In praise of Durango

My new favorite town in America: Durango, Colorado. Cool, green, clean, scenic. The town has just the right amount of western flavor and modern athleticism, my favorite combo. The Animas River runs through town attracting rafters and kayakers. And, of course, there is the famous Durango & Silverton steam train which brings thousands of visitors to the area each summer.

There is a wonderful walking path alongside the Animas dotted with public parks and art. The day was beautiful. People were out on bikes and the river full of people floating in inner tubes. We strolled unknowingly upon a music festival at the Rotary Park where Allie climbed an aspen tree for a better view of the gazebo where players performed Peter and the Wolf. We asked an older couple, long-time residents, for a recommendation on where to go for lunch. Rather than explain, they insisted we hop in their car (an old Cadillac) to be dropped off door-side to Guido's, a cute Italian eatery on Main Street.

All day long Allison and I were singing the praises of Durango and wishing aloud that we could live there. And it did seem like the sirens of Durango were conspiring to lure us to stay. We joked and made references to the Chevy Chase movie, "Funny Farm," where he pays the townspeople to behave as quaint and charming as possible to lure a buyer for his house. It seemed that everyone in Durango was friendly, polite, and attractive.
We did, of course, ride the Silverton train. We opted for the bus ride up and the train ride back. The ride is long, but not dull if you like scenery. We were constantly on the look-out for wildlife and other interesting sights. Besides the gorgeous views of rushing waters and rustic train trestles and enormous drop-offs we saw a bear, deer, prairie dogs standing at attention, and the wildest of wildlife, the young folks floating the river who greeted the passing train by pulling down their swim trunks and mooning us.

Our stay in Durango was short. We next headed toward Silverthorne, Colorado where we spent the past week enjoying more wonderful weather and pine-infused atmosphere. And today I write from the worn sofa of my "permanent" home. Naturally, it's late and everyone's asleep (I'm the night-owl.) The Airstream is parked in the driveway until we get it unloaded. It stands as a beacon to the neighborhood that the wanderers are home at last. At least I think they see it that way. Could be, they're wondering how long that thing will sit in the drive.

I'll probably stop writing as I take time to readjust to home and fall back into the comfortable rhythms of normal life. So, until later, goodnight America.

Getting up to Speed

Back to Airstreaming again. We left Loreto and flew to San Diego where we picked up our Airstream trailer and visited friends and family. We visited my mother in Arizona, showed Allie the Grand Canyon and Four Corners, and now we are set up in Durango, Colorado where we'll ride the train to Silverton and back just for fun before continuing on towards home.

Finally we are in temperatures below 100F. Our last stop was in Cameron, AZ near the Canyon where the wind blows like a furnace and we run the A/C runs continuously or risk roasting in our tin can. Once we passed through Cortez, Colorado and entered into the San Juan mountain range the world turned green again. Pines and ponderosa, creeks and rivers replaced the stony plains of Navajo country, beautiful in it's own way, but untouchable. The occasional monument of weathered stone was awe-inspiring looking like sculpture or an emergent ancient skyscraper. Traveling on Highway 160 we just skimmed the edge of the valley. I know we missed a lot by scooting past, but we were weary of our days of heat and driving. We did make an obligatory stop at the site of the Four Corners and took the obligatory photo on the cement slab marking the four states' touching border: Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Colorado.

Of course, the Grand Canyon was incredulous if not predictable as Robert and I have seen it several times. We again, took photos at the exact spot behind the Tovar Hotel that we took on our honeymoon, and at later dates with our sons. But this time our souvenir purchase wasn't an Indian craft or tee-shirt, but a book titled, "Death in the Grand Canyon," a compilation of tales of stupidity really; as in people falling off ledges while showing off or taking photos. I read the best parts out loud from Cameron to Kayenta until I finally tired of the grim subject.

The past two weeks have been a blur of geography, climate, and activities. Many mornings I awoke in confusion as to where I was. Usually, the shock of re-entering American culture after many months in Mexico is something I get to ruminate over, but this rapid sprint leaves no time to process anything. I'm functioning from memory: Grocery carts, drive-throughs, stop-lights, mall traffic, American currency, GPS programming, wi-fi hotspots, Starbucks blends, paper or plastic?, I'm regaining my fluency. But like riding a bike, it all comes back to you.

