I live in South Dakota. I grew up in
Colorado. In both places it is normal for it to be both cold, windy and at
times snowy.
When I was growing up there was no such thing as a snow day. In
fact the mere idea of staying home because school was cancelled because of poor
road conditions was so far from consideration that when we moved to the
panhandle of TX in 1986 I was both floored and overjoyed a light dusting of
snow could shut down not only the school system but the entire town.
But that was in my youth and in a time when you were expected as a
person to persevere and overcome all of the obstacles mother nature threw
at you.
Today's world is much different from my youth. Gone for the most
part are truck stop dinners and family owned grocery stores.
On most street corners you will find strip malls full of store
front modern conveniences. Lost to the sands of time are locally owned and
operated eateries and merchandise stores. Greasy spoons have been replaced with
brick and mortar restaurants. 2 for 1 beer bucket specials and flashy
multi page menus covered in glossy hard covered book covers. Dinner and
lunch items come with plates filled with enough food to feed a family of 6.
Large retail chain outlet stores have taken the place of family
owned stores. The profits carted away in 18 wheel dump truck leaving in its
wake economic fatigue and despair.
This is not to say that it's all bad, but in my youth going to
sears roebuck for school clothes were for the rich and entitled. Growing up in
the Grand Mesa Valley a dollar was not meant to be squandered.
The hard top adobe dessert a constant reminder that weakness and a
lack of fortitude would not only grind you down to the nub. Both feed on your
bones.
In the early 80's Exxon Valdez pulled up states in the dead of
night and left in its wake broken dreams and unemployment that would rival the
great depression.
The high adobe desert of my youth was a hard and unforgiving
blight on the American dream. Growing up we came to understand the value of
hard work and the internal fortitude of perusing goals until we ran them
to the ground. But it would not be until much later in life I would understand
the tough economic times that valley posed on its inhabitants.
My youth was spent on the hard top adobe dessert or at the corner
park playing tackle football with my friends. We rode our bikes in packs all
over town. Dirt trails and bike jumps were our playgrounds. The best toy we had
was our imagination.
And while my parents fought and struggled with the realities of
the times. My brother and I grew up oblivious. Happy in the fact our home was
warm and our needs were met. The hard scrabble hard top adobe dessert would not
only not break us, but hardened our resolve and inner fortitude. The play is
hard taking no prisoners life style my friends and I lived by would serve
us well later on.
The Grand Mesa Valley is surrounded on 3 sides by towering
monolithic mountain tops. The adobe bookcliffs stand high and naked
of vegetation to the north. West of our valley stands the grand daddy
of my youth. The Grand Mesa mountains served our family as a second home in the
form of campgrounds. Surrounded by sky high evergreen trees, rocks and boulders.
The ground covered in leafy green plants and dirt colored scrub brush. I can
still hear the stillness and feel the wind. Feeling like those mountains that
surrounded us were a living and breathing being. Watching and waiting. Looking
for the respect it deserved.
Often my Dad would load us up in a Scout II International its
faded body an ugly urine like yellow. It's hard top was a burnt orange. A
persistent squeak coming from the left rear. My father always swore was not
there. The undercarriage was hard and unyielding. Its shocks were so stiff
that after long drives your kidneys would ache as if they had been rabbit
punched by the heavy weight champ himself.
Going to mountains in that Scout was like a vacation. A 1970's
version of a modern day Humvee. My father always drove with one hand on the
wheel and the other on the stick shift. His feet and hands comely working
the gears. When we took that scout off road there was always a sense of
adventure close at hand. Its 4 wheels, climbing and digging forces its will
upon the ground. We moved along until the road became too rough for 2 wheel
drive.
My father would work the gears down until were stopped. And then
the moment would arrive the time we all waited for on these outings. I can
still see him looking out at the road ahead his mind working out the route. He
sits for a moment his eyes hooded by dark sunglasses my fathers ball cap
sitting high on his forehead. And with quiet deliberation he's outside walking
to the front. Bending over he turns the drivers side hub in. His body unbending
and with determination, he moves to the passenger side and turns in that hub in.
He stands tall and turning with deliberation he climbs back in the
drivers side. Wheel in one hand and the stick in the other my father and the
scout become one. Its yellowed body, giving way to his commands. Steady and
strong we march on.
Jostled from side to side the wheels moving with purpose the low
end torque clawing and scratching away until the hard packed ground and deep
mud give way. And when the hard road was conquered, he would stop and with
pride he'd get out and turn the hubs out. Another road conquered our adventure
over that same scout would deliver us back home safe and secure.
To the south the Colorado National Monument stands tall. Watching
over the valley that lives in its shadow. It's red dirt and coke oven monuments
are just as tall and hard and foreboding as they were when they were
created. But for me and the kids I grew up with they were weekend playgrounds.
Holding our BB guns across our handle bars we would ride across
the river. Once we crossed over my childhood best friend Scott and I would
leave the blacktop and ride our bikes across the adobe flat top desert. We'd
ride and climb 500 feet across scrub brush and across the hard abode clay. And
when we reached the base of those high and imposing rocks we'd leave our bikes
at the base and rock climb till we got high enough and we could climb no
further.
Moving until we found a cave or an overhang that would protect us
from the elements. Our backpacks filled with jerky and bread. War time canteens
secured around our waists from army web belts.
At night we would build small campfires, its heat keeping us warm.
In the morning we would rise early and explore the rocks and the surrounding
canyons. Running and gunning. In our minds, we were soldiers fighting the good
fight.
When the sun started to make its afternoon decent Scott and I
would pack up and start the ride back home.
I miss those times and wish my kids could do the same. But it's a
new world and gone are those days when children were free to roam and play.
Where their energies and imaginations are fueled by their youth.
Someday when we are free of the fear of letting go and letting
children find themselves, maybe then they can go back to a time when the
mountains and rock climbing aren't filled with bogey men and evil.
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