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To be on time out of Denver – now that would have been an event. Weather delays are the norm when connecting through DIA. The weather is still making up its mind about what it wants to do when it comes sweeping down the plains. It has enjoyed its time in the mountains and seems angry about having to head to the Midwest – not unlike many of our tourists as their vacations wind down. The nice thing about coming home from vacation is that I’m returning to a vacation hotspot. As always, I will rub that bit of topographical cachet all over the faces of my classmates throughout the weekend. Those who’ve made the choice to live out their days in humidity, heat, gnats, chiggers, wicked winters, and to pay confiscatory taxes on top of it, deserve a bit of the Rocky Mountain happy dance.
Two topics always come up from Non-Coloradoans: 1. Do you ski? And, 2. Does everyone out there smoke weed? I mentioned a couple of days ago that most of my former classmates are now well along in the Christian faith. I assume the second question is innocent, morbid curiosity and not a hope that I had managed to bring along a few samples.
As to the first question: “Not so much anymore. I used to. It’s pricey. I’m no longer nimble enough to avoid the Texans hoo-rahing out of control in their Spandex ski suits with Bud on their breath.” (That last bit is a true story. My daughter was smashed by one such a few years back and suffered compound fractures in the radius and ulna of her right arm). As to the second question: “No. Not everyone.” (Note: I just noticed that the answer I gave to the first question would work for some of my friends as an answer to the second question. Read back through it. It’s kinda funny).
So, after a 4 hour drive we arrived in my hometown. I drove by the old homestead on 20th Street. Farmer Milton’s house from 19th is no longer there, nor the garden where he shot my dog, Wig, nor the giant cornfield where we once made mischief. As we cruised down 20th I was trying hard to remember the names of all my neighbors and which houses they had lived in. I mentioned to Jan that there used to be a little shack just a few doors down from us that was known as Bob’s Bait Shop. I will tell more of that story tomorrow. I had no hope that it still stood these many years later. It was old and somewhat run-down 50 years ago. But, hidden behind one of those pop-up, temporary car garage/tents, I could just make out the words: “Fishing Bait.” I smiled, got out of the car and went and knocked on the door…
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