A Broken Life

When she died, she was alone in the ICU,  in a city she didn't live in. There was no funeral. She was cremated and her ashes were disposed of by the crematorium. No obituary was written. Friends were not contacted because there were none remaining other than the virtual faceless people on the chat rooms she frequented. There was no will, no house or apartment to sort through, just a few boxes of things-a laptop and an electric 3 wheeled tricycle that was still in a shipping crate, left at my sister's house in New Jersey.

Who was this woman and how did she end up in this situation? After all, she bore 8 children, 7 who were still alive at the time of her passing.

She was my mother. I was reminded of her just past week why my older sister sent me an e-mail in which she said, " I finally figured out a plan for Mom's bike. I'm donating it to the Trenton Rescue Mission, an organization that helps homeless people. I think Mom would be pleased especially since she was an advocate of programs for homeless people. If you recall, she spent a night in a D.C. jail in the late 80's or early 90's after laying down in the rotunda of our nation's capital to support services for homeless people. Just seems like the right thing to do."

I do recall that she spent a night in a D.C. jail. And I recall when she used to read to me as a little boy. I recall when she used to make us oatmeal on cold winter mornings and when she'd talk with me about politics, civil rights and the women's movement. And I recall when it all began to change.

My parents were typical of the post WWII generation of young couples, full of hope and optimism. It wasn't long after they married that they had their first child in August of 1950. I followed my sister, Shelley 15 months later.  Then came another, and another, and another and by April 1962, there 5 boys and 3 girls. Our house was crowded and noisy, but  full of adventure and wonderment at the same time. Mom worked part-time off and on in the 50's and shortly after we moved from a county seat town in Iowa to Des Moines in 1960, she began working full-time. By the mid-60's my father and mother were both working the evening shift at the newspaper- Dad as a Linotype operator, Mom as a proofreader. There was a steady stream of babysitters who attempted to care for us on the nights they both worked. We ran most of them off. There was Mrs. Hotchkiss, who made us watch Lawrence Welk and tried to read the bible to us. And Mrs. Robinson, a kind black woman who rode the bus to our street only to have Chang, the next door neighbor's pug, bark and growl at her as she walked by. Mom was horrified that this "racist pug , who never got off it's ass for anything", would embarrass her like that. It wasn't old Chang  that ran Mrs. Robinson off, it was all of us incorrigible Kingkade kids.

 The  older children took care of the younger children and we all did our share of household chores. Mom tried to organize by coming up with elaborate written plans and schedules. That never lasted very long.  We would barter and bargain away all our assignments to a point where nobody knew what anybody else was supposed to be doing . Frustrated, she would eventually tire of the effort and give in. The house was always a mess and there were heaps of undone laundry in the basement and the linoleum floors where sticky and caked with dropped food. There were days when Mom would check out and sleep half the day or retreat to her bedroom to read, leaving the rest of the us to run amok. And run amok we did. Who could blame her, I remember thinking, at the time.

1956

There were also the times when she would read to us...the Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland, the Christmas Carol. Saturdays meant a trip to Bookmobile or even better, the downtown library. When Mom wasn't chasing and tending to children, she had her nose in a book. The oldest of us took piano lessons, had our pictures taken and got to do many of the things that first born males and females got to do. Our birthdays were celebrated and holidays were always a big deal.  Education was encouraged and supported. Looking back, I know now that what I experienced as a young child and what my younger siblings experienced in the years to come were not the same. Things were slowly changing and not always for the better.

A  Sunday in 1965, after Mass

Dad was a Catholic and insisted on us attending Mass every Sunday. Because he worked the late shift at the newspaper, he slept in Sunday morning which meant we attended the 12 noon high mass. A typical Sunday had the kids getting up early and watching whatever was on TV while our parents slept. We made our own breakfast, went outside to play, got dirty and started commotion that woke them up and made them really cranky. Dad would try to round everybody up to get to church at noon, Mom would grumble and stay home. We'd arrive late and all 8 or 9 of us would pile into the last available pew, usually at the front of the church. Some Sundays, Dad's parents, who lived in Ames, would drop in unannounced about the time we were returning from church. This irritated Mom and she would let dad know how she felt in no uncertain terms after his parents headed home. 

Things really started to change when she and Dad both started working days and would stop off at the T & T Lounge downtown to have cocktails and dinner before heading home. There were nights when everyone at home had to fend for themselves. Times were changing, there was social unrest in the air. Mom started back to school to finish her degree. She declared that she was a "women's libber" (her words). She and my Dad fought more and the house became more chaotic. We were all growing up and pushing the limits, me included. My Dad and I banged heads. Mom and Shelley, my older sister, did the same. Mom and Dad would have pretty intense battles and we would hide in the basement or escape out into the neighborhood. When the battles wound down, everyone just simply resumed their role in the drama, as if it had never occurred. The rules around the house that I was raised on as a young boy were no longer the same.

