Thanks Be to Boulder & Autumn Updates

11-29-05

Eat Turkey, Be Happy.

* * *

The first Thanksgiving – celebrated by the English Separatists, Dutch tag alongs, and indigenous hosts – lasted the whole of three days. America, in all her savage pomp, had quelled any pervious attempts at celebration, claiming in her fervor 46 of the 102 colonists in the first two years of settlement. To the delight of tired minds and shrunken stomachs, the harvest of 1621 was a particularly bountiful one, worthy of uncorked spirits, spontaneous smiles, and all manner of whimsical support. With four men sent fouling, and native crops to spare, with victuals a plenty and conversation to speak, all grief was undone as everyone united in the social accord of a damn fine party.

While the series of events preceding my holiday were in no way as calamitous, I too can regard my Thanksgiving as a bountiful success. Set hundreds of miles West of Plymouth Rock, and hundreds of years in the future, my stage was set on the Eastern fringe of the Colorado Rockies, in Boulder, CO.

As a valley steeped in natural marvel, engineered to enchant and entrance the mind, it is no wonder that many have called Boulder home. Among others, the Arapaho, Utes, Cheyennes, and Commanche have swept across its broken floor, along with gold seeking westerners of the industrial centuries. Now a jutting Denver island, comprising 25.37 square miles, Boulder is home to all manner of human diversity, ranging from the conservative cash bound college crop, to the free spirited transcendental activist. A haven for the avant-garde, the bohemian, and for Eastern meditative practitioners, Boulder sings a full spectrum of political blues despite the rightwing policies of the state. A sundry vortex of lifestyles, the town breathes tasteful complexity, and I found great delight in making it my Thanksgiving home.

A couple of years ago, my brother decided to forsake his Michigan roots and move out West, where the horizon has greater boundary, and where the scenery has far greater pull on the heartstrings. Born a natural scientist, a botanist, a ruff edged mountain man with a love for classic rock, there was no better place for him. As always, it was quite enjoyable to visit his haven—to enjoy not only his town but also our shared familial peculiarities. Our time, divided between holiday obligations, family catch up, and running around, was definitely well spent.

Rolling efficiently along in my parents Volkswagen Jetta, we arrived in Boulder around 10:00p.m. on Monday, after a cramped muscle straining 11 hour trip. Colorado Springs, Denver, and Boulder are steadily becoming a fused metropolitan strip, rimming the edge of the mountains like a string of Christmas lights. The guild and shimmer of this line becomes most apparent after dusk, highlighting a suburban sprawl that boorishly illuminates the way. The only view lost in this conversion is the sweeping expanse of the Milky Way, now a faded tintype amidst the chilled autumn sky.

My brother’s place is a four-bedroom renters house in a rather posh mountain community, set on the first range of hills above Boulder. It was here that I fed myself with some much-needed socialization. I slept on the living room couch, and was blessed every morning to see the golden eastern sunlight stretch over the rock pinnacles outside the window. Thanksgiving day was unveiled in this setting. Various tables were laid out across the kitchen and living room; a multitude of high-class delicacies decorated the countertop. Roommates, and roommates of roommates, and friends of roommates all came to enjoy the festivities. I sampled a large glass of mead, a favored drink of mine brewed with honey in the Beowulf Old Norse tradition. To compliment my brimming glass, I consumed overzealous portions of turkey leg, bacon infused stuffing, Pillsbury extra flaky biscuits, bean casserole, and last but not least pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, and cherry cheesecake pie. Happy to relive the copious habits of 1621, I felt stuffed. Rather plump but rather good.

These holiday excesses also worked into the nightlife enjoyed both before and after Thanksgiving. With a couple of my brother’s old high school friends in tow, we hit the basement bars of Pearl Street, which is a long corridor of specialty shops and restaurants downtown. A consummate Red Bull and vodka drinker, I took my decadent liquids in stride, playing my hand at a couple rounds of darts at the first bar. After claiming the win with a double bull’s-eye finish, and pouncing around the bar like it was the greatest moment of my life, we headed back out to Pearl to find yet another round of good times. Our next destination, a jumpin’ Salsa bar with a live band, proved to be a rather enlightening experience. Unlike Club, Salsa is actually a dance—a true series of precise movements that must be learned and practiced. Even with a natural rhythm, and a Latin heart of fire, you can’t fake Salsa (although we definitely tried!). I left the place, gooey with sweat, determined to learn some of those hot pepper swing moves in the future.

Other daylight and after dark excursions proved equally fun. My brother and I reminisced about the “good ol’ days” (which to us young people translates to the 1980’s), discussing influential movies such as RAD, and Little Barber Shop of Horrors. We played a couple rounds of disc golf, did some trials bike riding around campus (blowing out a second bike tire and a sprocket), and when pressed with boredom we entertained passerbies with some urban walking (don’t ask). The highpoint of our delinquency came about on Tuesday, when we decided to free climb one of the Iron Flats—a series of sheer rock cliffs rimming the southwest end of Boulder. Most (insert intelligence adjective here) people use ropes and hard rubber climbing shoes to do this. We used tennis shoes, focused handholds, and a firm belief that we were not going to die. Considering that I’m sitting here writing this, I happy to say that all went well.

The rest of the week was similarly first-rate. I did some Christmas shopping, some music trading. I ate more, slept less. I enjoyed the benefits of singlehood by flirting to the extreme. And, to the betterment of my Oklahoma solitude, I hung out with people my own age (sigh, words cannot describe the joy).

Everything worked out just as it should have. My bellies full, my senses filled, and I return, despite the craziness, much more relaxed.

Good times. Good times.

* * *

Autumn turns, colors burn, the season brings its change. Crispy yellow leaves, disembodied from the trees that line our creek bed expose new perennial skeletons. The full blooms of spring and summer, once commanding a greener time, have given way to empty November space. Our views – now twice cast – take in far more distant corners of the Black Rocks property. And with skin now covered, as leaves and temperatures fall, all seems as it should be.

The past few weeks have been busy as ever, with swells of activity hitting me from all sides. The museum is bleeding my volunteer juices dry, sending me off to distant middle schools to lecture on Archaeology, Native American history, and to introduce an art contest project of my working. Having now been featured in the local newspaper a couple of times, I have begun to garner public support and a miniscule score of small town celebrity. This work has been wholly gratifying, and I continue to enjoy the validation of my coworkers and the professional image that it entails.

On the home front I have been busy with various construction projects, bread mix production at the Spring Hill Bakery, and editorial work for a cultural anthropologist.

Commissioned to aid in the development of a book on indigenous Amazonian women, this last endeavor has threatened to short-circuit my humble neural capacitor. Nonetheless, I remain a charged patriot of the cause, reminding myself that such work is only going to make me smarter. The only true negative side effect - of my bemused candle light review - is a diminishment of my creative forces. Kinetic energy bedamned, my journal writing has been put on the back burner, and I doubt I’ll be able to get much penned out by the end of the year.

Look to a holiday update, perhaps, and maybe some writing on Brazil.

Until then…

(Boulder sunfire. Morning view from my brothers place.)

(street walkin')

(Thanksgiving tables)