Free at Last

We took the advice of another Airstreamer and took the scenic roads out of Colorado rather than I-25 out of Denver. We were so glad we did. We headed up Highway 9 stopping in Kremmling to eat lunch at a cute diner/bakery called My Family Restaurant. The glazed donut I had was so good that I made Robert buy a whole apple pie for later. I have this notion that on this trip I will uncover the place that bakes the best apple pie. (However, we discovered later that MFR may have the worst.)

From Highway 9 we headed north toward Steamboat Springs, a town we'd visited years ago when Ryan had a baseball tournament there. I remember Robert declaring then he was going to find a stuffed buffalo head to bring home as a souvenir and we joked about where we'd hang it. Then he discovered how pricey they were and from then on we were eyeing every buffalo head in every restaurant wondering if it could be had for less. We are still on the lookout for "the deal."


Anyway, we skipped Steamboat and took more back roads to get to Laramie, Wyoming. In Laramie, we were given excellent directions by an employee outside an auto parts store for the best route to Custer, South Dakota. In wonderful Wyoming vernacular he said: I will forewarn you that 32 starts out all nice and straight but turns real twisty-like, but I believe it is the faster route." Once again we took someone's advice to forgo the Interstate and we were glad we did. If his recommended route was indeed quicker it wouldn't have mattered to us anyway--so beautiful was this road. We were alone for most portions and surrounded by 360 views of landscape and sky so stretching and vast that but for the highway and some utility lines the year could have been 1807 , not 2007. Beautiful, beautiful Wyoming!

We arrived in Custer after dark pulling into Big Pine Campgrounds where the manager had tacked our campsite info to the bulletin board outside the closed office. Robert managed to get us parked and hooked up before falling into bed. Allison and I stayed up watch Born Free on the DVD player. I think I was 10 when I first saw this movie and in my memory it was a glorious, touching tale of fuzzy lion cubs. Watching it with my daughter I was struck with how stiff and sappy and sexist it was-- the woman always resorting to near-hysterics to make a point and her husband always bossing her around, telling her to "Go to bed!" Forget the cubs woman--free yourself! Let Andy Williams and his Academy-award-winning song be the soundtrack for your escape. Run or toughen up!

30+ years later I finally get it: This film was propaganda for the feminist movement. Aha! I see now. What subversiveness! Born Free was not really about the lion cubs, but the cry against domination and manipulation in marriage. But of course, the message was lost on my young self. What else did I miss?

I wore pink flip-flops to the Rodeo

We left the Airstream parked outside the condo and took a long drive. We went through Winter Park and Granby ending up in Kremmling, a cowboy town about 30 minutes north of Silverthorne. Robert discovered a rodeo was in progress. I wasn't prepared--I didn't have my telephoto lens or my boots, but that didn't stop me from crawling under the fence to get closer to the action. We saw the last two events: ladies barrel racing, and bull riding. One 12-year-old bull named Duster was such an old pro; he knocked-off his rider in less than one second then promptly trotted to the pen. Nobody got gored which took some of the fun out of the event for me.



All cowboy hats, boots, spurs, and tractor trailers--then somebody has to spoil the authenticity of the scene with their corporate jet!

Deep and Wide

The rain has gone and Summit County is once again the best place to be in summer. We hear that back home a heat wave is creating 100+ temps. Awwhhh.

We drove nearly two hours to Royal Gorge to see the world's highest suspension bridge. We weren't aware that it would cost over 20 dollars an adult to cross it. An "amusement" park of sorts surrounds the bridge. Overall, we weren't too impressed and even resentful of the strategically-placed gift shops we had to traverse through. Still, the site was interesting. The bridge sits about 1500 feet over the Arkansas River. I never found out why it was necessary to build or what lies on the other side. It seemed to end at another gift shop.


I enjoyed spying on this group of Mennonite (I think) women as they watched someone they knew ride the Rip-cord over the Gorge. The plain people fascinate me. How they reconcile themselves to the larger culture; how they protect their own--this fascinates me. I can't help staring, looking for cracks in their resolve. Are those Nike sneakers they're wearing? Is it okay that they eat a Big Mac?

Once, in Las Vegas, I saw a gaggle of them following their bearded man-leader through the buffet at a casino. Were they here to gamble? See Sodom up close? Would they turn to salt? Was that a cell phone hooked to her elastic waistband? And once, while having my latte at Starbucks in Kansas City, I looked up to see two young plain women carrying pink bling-bling handbags fashioned with sequined initials. Little concessions, little cracks. I worry for them. I want them to stay quaint and untainted. But they are women, so it's only a matter of time before they go bad like the rest of us. The day I see one in Pucci print I'll know the end in near.