1970

And yet, I admired and respected her for her intellect, her passion and her activist energy. She openly wept when Martin Luther King was shot, woke me up to talk when the news of Bobby Kennedy's assassination broke. She encouraged me to get involved in youth politics and I ended up working in several political campaigns as a teenager. When I was drafted in the fall of 1971 just as I was heading off to music school, mom was my biggest advocate in helping me find a way around that dilemma. We rarely got into skirmishes and more often than not, I felt she was my advocate.

In 1970, mom wrote a Christmas letter, the kind you put in your Christmas cards. It describes what she, my dad and all of the 8 children are doing. She closes it by saying, "Don and I had our 20 year anniversary this year. I told him we ought to go out and celebrate it. He responded that we at least ought to have a drink."  

The next several years are a little murky as I was immersed in college life and living off-campus. Every now and then I would stop by the house on a week night to check my mail or do a load of laundry. What I would discover unsettled me-a house left unattended, my younger siblings running wild in the neighborhood, no signs of adult supervision. Sometimes, mom and dad were still downtown at the tavern and other times they were secluded upstairs in their dormer bedroom, having cocktails, oblivious to the world downstairs.  

In the fall of 1973, mom was featured in the local paper in an article about 5 women who cab-pooled to work . It's a charming article and paints a picture of a big family with 3 cars and competing transportation needs resulting in her need to cab-pool.

The article closes by talking about the cab driver's thoughts on the women in his taxi:

Pat's cab is empty now of fares and he speaks of the women in an affectionate, paternal fashion. "Nice gals," he says. "Now, Rita's a women's libber, but we have a good time."

I remember being amused by his comments at the time. But underneath the story of a modern working woman with a husband and 8 children was a woman who was growing more restless and unhappy by the day.

With Mom immersed in work and her activist pursuits, and Dad, now working full-time for the printer's union and knee deep in labor issues, the house on 35th was a different place than I had left it. It was becoming  more unpredictable and chaotic. Trouble was brewing- I could sense it every time I walked in the front door. It became easier to stay away and my casual drop-ins became less frequent. 

In 1974, during my junior year in college, I ran into Mom in an aisle at the local grocery store one night.   "Oh by the way, your father and I are getting are separating. He's moving into the Commodore Hotel. I just can't deal with it anymore".  I didn't know what to think but I'm sure somewhere deep inside, I was afraid. 

Things would never be the same again.  This family, born out of the optimism that defined the early 1950's, was about to implode.

Dan's-Life Savings Time

Did you set your clocks back an hour on Saturday night? Or did you start to make the rounds through the house only to get thrown into a funk when you came to the coffee maker and couldn't remember how the damned thing worked?  "Screw it",  I said. I'll just do the math in my head every time I see a clock that isn't set right. Nah, that gets old, better get the manual out. Damn, where's the manual?

It didn't really go that way at our house. I don't remember changing any clocks, but somebody did, including the coffee maker. I just had to change the clock in my car. Yeah, I know, I got off easy.

This whole Daylight Savings Time ritual we go through twice a year is kind of a joke if you think about it. Time is time- you can't really save it. You can only spend it. And you only get so much time  in your life, so even if you somehow manage to save it, you can only spend it as it occurs--minute by minute.

But what if there was such a thing as personal time-savings accounts where you could save time now then use it later when you want to. Mine would be called Dan's-life Savings Time.  Kind of like a  401k for time.You get to save time by avoiding activities or behaviors that are a waste of your time early in your life (when you think you have all the time in the world) and use it later in your life (when time is running out). Here's how it would work:

Let's say I got invited to a party in college that I didn't think would be much fun so I decide not to go. Instead, I just sat home and did nothing. Later,  I heard from people who attended that the party was a bust. The party lasted 4 hours so I got to put 4 hours in my savings bank. After earning  interest, I now have 344 hours that I can use at the age 61, to do something I really want to do.

Here's another scenario: Instead of spending hours worrying if I would pass an important test, or if my sick friend would pull through their surgery (" it's just an open-heart, they're a dime a dozen these days"), I'd spend my time doing nothing else like staring at the ceiling  or cracking my knuckles. Again, time saved equals time to be spent later.

I think I'm on to something.

Too bad I didn't think about this sooner though. After all, it's 2013, not 1974. I'm 61, not 21. My work career is winding down not ramping up. My body is like a high-mileage car..it runs good, but could be expensive to repair.

