I wanna go somewhere I can get drunk and tan and walk around
We lasted two years in Arizona.
We walked to school past Saguaro sentinels, escaped to Flagstaff to run in real grass every October, and confused coyotes for dogs (okay maybe that was just me). We drank Dutch Bros all the dang time, reunited with high school friends who are lifelong friends, and watched our kids make up loud songs while bouncing on couches.
We swam in our pool in the morning, afternoon, and night under the twinkle lights even when our neighbors' AC went out and sounded like an airplane landing all long weekend. We did date nights a la the Scottsdale lifestyle occasionally thanks to preschool "parents' night out."
There were trips to Stevie Nicks' mama's defunct antique emporium, the LOVE statue on Valentine's Day, lots of trips to Tuscon, and revisiting childhood at the Lisa Frank Factory. There were ones when I would drive out as far as one street would go and find myself next to tipped metal horses under a pre-monsoon sky.
The desert had energy.
Its intense sun winking off our crystal collection. The desert grass and pokey palm leaves rustling in a rare breeze. The western boho vibe that was so easy to channel in the land of hidden windbell-making compounds and eternal summer.
Somewhere in two years we got a routine, friends, favorite places, neighborhood coyotes. We cosmically recharged amid Sedona's red rocks. We traveled the Mother Road.
But Arizona was also carrying a giant Hydroflask everywhere. It was the sun burning your calves and an open-oven-heat that hung around you. It was not being able to walk the puffs during most times of the day. It was a state Seth never took to as much as the rest of us.
So we returned to Utah.
In a series of events, conversations, and months that were infinitely more complicated than I can relate in a blog, we came back.
It was like a long exhale when we crossed the state line and obviously we love Kaysville or we wouldn't be building a farmhouse here. But this week I've been nostalgic for iced caramelizers, the shadow of the pool water on the wall, and the cactus in our old front "yard."
It would sprout these palm-sized white flowers that would unfurl in the night. We would catch them closing back up as we walked to school...too delicate and smart to be caught in the harsh sun of the day.
::listening to allie crow buckley's "captive"
We swam in our pool in the morning, afternoon, and night under the twinkle lights even when our neighbors' AC went out and sounded like an airplane landing all long weekend. We did date nights a la the Scottsdale lifestyle occasionally thanks to preschool "parents' night out."
There were trips to Stevie Nicks' mama's defunct antique emporium, the LOVE statue on Valentine's Day, lots of trips to Tuscon, and revisiting childhood at the Lisa Frank Factory. There were ones when I would drive out as far as one street would go and find myself next to tipped metal horses under a pre-monsoon sky.
The desert had energy.
Its intense sun winking off our crystal collection. The desert grass and pokey palm leaves rustling in a rare breeze. The western boho vibe that was so easy to channel in the land of hidden windbell-making compounds and eternal summer.
Somewhere in two years we got a routine, friends, favorite places, neighborhood coyotes. We cosmically recharged amid Sedona's red rocks. We traveled the Mother Road.
So we returned to Utah.
In a series of events, conversations, and months that were infinitely more complicated than I can relate in a blog, we came back.
It was like a long exhale when we crossed the state line and obviously we love Kaysville or we wouldn't be building a farmhouse here. But this week I've been nostalgic for iced caramelizers, the shadow of the pool water on the wall, and the cactus in our old front "yard."
It would sprout these palm-sized white flowers that would unfurl in the night. We would catch them closing back up as we walked to school...too delicate and smart to be caught in the harsh sun of the day.
::listening to allie crow buckley's "captive"
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