Contrary to what you've heard, my hometown of Brigham City does not have an identity crisis.

We simply have a half-dozen identities and don't know who we are from one day to the next.There's no crisis about it. We simply live very confused lives.

When I was a boy, Brigham was the "Peach City." Peach blossoms bloomed in every dooryard. Even today, our local eatery is called "Peach City."

When Thiokol came to the county, we turned into "Rocket Town." Our high school drill team is still called "The Rockettes." (The Rockettes often eat at Peach City.)

Then came our version of "The Birds." For a time we were known as the home of "the world's largest migratory bird refuge" - or so the sign says. (The sign hangs over Main Street - the street the Rockettes take to get to Peach City.)

But now, thanks to the hard work of Delone Glover and other civic leaders, we are slowly evolving into "Golden Spike Territory." The transcontinental railroad joined at nearby Promontory Point on May 10, 1869.

And for local Golden Spikers, that means this week is the most wonderful time of the year.

What's more, the celebration continues to grow. Already it has left the city's "birds" in the dust. Our rockets no longer hold a candle to our trains. Even Peach Days itself is feeling the heat.

It looks as if our future is tied to the history of trains.

In fact, the push has gotten so strong that even I've gotten involved. This year, my wife, Carol, and I were put in charge of decorations for the big Golden Spike Grande Ball.

The dance was last week. And it was heavenly - though pulling together the trains, lights, flags and trucks for the event was rather hellish.

Some people are natural trouble-shooters. My friend Les Dunn, who headed up the dance committee with his wife, Marion, is such a soul.

No stands for the flags? No problem. Call the police.

The refreshments don't show? No problem. You buzz up to Smith's and bring back a carload.

What? The trombone player forgot to bring his glasses? No problem. Hand him yours.

But me, the first time a piece of twine snaps, I stand against a wall and demand to be executed. I'm a writer - a thinker - I have no practical skills. I can't make, repair, prepare or assemble anything.

I think thoughts.

Still, Delone and Les will be happy to know I'm at least putting those thoughts to work for next year's dance.

In fact, if they keep me on the dance committee, I've got the decorations all blocked out in my mind. For the first time, we'll pull together Brigham City's multiple personalities and create a single identity.

We'll use the dance to integrate and heal our little town.

I can picture an enormous train in the middle of the dance floor. The train is pulling a flat car. On the flat car is a giant rocket. On the rocket is a giant bird. In the bird's beak is giant peach pit. And on the peach pit are written these immortal words:

"By the rocket's red glare, migrate your way to one peachy commemoration of our locomotive legacy."

We'll finally know who we are. We will be one.

Please bring your own refreshments.