Back to the Suburbs.
The friendliest little city around is not a city, and not especially friendly. Apparently gang activity there is growing at an alarming rate. This can’t mean anything good for the state of our society, when gangs come to a suburban “town” whose whole only claims to fame are
1. IKEA, which is probably twice the size of Reagan National Airport;
2. Potomac Mills—the world’s largest outlet mall—which is probably three times the size of Reagan National Airport; and
3. All the streets are in alphabetical order.
Dale City lies about 30 miles south of DC. I grew up in Dale City, in the house where my mother still lives. When we moved into that house some twenty-two years ago, our house was one of a few houses surrounded by a field. The elementary school I would attend, the houses that my neighborhood friends would live in weren’t there yet. We’d pick blackberries in the field and spot deer from the swingset.
Today, as you can imagine, the fields and trees in the vicinity of my mother’s house are largely gone, thought the streets are all lined with large twenty-odd year old trees. The only exception is the tree in the front yard of Mom’s. Despite being older than everyone else’s the tree is a tiny. We call it the pencil tree. It is aptly named.
All the nonpencil trees and fields outside the confines of our yard seemingly gave their lives to make room for more houses or the First, Second, Third, (and so on) Baptist Churches of Dale City. Just what is keeping the First Baptists from going to praise the lord with the Second Baptists five flipping blocks down the road, I’d love to know. I wish they would though, and sodding leave some trees lying about.
We walked to school in a group, all the neighborhood kids. I have countless childhood memories of walking down Lindendale Road with a wet spot on my forehead. If my mother was in charge of congregating the children, we all had to start the day with a prayer and blessing ourselves. I can safely say that no matter what your background, you’ll enjoy blessing yourself. If you have no idea what this is, go to my mom’s house and she’ll probably make you do it before you leave, and then you too can walk down Lindendale Road with a wet spot on your head. The holy water, then as now, is still kept in an ugly clay container my brother made for her back when it was acceptable to give you parents really ugly things you made for presents.
Every time I go home I miss my turn onto my street because of construction. More houses, more roads, more widening of roads, another church (I am fairly certain there was a time when religious architecture was supposed to invoke some concept of the divine, or at the v. least, not look like a concrete prison). I don’t recognize it anymore. There used to a little farm with a horse on the corner where I would turn onto my street. Now it’s a big pile of dirt that will soon be another lane in the road across from a strip mall with a big sad Food Lion. The road where my middle and high schools are used to be nothing but trees. It was windy and slightly scary, but especially beautiful in the fall or after snow. Now many of the trees are gone to make way for “wooded” home sites.
Despite the sprawl, the gangs (wha??) and the never-ending construction of additional grocery stores, Dale City is home. I grew up there, and Mom is still there. My dad too, though in a house that is decidedly not home. I'm always sad to leave it behind on some level think because I know it won’t really be the same the next time I see it. In twenty-five years, I fully expect it to be leveled to make room for a commuter parking lot on the yet-to-be-started Brown Line of the Metro. Or one massive Super Church of Dale City, Encompassing Literally All of What Was Once Dale City and the People Who Lived Here and the Trees Who Photosynthesized Here (it will be a v. large sign).
So if you want to see it while it still looks like a place where kids grow up, go now. Be sure to ask my mom to show you how to bless yourself. She’ll probably make you eat something while you're there, too.
1. IKEA, which is probably twice the size of Reagan National Airport;
2. Potomac Mills—the world’s largest outlet mall—which is probably three times the size of Reagan National Airport; and
3. All the streets are in alphabetical order.
Dale City lies about 30 miles south of DC. I grew up in Dale City, in the house where my mother still lives. When we moved into that house some twenty-two years ago, our house was one of a few houses surrounded by a field. The elementary school I would attend, the houses that my neighborhood friends would live in weren’t there yet. We’d pick blackberries in the field and spot deer from the swingset.
Today, as you can imagine, the fields and trees in the vicinity of my mother’s house are largely gone, thought the streets are all lined with large twenty-odd year old trees. The only exception is the tree in the front yard of Mom’s. Despite being older than everyone else’s the tree is a tiny. We call it the pencil tree. It is aptly named.
All the nonpencil trees and fields outside the confines of our yard seemingly gave their lives to make room for more houses or the First, Second, Third, (and so on) Baptist Churches of Dale City. Just what is keeping the First Baptists from going to praise the lord with the Second Baptists five flipping blocks down the road, I’d love to know. I wish they would though, and sodding leave some trees lying about.
We walked to school in a group, all the neighborhood kids. I have countless childhood memories of walking down Lindendale Road with a wet spot on my forehead. If my mother was in charge of congregating the children, we all had to start the day with a prayer and blessing ourselves. I can safely say that no matter what your background, you’ll enjoy blessing yourself. If you have no idea what this is, go to my mom’s house and she’ll probably make you do it before you leave, and then you too can walk down Lindendale Road with a wet spot on your head. The holy water, then as now, is still kept in an ugly clay container my brother made for her back when it was acceptable to give you parents really ugly things you made for presents.
Every time I go home I miss my turn onto my street because of construction. More houses, more roads, more widening of roads, another church (I am fairly certain there was a time when religious architecture was supposed to invoke some concept of the divine, or at the v. least, not look like a concrete prison). I don’t recognize it anymore. There used to a little farm with a horse on the corner where I would turn onto my street. Now it’s a big pile of dirt that will soon be another lane in the road across from a strip mall with a big sad Food Lion. The road where my middle and high schools are used to be nothing but trees. It was windy and slightly scary, but especially beautiful in the fall or after snow. Now many of the trees are gone to make way for “wooded” home sites.
Despite the sprawl, the gangs (wha??) and the never-ending construction of additional grocery stores, Dale City is home. I grew up there, and Mom is still there. My dad too, though in a house that is decidedly not home. I'm always sad to leave it behind on some level think because I know it won’t really be the same the next time I see it. In twenty-five years, I fully expect it to be leveled to make room for a commuter parking lot on the yet-to-be-started Brown Line of the Metro. Or one massive Super Church of Dale City, Encompassing Literally All of What Was Once Dale City and the People Who Lived Here and the Trees Who Photosynthesized Here (it will be a v. large sign).
So if you want to see it while it still looks like a place where kids grow up, go now. Be sure to ask my mom to show you how to bless yourself. She’ll probably make you eat something while you're there, too.
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