Can't beat McQueen for cool

Charming as the constant rainfall has been it has put a damper on our outdoor plans like taking the kids hiking, or to the Superslide in Breckenridge. We did get one hike up Lily Pad Trail before the rain moved in. Sara informed me that she and I will hike Buffalo Mountain this time. I hope we get to. She is all buff and in-shape these days and I pray I can keep up with her.

What else do you do when it rains but have a movie marathon? We removed the framed art prints from the condo living room wall and Luke and I set up my projector. We put the girls in the Airstream to watch a movie with less-adult content. Today, Allison recounted the movie for me. "My Big Fat Jew Wedding" she called it and I bit my lip. Jew, Greek, what's the difference to her? It was a heck of a funny movie. We adults struck out more than once with our picks. I want my wasted hours back! Well, actually, tonight we watched the latest ROCKY movie which I thought was so so sweet and tender, as much as possible for a movie with boxing in it. But the best movie of all was the 20 minutes or so Robert and I watched on the bar television at Briar Rose in Breckenridge of the marvelous Steve McQueen racing through the streets of San Francisco in Bullitt. Every flannel-clad patron at the bar was cheering for McQueen, the icon of 60's cool. Where are those stars today? Or those cars? Is that a cell phone in his bag?

While the kids were off with Sara and Ed, and while I dipped into a clothing store "just to look," Robert found a cozy spot at the westernized-Victorian style, Briar Rose, where the walls are painted blood red and accented with paintings of reclining naked ladies. The Briar Rose was a boarding house for silver miners back in the late 1800's. It still retains the flavor of those days even if now you can get a Heineken with your buffalo steak.

Load 'er up

We leave for Colorado Thursday. We'll pick up the Airstream and head up to Summit County for a week where we can get familiar with it in an area familiar to us. I've reserved a campsite on Lake Dillon. It has no hook-ups, but the few camps that do are either booked or closed due to work related to the pine beetle infestation (that's another story for another time.)

I'm having a difficult time sorting what to pack when it comes to clothes. We will be in several different climates and seasons over the next few months, so we need appropriate clothing for each. And we'll be enjoying many diverse activities from hiking and fishing to site-seeing though cities and visiting friends. God forbid, I allow us to look like dirty, crumpled yahoos when we finally get a night out at a nice restaurant in Vancouver or San Francisco. There are no dressers in the trailer, and only one small closet. We need to plan and pack wisely. This is probably, for me, the most stressful aspect of planning this trip, because, as everyone knows, I like my life to make sense. If it's cold I want a sweater; if it's colder I want a jacket. If I'm hiking I want my hiking shoes and my backpack--oh, and maybe a windbreaker. Oh, and then there's the shoe conundrum. Can hiking boots go with a black dress? Can I justify the cowboy boots if I only wear them with the jeans and not the tennis skirt? This logic only confounds me further as I imagine every scenario in which we may find ourselves and the necessary attire and gear that it calls for. Where to stow all this crap I don't know.

However, I seem to have no problem deciding what electronic, photographic, and communication equipment to take. All my toys get to come: two laptops and printer, two cameras with extra lenses and a tripod, a camcorder, two Ipods, a projector, cell phones, a data card, binoculars, and of course all the respective cables, wires and adapters, and software. Obnoxious, isn't it? But I cannot imagine this adventure without the materials and equipment I "need" to document it. We may need a trailer to pull behind the trailer for my techie gear.

I am making a sacrifice to weight limit by not bringing a lot of reading material. (Books are heavy.) I understand that by camping we will be "roughing it" (as much as you can in a new Airstream International CCD with audio package and queen bed.) And I'll keep the weight down by skimping on the kitchen stuff. Once, William-Sonoma was my toy store back when I thought I could buy my way into becoming a good cook. But I'm prepared now to eat on paper plates and cook with inferior-grade cookware. I've packed a whisk and a wooden spoon. The rest we'll buy as needed.

My heart will not be troubled. I will learn to adapt and appreciate--two things I am good at. This adventure is self-inflicted and I intend to enjoy every minute of it.

