Today
– a postcard from the heartland. Year before last, we bit the
bullet and built a cabin on the western slope of the Rocky
Mountains in Colorado. Traveling here often, we’ve discovered a
whole new lifestyle. I think the term is
”
culture shock.
”
Today – a postcard from the heartland.
Year before last, we bit the bullet and built a cabin on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. Traveling here often, we’ve discovered a whole new lifestyle. I think the term is “culture shock.”
Typically, it takes a couple of days for us to unwind and slow down from the warp speed of our California existence. We whine for a day or two about the unhurried drivers meandering along the highway and the service people who promise to show up “sometime Wednesday or Thursday or maybe Friday unless it snows.”
However, we quickly learn that a slower way of life is not half bad.
Within 48 hours or so, my spouse and I find ourselves lingering at the window contemplating the snow, the pine trees, and maybe even a moose or two.
Situated in the northwestern part of the state, we’re a mere hop-skip-and-jump from the headwaters of the Colorado River. Up here, tall lodgepole pine stands shoulder-to-shoulder with graceful aspens. It’s peaceful, quiet, and REALLY DARK at night.
People who inhabit this small town are a hardy lot. At 8500 feet, the winters are severe and summers short. Guys like their plaid wool shirts, guns and trucks. Women keep to the basics; if they wear makeup at all, they confine it to a quick swipe of lip color. And everyone seems to own at least one large dog that travels all over with its owner.
In the village, mammoth furry canines snooze on their sides at the entrance to quaint little shops. We’ve learned to just take a big step over them, and they barely stir.
Now and then one of these large beasts will wander over and lean against your leg (and you’d better be balanced against a sturdy counter) or butt their large heads against your arm, looking for a little rubbing behind the ears.
Not surprisingly, the King’s English is a little different up here. You know when you’re talking to a long-time local. Shoot the breeze with a man on the street or have a chat with a fellow at a cafe and it’s immediately obvious that this is no recent transplant to the mountains.
Before responding to a question, he’ll pull off his John Deer cap and give his head a good scratching, presumably to kick-start the blood flow to his brain cells. Yanking the cap back down on his head, he’ll rub his chin and declare, “Welllllll….”
A lengthy discourse then ensues about which shed their antlers first each year, a deer or a moose, or the best part of the river to land a rainbow trout. Chances are this chat will be peppered with a few declarations of, “and that’s all there is to it,” just for emphasis.
All this feels right to me somehow – probably because I grew up nearby, and after four decades, still inadvertently refer to this state as “home.” Whenever I visit, I soon pick up the dialect and everything I do is dialed down a few notches.
Everyone, I think, has a place we call “home,” even if it’s somewhere we’ve never lived before. My friend Susan feels an attachment to Lake Tahoe because as a child she shared happy times there with her family. My mother felt affection for the deserts of Phoenix and Tucson. “Where” doesn’t seem to matter; getting there whenever we’re able…does.
The middle states are often referred to as “fly-over” country. While it’s true that the leading edges of culture and technology originate on the coasts, don’t overlook an opportunity to spend a bit of time in a quieter corner of America. Nature is bountiful and pristine, and relaxation is an art form. As the locals might say,
“This land is awful purty.”
And that’s all there is to it.
Gale Hammond is a 22-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
