In the outer edges of Virginia. Just outside of Dayton. There’s a small little dirt road off of a dirt road.

That road is called Denver Lane.

That road is named after my son.

Yes. Literally.

See that house at the end of Denver Lane?  We lived there.  A lovely house on 40 acres. My dog Sohio is buried next to that large pond. My cat, Calicow, is buried in the yard by the shed.  Denver was a baby in that house.  We lived “next door” to the man behind one of the biggest discount tire stores in Virginia  – and he had a son about 2 years old.  We spent some time with them, had a couple of cookouts during that summer.  They were good neighbors – and with each of us having so much land we didn’t encroach.

Back then Denver Lane was Rural Route 12 (or something like that).

And the city decided to renamed all rural routes for 911 calls, etc.  We were told to make our submissions for road names.

Our neighbors submitted their sons name.  We submitted Denver’s.  We joked back and forth with them over who would win the road name.  After all, at the time there was just the two of us on that road back then. Not many options to choose from.

Two weeks before we moved we learned the city had picked “Denver Lane”.  Not just that, but our house number would have had the month, date, and hour of Denver’s birth.

Unfortunately, we moved away from that gorgeous land before we ever got to live on his namesake street.

But I know it’s there, and it’s on google maps…

So yeah, my kid’s awesome. They named a whole street after him.