Glendora
Glendora is where I grew up. Most of my closest friends still live there, and many now have kids I think of as my own nieces and nephews. Every visit feels both familiar and changed, like time moves differently inside those streets. The town has a kind of stillness to it. The trees are older, the houses haven’t learned the new styles, and people wave when you drive by. It feels smaller each year as my world gets wider, but that’s part of its charm. Glendora holds the shape of where I started, and it’s good to keep returning to it.
Filming in Glendora feels like opening a time capsule that keeps rewriting itself. It’s the town where I grew up, and now I watch my friends’ children run through the same yards and streets we once did. The corners haven’t changed much, but the faces have. It’s strange and comforting to see the next chapter unfolding in the same backdrop. When I visit, the world feels slower. The air smells like orange blossoms and pavement after rain. My friends talk about school schedules and new roofs, and I film quietly while the kids invent games we probably played under different names. Seeing the place through their eyes makes the past feel closer, not farther away. Each reel from Glendora becomes a small study in time… how it folds, repeats, and softens. The town still feels like home, but the home part now lives in the people, not the streets.
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