Penny for Your Thoughts
Rexburg from the Perspective of a Penny
By Aubrey Kirkham
Just a penny?
I started out in Great Harvest, before they moved, that is. Every morning, just as the sun peeped his head over the Tetons, the bakers arrived to mix, mould, and bake heavy loaves studded with raisins and swirled with sugary cinnamon sparkles. Aromas – piquant nutmeg, heavy wheat, pungent pumpkin -- wafted around the shop, beckoning customers inside with a friendly hand. I listened from the tips cup as patrons filled the shop with their chatter – children laughing and pleading for sweet rolls and warm housewives pondering over various savory loaves. The guest tables rustled with small-town chitchat, each rounded surface a sanctuary for secret smiles and confidential colloquy. I watched their faces shine like Susan Bs straight off the mint and realized something: the people sitting, resting, and eating at the tables are Rexburg–uniquely Rexburg.
I spent a year in Japan with the International Folk Dance team after they visited the Rexburg bakery to pick up a bun. The yen were nice, but I missed Idaho–the cold snaps in the wintertime, the keep-the-change mentality, checkers meeting customers in Porters, Broulims, and Millhollow and asking about their respective families. I even missed the college students, despite the fact that I passed through their hands like a calf in a chute – quickly, noisily, and often lost in the bustle. They took me with them to all the places they saw: Mesa Falls, the Wind Caves, Jackson Hole, the Haunted Swingset, the Farmer’s Market, snowshacks, and rodeos. They–Rexburg–taught me to love the simple things that make Rexburg unique. Friday nights at the double dollar theater, October days in spud harvest with potatoes and dust, crisp mornings on the butte watching the sun rise.
Now the dance festival is over again, and I’m back in my place. Here on the sidewalk isn’t so bad. Here in Rexburg – home.
ow the dance fes
I spent a year in Japan with the International Folk Dance team after they visited the Rexburg bakery to pick up a bun. The yen were nice, but I missed Idaho–the cold snaps in the wintertime, the keep-the-change mentality, checkers meeting customers in Porters, Broulims, and Millhollow and asking about their respective families. I even missed the college students, despite the fact that I passed through their hands like a calf in a chute – quickly, noisily, and often lost in the bustle. They took me with them to all the places they saw: Mesa Falls, the Wind Caves, Jackson Hole, the Haunted Swingset, the Farmer’s Market, snowshacks, and rodeos. They–Rexburg–taught me to love the simple things that make Rexburg unique. Friday nights at the double dollar theater, October days in spud harvest with potatoes and dust, crisp mornings on the butte watching the sun rise.
Now the dance festival is over again, and I’m back in my place. Here on the sidewalk isn’t so bad. Here in Rexburg – home.
ow the dance fes