And come to think of it, I've never been one to sit around and do nothing. Even when I wasn't sure what to do, I did something. And I'd like to think that while I can't go back and re-allocate time, I can certainly make better use of the time I have left.

Like setting the clocks back an hour in the fall and forward in the spring.

"Honey, where's the manual for that damn coffee maker?"

Boo Humbug

Is there such a thing as a Halloween Scrooge? If there is, then I'm it. 

You see, I'm not a big fan of Halloween. It's a holiday I think we could do without. And it isn't really a season like the Christmas season, it's just a day. So it would be easy to dispose of.

As a child, Halloween was sort of a mixed bag. I could never quite get the right costume and usually ended up going as a hobo, wearing old worn out clothes and putting charcoal on my face. None of us 8 Kingkade kids ever got those cool, trendy masks or costumes. 

I also heard that some kids got  "jumped by some hoods" and had their candy stolen or that someone found a needle or a razor blade in their candy. Maybe this was just urban legend but it made me leery of a holiday where those kinds of things occurred. You never heard of people putting something in someone's fruit cake, did you?

And then there was Halloween in small-town Iowa. As a first year teacher, I was warned by the locals that if I left my car outside in the driveway on Halloween, it would get vandalized. It seems that in small towns, Halloween was a license for destroying or stealing anything that wasn't locked up or tied down.  "Har, had, har, why back a few years ago, them kids took a goat and put it up on top of the elementary school, har, har, har." Main Street was blocked with a pile of park benches, signs, trash cans, and anything else you could get your hands on the next morning. A parent of a student offered up their spare garage for my car, but other teachers weren't as fortunate.

Not raising children may have also contributed to my Hallo-Scrooge-ism. There was a pretty big gap in the time when I last trick-or-treated to when I started to participate again. Like about 45 years. Last Saturday, we tagged along with our grandkids and their parents to a Halloween event at a wonderful children's farm in Kansas City. The girls are 4 and 19 months old and boy were they cute all dressed up in their costumes. My hardened pumpkin heart started to soften a bit.

Then today at work, some of the children from our new residential treatment center came around dressed in their costumes to trick-or-treat in my part of the building. These are children who have not had a great life yet. They are here because life has dealt them a heavy hand, but there is hope they will get better because our people here do great work.

As I was reaching into my stash of Kit-Kats, Mounds Bars and other goodies, I met a princess, Green Lantern, a Goth Witch, Batman, a soldier and a Geisha. They all told me who they were, thanked me for the treats and then down the hall they went. I was smiling.

What's the lesson here, Dan, I ask myself. Maybe Halloween isn't so bad after all. Maybe you could change your mind about it. Maybe, just maybe, you could come to embrace it.  

Let's not get carried away. I need a little time to think about this. Although I have to admit, I've had a couple of really good Hallo-moments this year so maybe there is hope for me yet.

Word of the Day--Change

Change-the summer of 1967 and I was involved in trying to change my community for the better. My parents were both activists of sorts and encouraged getting involved. And while it was somewhat idealistic and youthful in it's expression, I still have the desire to create positive change where I can. The other picture is a young man I mentor at a local high school near me where I'm involved in a youth mentoring program. It was taken last June at the Strategic Air Command (SAC) museum outside of Omaha before we said so long for the summer. I see him every Friday morning for an hour. The goal: be an encourager and create positive change. I'm supposed to change him-I think it's been the other way around.

My Teammate, Brady and I in June

Old Timer

October is a weird month for me as months go. 23 years ago I had just run my second marathon in 6 months up in the Twin Cities. I ran my first marathon in April. I was reaching the end of my drinking life and the marathons, when I look back on them, were an attempt to prove that I could control things such as how much and when I drank. I had this notion that some kind of mystical transformation would come over me as I crossed the finish line and the urge to drink would be lifted, if not rendered more manageable. Neither happened. My first thought in St. Paul that October afternoon was "where's the beer tent?" I recognized that uncomfortable feeling of apprehension and anxiety that only a drink could level. 

It was over.  I knew what I had to do. A few phone calls and a meeting with the EAP at work led to my enrollment in a evening treatment program. On October 27, 1990, after nurturing a relationship with alcohol that began in high school, a love affair that had left me battered and bruised both emotionally and spiritually, I took my last drink. October 28th, 1990 was my first sober day. 

At my Saturday morning meeting this week, the topic was "what do you old timers do to maintain your sobriety differently than when you were first getting started?" Immediately I started to formulate my thoughts on that question hoping I would get called on to share, because  I had good stuff to share.  But it's a large meeting and several members talked more than they should  (sorry, I'm taking their inventory, I know). So I'm going to share now and when you are done reading, could you please say out loud in a monotone voice,  "thanks, Dan". That's what we do at those meetings.

