South Jordan to see my sister and her family.
At my father's recommendation, I took Route 68 north toward South Jordan. Riding along the western bank of Utah Lake was beautiful and leisurely, until I saw seagulls and my nostrils were assaulted by the smell of a sizable landfill. I stand by my conviction that seagulls are rats with wings. The rest of the ride was punctuated with oversized developments that appeared to be springing up just as rapidly as the scads of steeples stabbing skyward. I counted 13 of those in Spanish Fork, but I've been informed that I missed several. I was deep in Mormon country.
Upon navigating the hellbent drivers and well intentioned, but still confusing numbered roads of the Salt Lake Valley, I arrived and was greeted by my sister and her adorably energetic entourage. After unpacking the bike, I fulfilled my duties as an uncle of sufficient midget tossing amid screams of terrified delight. I then, to the chagrin of my sister, got to teach my brother-in-law the basics of riding. On tires worn flat from miles of riding, he did a decent job on everything but turning and only laid her down once at very low speeds. After settling down, we had dinner and I was grateful to do some laundry.
The next day, I set about to giving Harley Quinn some much needed maintenance. The purple paint looked almost red from Moab dust, the coolant reservoir cap had gone missing somewhere around Moab, and it was really time for some new tires. Even though having someone else do the work for you always costs a pretty penny, the gents at Honda World in South Jordan took very good care of me, and I was in and out in a jiffy. All of the sudden, my baby was hugging curves like she meant it. After a bit of a joyride the kids helped dig Harley out from the layer of bugs and dust that had accumulated along the way with youthful enthusiasm and disregard. Doing things with the assistance of children always takes longer, but it's usually more fun.
​We went bowling afterwards with the kids to have some fun. My nephew needs a constant watchful eye when out in public, as he's a bit of a mischief maker. I think that runs in the family. This was how I had to bowl almost the entire time. It was the only way I could keep an eye on him. I just had to get used the the fact that he liked using my hair as handholds.
At my father's recommendation, I took Route 68 north toward South Jordan. Riding along the western bank of Utah Lake was beautiful and leisurely, until I saw seagulls and my nostrils were assaulted by the smell of a sizable landfill. I stand by my conviction that seagulls are rats with wings. The rest of the ride was punctuated with oversized developments that appeared to be springing up just as rapidly as the scads of steeples stabbing skyward. I counted 13 of those in Spanish Fork, but I've been informed that I missed several. I was deep in Mormon country.
Upon navigating the hellbent drivers and well intentioned, but still confusing numbered roads of the Salt Lake Valley, I arrived and was greeted by my sister and her adorably energetic entourage. After unpacking the bike, I fulfilled my duties as an uncle of sufficient midget tossing amid screams of terrified delight. I then, to the chagrin of my sister, got to teach my brother-in-law the basics of riding. On tires worn flat from miles of riding, he did a decent job on everything but turning and only laid her down once at very low speeds. After settling down, we had dinner and I was grateful to do some laundry.
The next day, I set about to giving Harley Quinn some much needed maintenance. The purple paint looked almost red from Moab dust, the coolant reservoir cap had gone missing somewhere around Moab, and it was really time for some new tires. Even though having someone else do the work for you always costs a pretty penny, the gents at Honda World in South Jordan took very good care of me, and I was in and out in a jiffy. All of the sudden, my baby was hugging curves like she meant it. After a bit of a joyride the kids helped dig Harley out from the layer of bugs and dust that had accumulated along the way with youthful enthusiasm and disregard. Doing things with the assistance of children always takes longer, but it's usually more fun.
​We went bowling afterwards with the kids to have some fun. My nephew needs a constant watchful eye when out in public, as he's a bit of a mischief maker. I think that runs in the family. This was how I had to bowl almost the entire time. It was the only way I could keep an eye on him. I just had to get used the the fact that he liked using my hair as handholds.
That evening, I had agreed to go on a blind date at my sister's request. The thought of going on a blind date initiated and attended by my sister and her husband, was enough to cause me a little anxiety. He was the utmost of gentlemen, and a very pleasant conversation companion with some interesting insights on growing up Mormon in dicier times of the LGBT community in Utah. Following his lead I, for the first time in front of a family member, had a glass of wine. I'm not a frequent drinker, but an occasional glass of wine or beer is very frowned upon by the LDS church. We parted ways with the family, and went for a walk to find a wine bar downtown. I wanted to discuss some of the aspects of the tenuous intersection of the LGBT and LDS communities, and not in front of family members. We laughed, we drank, and we shared despairs and hopes for the church and all that are influenced by it. The night was a remarkable surprise, and I made an instant connection with a kindred spirit. I should give my sister more credit.
The next morning, I said goodbye to my sister and her little family. I pointed my tires north toward the surprisingly beautiful state of Idaho.
The next morning, I said goodbye to my sister and her little family. I pointed my tires north toward the surprisingly beautiful state of Idaho.
Throughout my time in downtown SLC (both at night and during the day), it was impossible to go without noticing just how rampant of a homeless problem exists there. From just my visual inspection, it surpassed that of San Francisco. There has been legislation to "curb" panhandling for safety reasons, and Utah even decided to give the homeless homes. I'd be very interested to see updated information on how these people are coming along. The aspect of the situation that most set me on edge was the rampant homelessness right next to the world headquarters of the LDS church, which works very hard to paint a picture of immense humanitarianism. I myself have been on the receiving end of some of their aid back in the day. Instead of doing more work on the homelessness, they did however finance a beautiful luxury shopping center that has brought life into downtown SLC, because that's what churches do.
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If you're interested in some thought processes behind creating useful, meaningful, beautiful, and efficient public spaces, here are a few good jumping off points.
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Warning: this next one is well done, but has a little bit of foul language.
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