When we were teenagers there was a place we called the DragonFly. It was a turnaround spot with a windmill and a cow tank about a mile down the dump road (Temporal). Naturally teenagers did what teenagers did out at the DragonFly but it was also a place marker: “Go down the dump road just past the DragonFly…” I don’t recall ever seeing a dragonfly there, mostly because I was there in the dark, but I trusted they were there.
Sometime in my late teens or early 20s, the property was sold and a house was built directly on the sacred ground known as the DragonFly. We all had a few feelings about it. Now it was, “Drive down the dump road past what used to be the DragonFly.”
Somewhere along the way people started calling the road by its proper name and the hits kept coming. Years ago a newcomer referred to the mountain to our north as Mt. Wrightson. “Mt. Wrightson? Do you mean Baldy?” For some reason I was deeply offended. Baldy is where we spent days playing in the snow and sliding across frozen ponds and camping in abandoned cabins. Baldy is where my dad once jokingly said he wanted to launch his dead body off of in his beloved Ford truck upon his death.
As kids we learned that Baldy is due north and Sierra Vista is east, Red Mountain is south and Nogales is west. When my dad was sick, Baldy was where he pointed when he said he wanted to go home.
The name thing also goes for people. I always knew Abel as Bob, and Robert was Bobby. (For some reason now that he’s cutting hair, he’s Robert). Some people were called by their full name—like Michael Brown—and never by their first name.
Oh, and by the way, the road out to the Preserve isn’t Blue Heaven Road—it’s “the road to the Sanctuary” or “the Sanctuary road.” I was an adult before I ever referred to the “Highway” as Naugle Ave and some locals still give me the “huh?” expression when I use that name.
Now that the gas station is a taco truck, the corner has really changed. The gathering of local men that would spend the day gossiping and shooting the breeze has faded away. There is one soul that still shows up with his little dog. He wanders the perimeter of the property looking for a place to sit. It’s still part of his routine.
It’s a tough time to be a nostalgic person. Everything is changing so rapidly. I am afraid of change. I don’t want people to forget things like the DragonFly or Baldy or to forget about the Rotary pancake breakfasts on the 4th of July in the old depot. I want everyone to remember all the best camping spots and where the water runs the deepest out in Temporal. While we all succumb to the wineries and bike races, let’s not forget about the Pipers’ 4-H BBQ and Granny cussing us out at the post office.
Going forward, I will no longer recognize name changes, be it personal, location or monument. It’s just too much.
Oh, and about “the Gulf of America”? You’ve got to be kidding me!