"My name is Dan and I'm an alcoholic". You can say "Hi Dan" as you read this, but feel free to say it silently in case there others around you. It's kind of fun once you get used to it, but it's sounds pretty weird at first, like you've just joined a cult or are at a Toastmaster's meeting.

Old Timer. Am I an Old Timer? I don't think of myself as an old timer even though I've been doing this deal for some time. I'm not sure what qualifies a person as an old timer...20 years? As far as I'm concerned, anyone with more sobriety than me is an old timer.  But if you want to call me an Old Timer,  I guess that's OK.

A woman at our meeting was celebrating 90 days of sobriety. (round of applause here if you playing along). 

She told of having 5 years of sobriety at one time but started drinking again and was out there for several years before she found her way back.  She said she thought that with 5 years of sobriety and all the tools she had acquired along the way,  she could drink responsibly again. That was not the case. I needed to hear that. 23 years of sobriety and all the tools and experience I've gained has not taught me to drink responsibly. That's a lie. She spoke the truth. What I have learned is how to live responsibly without alcohol in my life, plain and simple.

Then she shared about how hard it was for her to come back to the meetings . She knew where we were but she just couldn't bring herself to walk back in. Driving by the meeting houses and seeing people gathering, she talked about being on the outside looking in...again and again and again. Yeah, I know that feeling. That was my life 23 years ago. On the outside looking in. I needed to hear that too.

My life is really different today than it was 23 years ago. I need my program of recovery as much now as I did back then but for different reasons. So I try to keep it simple and follow a few basic routines-show up on a regular basis and offer encouragement to those who need it, remain teachable and humble and with a little bit of luck, get another day. And before I knew it, 23 years had passed.

So am I an old timer?  I suppose, but I'll leave that up to you. You can call me whatever you wish, just don't call me late for dinner (rimshot-cymbal crash here).  Speaking of dinner, I hear Georgette in the kitchen putting the final touches on yet another wonderful  Sunday evening meal so it's time for my boot heels to be wandering. That's all I've got. I'm glad to be sober.

(This is where you can say " thanks, Dan" if you are still playing along)

Fall Ramblings......

Bless me Father for I have sinned. It's been 3 weeks since my last blog entry. 

True confessions time, I lack focus and discipline. My blogging goes in spurts and some of that is due to my tendency to want to write longer, more complete stories. Another blogger whose writing I really admire suggested that I try to mix things up-short, medium, long. Or break entries up in parts (part 1, part 2, etc.). Or instead of writing stories, do observations or short commentaries. 

 So starting today, I'm going to attempt to follow that advice. Today's blog entry will be a catch-up version with several variations of the forms described above. Wish me luck.

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Our trip to Colorado was a good one in spite of several challenges. The trip out took 2 hours  longer because of the road closings that resulted from the flooding.  And our lodging was changed because the place where we usually stay had no working toilets (Georgette said she was not going to use a port-a-potty on vacation. I can't blame her). Our new accommodations were really nice, in some ways nicer than our usual place, just no river running right outside our door.

We spent our  first full day enjoying Rocky Mountain National Park with all it's fall splendor. It was a little bit surreal as the park was nearly empty of people. With the road closings, the number of day visitors was way down, even though Estes Park was back to normal. There is nothing like having an entire National Park all to yourself. We came across a herd of Big Horned sheep at 11,500 feet up on Trail Ridge Road..that was a first for us.

And then came Tuesday and the government closed the park.  Nice. Thanks a lot all you knuckleheads out there in DC.  Actually, all was not lost. We were able to get to a lake south of Estes Park, Lily Lake,  that is part of RMNP. It sits alongside a highway and doesn't have a gate that can be closed. So we scurried over there and found a group of other travelers all trespassing on federal property since they hadn't officially blocked off the access. We went back on Wednesday and it had signs and plastic orange fencing blocking the parking lot...boo hiss! And we found other things to do...miniature golf, more time relaxing in the condo, hanging around downtown Estes having an ice cream cone while sitting alongside the Riverwalk that runs through main street.

The weather was beautiful and everywhere you look there are mountains and the color of the aspen against the pines-you would have to work hard not to have good time. We were planning on staying until Friday, leaving for home at the crack of dawn, until we read the weather forecast. "Winter Storm Warning. 6-12 inches of snow possible in mountain areas." Shit. First THEY close the park. And now THEY are predicting a blizzard. Better scoot before all hell breaks loose. Actually hell did break loose which is why the roads were closed, the toilets didn't work and the park was closed. So we decided to head home a day early but before doing so rescheduled our annual dinner reservation at the Dunraven Inn from Thursday to Wednesday.