Witnessing the Moose Crossing

I was in Frisco today and struck up a conversation with a girl who turns out happens to live just a street below me in Wildernest. For some reason the subject of wildlife on the mountain came up and I shared with her that I have rarely seen much of it. She exclaimed that she sees moose almost every day on the same road that I travel. These three moose always barrel across Twenty Grand Road when she returns from work. They prefer to come out at dusk or in heavy snow she said. She told me a story about how a friend who was walking his dogs got chased by a moose all the way to a neighbor's door where he pounded on the door to be let in to safety. His dogs scattered. Then, unbelievably, the moose started butting at the door still in pursuit of the man.

It happened that it was late afternoon when Allie and I made our grocery run at the Frisco Safeway. We lingered there at the in-store Starbucks since I was in no rush to return home. I've been a little homebound these past few days--a combination of intense work editing my friend's video project and a major snow drop with furious winds that have caused a white-out. Drinking a chai tea latte while Allison dipped into a cup of whipped cream seemed pretty entertaining after my long days in the condo.

Anyway, as we heading for home up Buffalo Mountain Road and turned onto Twenty Grand, incredibly, we saw the three moose. They did just like my new friend said, they charged across the road in front of my car and down into the lower woods. We were astonished.
I did not take this photo.

Warning: Bright Sunshine Ahead

Besides its natural beauty, the best thing I like about the Colorado Rockies is its attitude. It's like a gentle giant. Maybe it's the sunshine, so much of it, almost all the time. You find yourself smiling a lot. Last week I was driving the Interstate down the mountains toward Denver, smiling, passing old mining towns with cute names like: Silver Plume, Downieville, Idaho Springs, when I came across an unusual (to me) message on a huge LED sign. The streaming text read:
Bright Sunshine Ahead.

I know it's a warning, but it gave me a chuckle. I couldn't snap a photo of it so here's an example of the type of sign I'm talking about. Usually it throws out an air of dead serious importance. Amber Alert. Nuclear Holocaust Ahead. Not, Don your sunglasses it's a little bright today. Another sign warns:
Truckers. Don't be fooled. Steep grade next 6 miles.
A little cheeky for DOT standards I think. It it makes you wonder about the seriousness of other signage. Like the one that reads:
Retract Your Sunroofs. Falling Rocks Ahead.
No, that's me joshing you.
But since the conformance to standards seems to be getting more casual by the day it should seem no surprise that whomever is programming these LED messages feels free to take a little creative license. The next image I found online is a joke...or maybe not. It's probably sited on a street corner in San Francisco.

Taken on the same day

It's been unseasonably warm the past few days. I think a record was set yesterday. I even opened up the windows to air out the house. This is how Buffalo Mountain looked in the early afternoon as I drove over Swan Mountain Road over Lake Dillon.




In the few minutes it took me to return from Dillon to pick up Allie at school the mountains became shrouded in clouds and by the time I pulled into the garage this is what it looked like.

Windows are now closed, gas fireplace full-on. We'll probably wake up to a foot of snow.

Good intentions

I'm normally not a bad cook, but something about the high altitude has done me in. The final straw--my attempt to bake a cake from scratch. All that trouble for this pathetic mess. At least the batter was delicious.

I have to get back in practice since I'm hosting Thanksgiving back home. We'll be returning to home for good. (Or at least Allison and I since Robert has hardly been here.) I'll be driving back two days before Thanksgiving so I'll have barely time to prepare.

I have been putting a lot of thought into my tablescape. I have an idea to suspend decorated aspen branches over the table in a kind of alpine theme. Today I set out to steal a few branches from somewhere inconspicuous. My first thought was the Gore Forest behind my condo, but I couldn't imagine hauling my harvest down the mountain, not to mention it is probably a criminal offense; and it certainly would have been super premeditated since I purchased the saw this morning after dropping Allie off at school. Then, as I was coming down Buffalo Mountain Drive, I noticed a pile of newly-cut trees on a house construction site. Who could object to my sawing off a few branches?

Aspen is by far the softest wood I have ever sawed into. And lightweight too. I hauled away four branches about six or seven feet long. Hopefully, I'll make it home with them and my little decorating dream will be realized. I've been known to think too big when it comes to projects. One summer trip here I had a carpenter friend construct forms to make concrete stepping stones. When we got here I gathered everyone to go down to Blue River to collect river stones. Then we went to the hardware store for concrete. Everyone laid out their stone mosaics on the driveway and waited as I hand-mixed the concrete in a five gallon bucket. I added water and stirred, added more water and stirred. This went on for over an hour as I never got the consistency right. Dusk approached and one by one everyone retreated to the house leaving me and my bucket until finally, I too, gave up. The next morning the bucket of concrete had solidified around my stirring stick turning my whole project into a giant concrete Popsicle.


