Saturdays at the Daun’s are a cause for celebration. Sleeping in is usually followed by breakfast for lunch and then the whole, “So, what do you want to do today?” “I don’t know what do you want to do today” and so on until someone decides to finally be honest and say what they actually wanted to do all along. Today, we celebrated that we could tolerate being outside for longer than five minutes (it was in the thirties!) by taking a stroll down Main Street, just like we did during the summer.
I love Main Street, and I have ever since the first time we drove into this little town that would become our home. We drove here with a car full of as many of our belongings as we could fit, a playlist full of our favorite songs, no jobs, no friends, and no idea what we were doing. We wound up and down Sardine Canyon, and with every turn, I felt further and further away from home. Suddenly, we were in the valley, and I knew. I knew that we would be okay, and I knew that we were home. As we were driving into Cache Valley, looking for the temple, I said to Tyson, “This place is going to be good for us.”
I remembered the couple of weeks that I spent visiting my hometown a month or so before we got married. My mom was helping me get our invitations ready and Tyson called to tell me that he’d gotten into Utah State. I remember looking out the window after our phone call and realizing that my life was about to change. I was trading one small town for another.
All through my teenage years, I had wanted to escape my small town. I remember the frustration, the pain at feeling like I didn’t fit in anywhere. It wasn’t boredom, it was the desire for more, and the hope that somewhere, out there in a world that was much bigger than my own, there was more. In feeling stuck, I was driven to books, to music, to art. Most importantly, the frustrations of my small town life drove me to writing. I often pictured myself in a big city- there I would find myself and my voice.
When we drove into Logan for the first time that summer morning, a part of me felt like sixteen-year-old me would be so disappointed. There I was, willingly living in a small town. But as we drove past Main Street, I fell in love with those old brick buildings, and I knew that they would inspire me to tell those stories that I had always known lived inside of me. I knew that the same desire for more that had driven me in a different valley would drive me in this one. As we passed Main Street and continued to look for the temple, I felt hope, the hope that this little town would be where I finally found my voice, and maybe even myself.