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Show t ' L I i Home The word conjures up different feelings for different folks. Is it, "where the heart is?" Is rhere. "no place like it?" And can you never really go back? Last weekend I traveled to my small hometown, just outside San Francisco, for thi: first time since I had moved to Utah. It was a learning experience. The occasion should have been a joyous family reunion, a wedding, but the mood was more one of a wake. My sister's eighteen year old son (all four years of high - school an honor student) had dropped out of school on his birthday in December and moved in with a sevnteen year old girl, also out of school. The wedding was simply to make legal my nephew's announcement that my mother, his grandmother would soon be a great-grandmother. That made me a great Aunt. Visions of hankie carrying, lilac scented, secret tipplers filled my mind. On the plane ride out I tried very hard to "Think Dignified." I remembered my nephew's birth. First grandchild in the family, he was the pride of us all. By age three we had a regular date to go to the zoo on Saturday afternoons. Maybe he tired of the animals but I never tired of him. At five, I surprised his birthday party by arriving as a clown. My pockets were filled with pennies and candies and Mike whispered to me. "I won't tell my friends it's you. but you're the best Aunt in the whole world." We had such a special bond. Why people cry at weddings has been the subject matter of thousands of articles for women's magazines. As I watched this couple fidgit as the minister tried his holy best to explain the good and bad times marriages are made of, I knew why I was crying. Under the best laid' plans of mine, men and marriages, relationships are a lot of work. Under these conditions.... I could describe the reception for you, but anytime a jello mold is brighter than my lipstick shade I generally don't eat it, and that was the highlight of the affair. My mother and 1 hit a drive through Burger King on the way out of town. Classv stuff. huh? And what of my old hometown? Maybe it was my mood or the tone of the weekend but nothing was quite the same. My old high school (built so long ago, in I960) is being sold, not enough students to fill this valuable piece of property. My favorite old adobe building which held my favorite old bookstore is at least still standing, but the neon sign proclaiming "Taco the Town" Mexican food, looks strangely out of place. And the little turn-of-the century train station now has huge sign reading "The Depot Reality Company." 'nuff said. My mother, in her very fine, Tennessee Williams sort-of-.way, predicts the next time I return to town will' be to "rjut her in the ground and pack up what she s left." I try to assure her the kids and I will be out to visit soon, but I secretly wonder if she's not rieht. For the entire three days I heard nothing but sirens. Red Alerts that someone, lots of someones, were in need. And I thought of home, here in Park City, where my heart is. True, the one wonderful day of my visit was spent in San Francisco proper with old friends who reminded me of the energy level of a city and it's vital life. But, where doctors and patients who meet at the end of the siren rarely meet again. The past three weeks in Park City have seen four fatalities -certainly no record number for an hour in a city, but for a small community, enough. Middle of the night calls have produced our team of dedicated docs, Evers, Winn, Barnett and Schwenk for ambulance rides and immediate attention. There are so many reasons I have grown to think small town (not small time) life is better, but cert&inly one of grandest examples is our wonderful medical attention. For service above and beyond the call of duty the Park City docs strike a vein with me... The rest is simply too complex to explain. I enjoyed everything green and in bloom, no one to be seen in a pair of moon boots or down vest, and ordering wine by the glass. But I missed the quiet, the mountains, and the people. San Francisco has become a winderful place to visit... |