Georgetown from the Guanella Pass road, I-70 to the left, the lake at the far end... Click to enlarge.January is dead in Georgetown, when the traffic dwindles to cross country truckers and weekend Denver skiers heading to and from Loveland, Keystone, Breckenridge, Vail, and A-Basin. And most of those pass by, stopping only for gas and a potty break at the Valero. But at least once a season, I-70 on one or both sides of the tunnel is closed for hours by accidents or up to several days by inclemency, turning the village into a bustling metropolis of misanthropes cursing the same Mother Nature they previously lauded for coating the slopes with glorious powder. I’ve yet to witness such a transformation, and contemplate renting out my living room floor to a gaggle of nubile coeds desperate for shelter. I also contemplate winning the lottery, peace on earth, and smaller government.
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Faithful and attentive readers will recall that a favorite subject of my pillory is Garrison Keillor. His early works were sparsely witty, with smiles found every few pages and good yuks few and far between. As an avid reader of his work, I can attest that as he has become “progressively” vile in his political rhetoric, he has improved the frequency and quality of his wit. Both Wobegon Boy and Pontoon were droll pleasures, and his latest, Liberty, should not be attempted in public places lest the reader become an object of concern through unsuccessful containment of excessive mirth (this from one who rarely succumbs to jocularity). The juxtaposition of hatred and glee might make a fitting PhD thesis for a budding sociologist.
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Finding Liberty on the library shelf produced a confounding moment as I couldn’t for the life of me remember if I had previously read it. The cover looked vaguely familiar. No matter. I realized some time ago, while searching for positive aspects of aging, that there can be a silver lining in the cloud of advancing maturity. It first occurred when, around page 85 of Mayle’s “A Year in Provence,” something seemed vaguely familiar. Alas, I had read it several years before, yet it provided near virginal pleasure in the reiteration. I have since re-read all of his work with but rare and occasional twinges of recollection, and am about to embark on a third go-round. I anticipate that I will soon be able to acquire a complete library of a half-dozen volumes that I will periodically recycle through my brain with great joy. As I truly enjoy just one in a dozen or so books I read, the near certainty of a pleasurable repeat of a previously enjoyed but entirely forgotten work will bring great comfort as autumn proceeds into winter.
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I wonder if the disintegration of the American family began with the introduction of the automatic dishwasher into the American kitchen. We used to eat as a family, then wash the dishes together, or more precisely Mom and the kids. Dad had the dinner table, asking piercing questions about the day at school and checking on chores assigned. Then Mom and kids repaired to the kitchen sink and put a human face on things, subtly redirecting assignments, advising on life and love, and promising to explain the difference between acute and obtuse triangles. Or have I been watching too many “Leave it to Beaver” reruns?
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With the stroke of a pen less than 24-hours on the job, our new President has “closed” Guantanamo. Well, not quite. He has “promised” closure within one year. Credit should come at the completion of a task, not the beginning. It occurs that a lion's share of the credit for the much ballyhooed change should accrue to the American people, who have by and large moved beyond several hundred years of intolerance and made a decision based on hope and promise rather than prejudice and color. That credit should rightly transfer to our new President, but only upon achievement. The European model takes credit for good intentions; Americans have traditionally rewarded accomplishment.
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Since Letterman made “lists” so popular I have gone off the concept. But while surfing my 26-channel TV universe, I came upon “10 heroes for 2008”, including a father-son duo, while traveling I-70 in my current hometown of Georgetown, CO, were so impressed by the steep canyons (some exceeding 60 decrees) they pulled over and went for a climb. Predictably they stumbled, fell a frightening distance, and the 9-year old son, finding his father bleeding and incoherent, used a cell phone to call 911. Having no idea where he was, he guided rescue teams by telling dispatchers when he heard their sirens. For this someone bestowed upon him hero status.
I have long been disturbed by the evolving definition of heroism. I would rather have awarded the appellation to rescue crews that risked their lives to bring them to safety. I do know with certainty that I would hang “Stupidest Person of the Year” on the dad.
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After near record high temperatures, it is finally snowing again. For those from other parts of our diverse planet who might find themselves in the high country, I provide as a public service local snowfall terminology:
Less than 6”: flurries
6” to 12”: dusting
12” to 18”: covering
18” to 24”: snow
Greater than 24”: dump
...the adventure continues as I dig further into the history, culture, and sociology of my current home...
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