This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

You know what surprised me when we moved to Salt Lake City in the 1980s? The way everybody asked us where we'd gone to high school.

For the record, it turns out that "Provo High" is NOT the correct answer. Which isn't the point. The point is that I had no idea why people even cared. "Does it matter?" I wanted to respond. There was only one high school in Provo when I was a teenager — BY High and St. Francis had closed their doors by then — so we all went to the same place, whether we wanted to or not.

What I eventually understood is that determining where people went to high school tells you whom they might know. It also tells you which Salt Lake City neighborhood they lived in, which may also tell you where they live now. Because here's the other thing about Salt Lake City — people often find their way back to the places where they grew up.

I'm thinking about this as I walk through my Salt Lake City neighborhood (the lower Avenues) with a new resident.

"What about that house?" she asks, pointing at a narrow two-story Victorian.

I smile. Then I tell her all about the man who used to live there.

He went shirtless year round, although he did wear a vest and a necklace. He also wore a cowboy hat with a feather that trailed down his neck. His hair was long and braided, and when the weather was fine he'd build a bonfire in his backyard and chant — we could hear him from our own backyard.

I was told that when he got good and drunk, he'd shoot out the street lamps in the alley behind our houses. I was also told that his pet Gila monster bit him after he passed out once, so his friends had to rush him to the hospital. I can't vouch for either of these stories, but I can vouch for the time when I witnessed officials from the Division of Wildlife Services carry various stuffed animals (real ones) out of his house and load them into a truck.

"You can't take those!" he roared from his front porch. "Those are a part of my religion!"

"Wow," my new neighbor says, looking at the house with new respect.

If we had more time I would tell her about the time I accidentally locked myself out of the house wearing nothing but underwear at midnight while a rave was going on across the street. But we're done with our walk, so instead I say, "This neighborhood used to be a lot livelier."

Which causes me to think about the changes we've witnessed since moving here. The lower Avenues have gentrified. A lot. The neighborhood is still diverse, although the diversity is more social than socioeconomic now.

Do I love it as much as I once did? Yeah. I do. I'm a big fan of old houses and of the sprawling nature preserve (i.e. "the city cemetery") just to the north of us. Also, I have the best neighbors ever. But in this moment, I am acutely aware of the downside of urban renewal. Our boys, who grew up playing baseball on the grass stretching in front of our homes and tearing through the hilly streets like maniacs on their bicycles, who played Kick-the-Can on summer nights and sledded down the slopes of Lindsey Gardens in the winter, probably can't afford to settle here.

Not that they even want to. They're all happy with where they've landed. Even the one in Houston.

But still. There's always something wistful about those moments when you discover yet another way that you can't go home again.

Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.