Besides the cake, my day wasn't a waste. I took a long walk, a pilgrimage really, through Keystone to the playground on the Snake River, a place we have taken our boys through the years. I had someone's birthday to remember. That little someone sat on this very slide so many years ago.

Wonder

I am convinced the worst way to wake up is when you are in the middle of a dream in which you are either being humiliated, caught, or revealed for your true faulted and failing character before you have time in the dream to defend or redeem yourself. The ugly dread follows you out of bed to the kitchen where you hope the ritual of brewing coffee will dissolve the dark aura. But it hangs with you in the shower where you recite the stupid things you've said to someone when you were thirteen or thirty. It shines florescent in the mirror reflecting back a defective form, one that is all your fault. If only I were different, better, braver.
Oh well. You get dressed. You tie your shoes.

It was on this bleak current that I left the house to take my daughter to school. Then I went on a long walk to shake off the rotten mantra of I'm-such-a-loser. Long walks are my salvation. I am not alone in this sentiment. I read somewhere that walking in natural surroundings is healing because it connects us with nature. And more, the rhythms of the brain respond to the limbs in motion as a form of mobile meditation. Serious walkers, those of us who walk for our psychological survival, know this. The magic occurs as the negative mantra falls mute to the stimulus of the outdoors--to God's creation.

But today I was hardened and troubled and inattentive. The walk was just an exercise in discipline. And it made me feel more alone--until I went to school; Allison's school, to read with the second graders on my Thursday. I walked the long hall wearing my good-mother smile when I beheld the new exhibit on the bulletin board outside her classroom. Poems framed in colored paper. Little expressions from little people praising dogs and sunshine and playing and friends written with the exquisite simplicity of second graders living in a time when you pretty much love yourself and everybody unconditionally. A time when the meaning of life is bound up with interpersonal relationships. Maybe that's my problem--I'm too voluntarily isolated. Failure to integrate.

Then I found my own daughter's composition. At first I thought, Oh no, she's a philosopher. Oh doom. But as I stared at her words, her little crayon landscape, I was softened with pride and protectiveness. How does a little person know so much? And if she is part of me, part of the continuance of my essence, how do I negate her predisposition to this soulful view of life, of our world? My responsibility to her is to embrace her proclivity for soulfulness and forgive myself for belittling mine.






WONDER
by Allison ______

I sleep beneath the clouds
I wonder beneath the stars
I am at peace
I think to myself what a wonderful world I could be in today

Trick-or-Treat Rocky Mountain Style

A big snow storm in the middle of the week dropped enough snow to cause school closings for the first time in five years. We had a four day weekend as a result. Today it was sunny and warm with highs near 50 degrees. While Allison was in Sunday School I took a walk around Frisco and saw people everywhere out enjoying the weather: A bike rider in shorts, people strolling Frisco's main street, people sunning on their porches. The oddest sight was a shirtless fellow in dred-locks videotaping himself petting his hairless cat on his front porch. (I tried not to stare.)

Good thing the weather was mild because tonight was the night Silverthorne celebrates Halloween by trick-or-treating the outlet stores. It's a tradition that evolved here and is nothing like the Halloween I remember growing up in the suburbs where we took a pillowcase, joined up with other neighborhood kids and disappeared into the night. Of course, here, they have the snow and cold and terrain to contend with and since less than 4000 people live in Silverthorne and something like 60% of the homes are frequently vacant vacation homes, the outlet stores make a safe setting.

I don't believe there is a retail development in a more beautiful setting than this. We meander on paths along the Blue River with mountains in every direction. We cross wooden bridges lit with white twinkle lights over the babbling river to collect candy from all the storekeepers. Then everyone meets up at the community Pavilion for hot chocolate and a performance from the community symphony dressed in ghoulie garb. All too charming.

The fox out-foxed

This red fox had a no luck digging out lunch, but we felt we'd hit the jackpot just being ringside to the show.

Icicles

A super sunny day melts the icicles away.

Stories

Now I know why we haven't seen a bear since we've been here: We aren't leaving our garage door open at night. I learned from the second graders during reading time today (I volunteer on Thursdays) that the best hope for seeing a bear is to leave your trash cans accessible because that's what brings the illusive bear to the open. You learn a lot from second graders, sometimes more than you need.

