Davis, California

The last time I stood in the sun-kissed streets of Davis was over a decade ago. Part of me is afraid to return: the image left in my mind is so impeccable, so radiant, that I’m sure I’m remembering the town as something greater than it actually was. Certainly no place could really have such gleaming streets, such verdant greenbelts, or such lush parks as my memory tells me. I can only assume that retrospect wears a pair of rose-colored glasses, and somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten the city’s imperfections. Yet the charm of Davis is not something that can be imagined. Even if my recollections are glossed over, I know the town had a soul, an essence that I have yet to find anywhere else. Beyond the physical beauty, this essence is what has stayed with me through my life. It is why, ten years later, the only place I can sincerely call “home” is the quaint town of Davis.

Davis was a city of warmth, and not just from the constant sunlight: it was the warmth of safety, of community, of love. For most of my years in the town, I lived at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac in a little two-bedroom house that was barely big enough for my family of three. The neighborhood streets were like wild, unexplored jungles. These streets hosted all my childhood adventures: crashing into rose bushes when learning to ride a bicycle; plucking pomegranates off of the neighbor’s tree; trick-or-treating in the ink-black night of Halloween. My parents never worried about me. The possibility of getting kidnapped, lost, or in any way harmed was not even a possibility—Davis was like a safe womb, cradling me through my youth. When I walk through the perilous streets of my current neighborhood, 700 miles away from Davis, I cannot help but long for the simplicity and security I once knew.

Outside the bounds of my cul-de-sac was like entering a completely different world. Before I was old enough to attend school, my father would take me to run errands with him downtown. These trips were always exhilarating. Downtown Davis was a place of glitz and excitement; store after never-ending store, each as intriguing as the next, lined the streets in picturesque rows. My favorite was Davis Lumber and Hardware. We would often stop there, sprinting to the air-conditioned building to escape the day’s heat. Sometimes my father would purchase a saw or a hammer, but I suspect he really took me there because he knew how much I enjoyed it. Before leaving, he would always pick up a bag of gummy bears from the candy section near the front of the store and, smiling at me, hand it to the cashier to ring up.

I have been to a lot of city centers, but none have enchanted me the way Davis did. No matter how many Home Depots I stroll through, I can never find the same fresh-wood smell of Davis Lumber—not to mention gummy bears that are half as good.

Besides its intriguing shops, Davis was brimming with parks and greenbelts. On a shelf in my living room, I have a framed picture of my smiling, two-year-old face, haloed by a blur of green. To any stranger, this green is probably meaningless—but to me, it is memento of the grassy knolls on which I spent many childhood days. At the far end of our street, there was an entrance to a greenbelt that spanned several neighborhoods. The greenbelt’s paths were always swarming with joggers, walkers, bikers, and anyone else yearning to absorb some of the Californian sun. Some of my most blissful memories are of this greenbelt; I recall staring up at the sky, seeing a kite swimming through the cloudless blue like a fish, and having a feeling of contentment consume me. This same sensation—calm joy—returns whenever I think of Davis.

My memories of the town seem infinite, and whenever I reminisce, more of them appear, materializing like fireflies. My senses flood with the chlorine scent of the Rec Pool, and its tantalizing, crystal-cool waters. My arms, though no longer those of a child, ache to climb the jungle gyms of Rainbow Park. My tongue longs for the satisfaction of a cold, cherry popsicle on one of the Sacramento Valley’s many scorching days. Most of all, I miss the comfort of such a friendly place, the safety in which it raised me.

I often wonder what became of the town—if my beloved Davis Lumber is still running, selling little bags of gummy bears by the check-out counter; if the redwood tree we planted in my backyard is a towering giant yet, or if it was cut down sometime in the past years; if the wooden palace of Rainbow Park is still so infinite and enticing, or if its intrigue has faded with my youth. I’m not sure I want to know the answers. But while the Davis that left so deep an impression in my mind may have changed over the years, I have no doubt that its spirit has stayed intact. Nothing can break the charm this city exuded. And nothing can replace its role in my life as the one place I call “home.”

D. M.

Submitted: Tuesday 24th February 2004, 1:09 AM

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