Not A Utahn

We're driving through the serene countryside surrounded by the beautiful rolling hills of Western Pennsylvania right now.  Ben looked out his window and said, "Look.  We're driving through the mountains."

 

My response?  Ben is so totally NOT a Utahn.  These are NOT mountains.  They have their own unmistakeable charm that Utah can never compare to.  Everywhere does.  Everywhere has it's own unique beauty, but lets be real.  These are NOT mountains and Ben is NOT a Utahn.  If he were a Utahn he would have known the gross misstatement he had just made.  Even a bit offensive in a way.

 

It reminds me of a time when he was two, probably almost three.  We were driving between Salt Lake and Cedar City (between Brian's parents home and my parents home).  We were heading north on I-15.  Somewhere during the drive between Beaver and Nephi we hit a stretch of road where the road opens up and you drive in a huge valley between two mountain ranges far in the distance on either side.

 

As we drove along he asked, "Mom, what is that?" I wasnt' sure what he meant.  I asked and probed.  Questioned for more information.  Asked him to describe it. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what he was pointing at.  This was a totally barren patch of road.  Empty plains for mile upon mile.  There was just simply nothing there.  Finally he gave the right clue for me to understand what he was asking.  He pointed once again out his window to the East.  "Those purplish things over there."

 

The MOUNTAINS.  He was talking about the mountains.  The child had never seen mountains before.  How sad is that?  I grew up surrounded by mountains.  Each morning for six years from seventh through twelth grade I rode the bus and watched the mountains. I hiked in the mountains.  I camped at the Spruces campground with my family.  Boated in the reservoirs in the mountains.  Loved the mountains.  At particular times in the school year, the sun would rise twice each day.  It would rise over the mountain peaks at my house, then we'd get on the bus and onto beltway back into the shadows of the mountain and it would rise again when we got to school.  I thought that was so cool.  Like a special gift to me each morning to watch two sunrises.  My seat in eleventh grade spanish class with Ms. Ballentyne put me in the perfect position to see the sunrise over the mountain.  Then it would burn my eyes out while I shielded my face from its blazing light. 

 

The mountains tell you where you are.  With one quick glance you can find a familiar peak and know how much farther until you get where you are going.  The Wasatch range on the east and Oquirrhs on the west.  I still watch for the letters on the mountains as we drive the I-15 corridor on our summer visits.  High schools and universities make their marks on the landscape.  The "U" and the "Y" both light up and flash at night up high on the mountain side when their teams win a game.  High school rivals paint each other's letters the rival color.  They are fun and familiar.

 

The mountains.  They define my home.  And my children, despite our annual visits, will never have that internal frame of reference.  Sort of sad.  So, just for today, we'll let the rolling hills of Pennsylvania pretend to be mountains.