Once when we were living at my aunt's house because we didn't have anywhere to live because my parents were getting divorced, a bear got into the trash...

I told them we saw a fox this morning on our way to school. He was trying to snatch some little creature out of a hole in the snow.

I saw a fox once at my mom's boyfriend's house...

Let's just get back to the book, shall we?, I say.

School chums

I'm posting this photo of Allison with her school friends. They remind me of little Southpark kids with their winter woolies.

Moose alert

It may be a challenge to hike Lily Pad Trail today as it's snowing and 22 degrees this morning. Yesterday we woke up to snow that melted completely away by 2:00 p.m. followed by bright sunshine for about two hours before another snowstorm came through this time dropping big wet flakes that melted on contact with the ground. So this morning the wet ground had turned to ice making travel down the mountain a little slippery. I think autumn has passed and we are into winter.

Wait...I just saw three moose outside my window in the meadow below. I tried to get a few snapshots before they wandered away. There is a watering hole down there and occasionally you will see moose, or is it meece? These big creatures were nibbling from the tops of whatever shrubs are in the meadow. Now they've lumbered off back into the woods.

I wish sometimes that instead of experiencing wilderness through the comfortable home base of our condo we could instead be living more intimately with the natural world. It is almost embarrassing to make statements like, "We saw a red fox in the parking lot of the outlet mall in Silverthorne." How I wish I could get closer, not only to observe these creatures, but to feel them, their presence. I think that is why I like hiking. It is the closest I come to being part of the natural world. But again, I feel mildly frustrated and disappointed for being on a touristy trail that animals have long since avoided. I guess I'm taking baby steps, getting familiar with my surroundings until I feel confident to cut a wider swath.

All of us can envy the individuals who opt out of the rat race to live authentic lives in nature. It's just difficult to be a Thoreau when you have others depending on you. And even the naturalist writer, David Peterson, who for over 25 years has lived an almost monastic life in an isolated cabin in Colorado, admits to worrying about finances as he grows older and less physically capable. Maybe he wishes he'd earned a little money before he thumbed his nose at society. He may need health care and expensive meds in the years to come.

The key is balance. Maybe this temporary mountain vacation retreat away from my "real life" is as close as someone like me can get to living what Thoreau called a "border life," living as an intelligent balance as possible between the material and spiritual, nature and culture. From the comfort of my condo window I watch wildlife and imagine the world in the pines. Only on my hikes do I feel less a spectator and more a participant. Every time I walk my trail I grow more familiar with the landmarks. I meander through the boulder field, cross over two log bridges, pass the first beaver pond, ascend the flat ridge before the second lake, pass the resting spot where the Steller Jays have learned to scout for picnickers' crumbs, and when I see the crooked pine that Allison says looks like a chair in the middle of the path I grin because I feel we know each other now that I've named it.

I can only snatch little dreamlike insights into that world. What would it feel like to build your own home with your own hands with materials you scrounged from the woods? What would it feel like to retreat from the world and make a life among what in some ways is the true world? Like David Peterson, I inherently believe that the natural world is the only valid place for spirituality. But creature of the modern world that I am, I don't know if I could give up enough of the comforts of my world to be true to my true self.

I'll always romanticize the idea of living on the edge of civilization. Why some of us are drawn to the idea I could hypothesize endlessly. Why for some children do books like, My Side of the Mountain, and Gary Paulson's, Hachet make deep lasting impressions? For years after reading My Side of the Mountain, I dreamed about finding a hollowed out tree for which to hide out. Of course I would collect and make things to adorn my hideaway because I am a nester and decorator at heart. I'd have calico curtains, and a feather bed and carved pine table and soon I'd be venturing back to society to collect little improvements for my den and eventually I'd ruin the whole purpose of my retreat. Such is the allure of material things to a modern woman like me.

Getting to know you

America today reached the 300 mark. The 300 million mark in population, that is. Okay, that's plenty. Let's now try to concentrate on keeping what resources we have plentiful for the lucky ones that are here. That bias revealed, I return to my observations on the subject of what being an American means.

Having lived in the homogeneous white American suburbs all my life it's no surprise I am fascinated when I encounter people speaking other languages. Truthfully, I am often uneasy. Most commonly it is Spanish, but here in the ski resort community of Summit County you are likely to hear languages you can't recognize. At the supermarket there are many employees of North Africa who speak Pulaar. They are very dark-skinned and I guessed, in my ignorance, that they were Nigerian. I have since learned they are North Africans who fled their country of Mauritania due to political unrest. There are probably 100 or so here. Although they are Muslim, they are in conflict with the Arabs who for centuries have been pushing the indigenous black Africans out of their homeland--just like every other conflict in the history of man. They have found refuge in Silverthorne working in the service industry alongside the Hispanics.

