I just got back from Salt Lake, where I took my kids to Wheeler Farm in Murray, Utah. Originally homesteaded in the late 1800s, the 75-acre property was preserved and turned over to Salt Lake County in 1969.
It was jarring, in the best way, to see a public space so well-run. Admission is free. Kids walk right up to cows, goats, sheep, and chickens. They climb on old tractors, go on wagon rides (for $3), and race through open fields.
After a busy morning, we bought $2 Uncrustables and $1.50 Popsicles from the gift shop and sat for lunch. At one point, my 3-year-old wandered over to a chicken coop that had been converted into a playhouse. He was inside when a mom rushed over—her son was bleeding. He’d been nicked by a loose plank that had come down in the coop.
The mostly college-aged staff ushered the kids out and surveyed the damage. Coming from Los Angeles, I expected some level of generalized freaking out: yellow tape, an incident report, something. Instead, what happened was even stranger: One of the employees wandered out to find a nail gun and returned to fix the problem plank on the spot.
Sometimes, you can just do things.
A week later, back in LA, I took my kids to the city-owned Los Angeles Zoo. The contrast was immediate and depressing.