A couple of years ago, in post 9/11 heightened attention to foreign-born Muslims, authorities raided the Africans' newly-formed mosque looking for two specific illegals. Three individuals were detained. The others were here legally, having been granted political asylum. Some complained to the press of being treated harshly and suspected that their humble mosque (in a rented apartment) provoked the investigation. One one hand, America is trying to take proactive measures against security threats; one the other, innocent individuals get harassed. And although I am sorry for anyone's "harassment," I do believe we have a right to be proactive about security. Foreigners need not get outraged at this. Too bad. Consider any inconvenience or misunderstanding as a right of initiation and be happy to help us root out the bad guys.

I believe the Mauritanian refugees of the City Market are decent people. The gentle Africans who scan and bag my groceries are working hard to make lives of security and peace in America. Seeing them every other day as I pick up milk or bread, I grow more familiar with them. They smile at me and Allison, speak English to us wishing us a good day. At the laundromat where I go to wash an oversized comforter I say hello to two friendly gentlemen busy sorting their laundry. One comments on the snow and I think, Oh, Russian. But I could be wrong. He could be Ukrainian, or Lithuanian, or from Belarus. A mother watching her two small children while folding flannel pajamas and blankets must be Mexican as well as the dark-haired guy washing his work clothes. We are all just people attending to common tasks. Whether we are eating a sandwich next door at the Blue Moon Bakery, or pumping gas, or picking our kids up from school--we're just people. It is really about becoming more familiar. The more we see and understand of each other the less apprehension we have towards one another.

I am sure the refugees from Mauritania are not plotting to overthrow Silverthorne. I'm fairly certain the Mexicans making the beds at the resort hotels aren't trying to bilk the government, and I think the Ukrainian clerks at the gift stores in Breckenridge are here only for the skiing. We all know we have a good thing here in America. Granted, in some places there are pockets of ill-meaning folks like the La Raza groups who want to "reconquer" America for Mexico and we do have a serious illegal immigration issue, but for the most part the immigrants I see are working hard at their jobs adapting well to the American way. They give themselves away by their native languages, but in most other ways they fit in. Nobody here is out waving the flags of their homeland. The only flag-waving I see is that of the Stars and Stripes. New town banners just went up on the major roads through Dillon sporting the single image of the American flag. And the ever faithful Brother Nathaniel, a Jew for Jesus who daily from the intersection of Highway 9 and Wildernest Road blesses the traffic with a crucifix in one hand, occasionally includes a giant American flag in the other. So from my perspective, at least from this little county, it appears that everyone is busy being or becoming an American.

What's the answer?

Once a week, on Thursdays, I volunteer to help with Allison's second grade class. The teacher sends them out in groups for with their chapter books and I listen to them read. What's interesting is to hear the Hispanic children navigate the English. It is obvious from their pronunciation that some learned to read in Spanish first. How difficult it must be to have to think in two languages. But I don't feel sorry for them, I recognize the advantage they have--to be bilingual and to have it be encouraged. There is no longer the stigma to being a second language learner, at least not at Silverthorne Elementary where half the students are Hispanic.

Every notice from the school that comes home is printed in English and Spanish. There is also a Spanish translator at the school to deal with the Hispanic parents. All this is especially interesting to me after spending our time in Mexico with a first grader in Mexican school. We were so lost. There was absolutely no help for her, but we didn't expect any either. Allison really had to integrate break-speed. What I came away with was the experience of being an outsider, a foreigner.

I haven't formed an opinion about any of this. I'm just studying it and wondering which way is best to promote assimilation into American culture. On one hand I think it is kind to make things easier for the Hispanic schoolchildren. Their self esteem and comfort is put foremost. One the other, it takes a lot of money and resources to accommodate them. What I am wondering is if this consideration best serves the nation as a whole, because it doesn't stop with elementary school, it seems to be continuing into common culture. Everywhere there are signs of Spanish taking a front seat next to English. I'm not the first to pay attention to this development, but just a witness to the process of early accommodation in primary grades. But how could we do otherwise? When you have half the student body whose first language is Spanish, how do you ignore their needs?