The Dunraven Inn is an old roadhouse that has been an Estes Park classic forever. We love it's charm and good Italian food. It is usually bustling when we make it back there every year  even though the tourist season is winding down. When we got there it was only half full and like everything else this year, suffering from the circumstances related to the floods and access to the area. Our meal was superb and as we clicked our glasses of ice tea in a private toast, we spoke of how we made it back here one more time..together...17 years...breaking records everyday. Is anyone getting  a little verklempt reading this yet? OK, we had a little moment there but when the salads arrived it was back to business as usual.

I suspect we will go back again same time, next year, we always do. Hopefully the park will be open, the toilets at our usual lodging will be working and the weather will be the weather. 

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I spent 5 hours working in the garden yesterday, digging up canna and planting about 300 tulips. It was a gorgeous fall day to be outside. I had the football game on the radio, reminding me of my childhood back in the 60's when Dad would put the radio on in the window and we would rake and burn leaves while listening to the Iowa Hawkeye games. I can still smell the sweet, smoky fragrance of burning leaves today.

I was thinking while working yesterday, that planting tulip bulbs is a expression of optimism. Most of them won't bloom for 6 months and in between there will be the remains of fall and all of winter to endure. I'll forget where I planted some of them, what colors they were and what was going the day I planted them. But in the midst of a dark, snowy January night, I will fall to sleep thinking about the first days of spring when the tops of the tulips start to appear. I will sleep well in anticipation of spring.

Speaking of spring, nature can do some funny things sometimes. While working in the garden yesterday, I came across a lone daisy that had bloomed and a lone iris that is just about to bloom. The last iris to bloom was back in May and most of the daisies were done in July. Harbingers of spring or holdouts till the very end, it was good to see them again.

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We are going to see the Book of Mormon at the Orpheum Theater tonight after having dinner at a nice restaurant in midtown. Its sort of a date night, except that our whole married life has been an extended date night so its really just a night out. If the show is as funny as it's been reported to be, we both might die laughing. Wouldn't be the worst way to go. We both love Broadway musicals and the music and dancing in this show have need described as an homage to classic Broadway theater.

The Orpheum is a classic old theater that was saved from the wrecking ball and refurbished. We are sitting up in the Loge, which is kind of like the mezzanine, but with fewer seats. At some point in time during the show, I will reach over and take Georgette's hand and we will give each other a look that says, "isn't this great and aren't we lucky to share this together."

October is a funny month for me. 23 years ago  I was nearing the end of my drinking life. I was scared, unhappy and ready to run. I had a plan in my head about how I could load the car with stuff and head off to some city, somewhere and leave all my troubles behind. I also knew that  no matter where I went, I couldn't outrun me. And so I surrendered. Tonight will be a bit of a celebration shared with the one I love. A little reward for 23 years of hard work and commitment. Tomorrow, it will be back to work again. There is no resting on your laurels, but tonight we will laugh and dine and enjoy the view for the Loge.

Rituals and Routines

Big Horn Sheep on Fall River Road, 2012

We are headed out on our yearly pilgrimage to Estes Park, CO and Rocky Mountain National Park on   Sunday for a week of "west and we-waxaction". I wrote that in an Elmer Fudd voice if you couldn't tell. Why? I have no idea but that's what my in-my-head voice was saying. Anyway, the trip almost didn't happen this year because of the flooding in Colorado, putting one of our cherished rituals and routines in serious Jeopardy. I mean really serious Jeopardy.  Like " Give me Mother Nature for $300, Art" type Jeopardy.

I've come to appreciate the value of rituals and routines. Our married life is full of them and many of them revolve around food. For example:

On Sunday mornings, we almost always read the paper and have coffee and then go exercise. I will run and GK will walk Grace. We then have a homemade breakfast and Grace the beagle gets her weekly scrambled egg in her dog food bowl. She starts getting excited when she sees the white microwave bowl come out of the cupboard and hears the crack of the egg. Even the beagle likes rituals and routines.

We usually have a home cooked meal on Sunday evening, followed by a trip to the Dairy Queen for ice cream when the weather is good.  We use the drive-through and will order a couple of Blizzards and a kid's cup of vanilla ice cream. You're probably wondering "who is the kid?" Yeah, the kid. Put yourself in the shoes of the employee working the drive- through when we pull-up.  You open the window to hand us the order, only to be greeted by the face of a bug-eyed and intensely focused beagle. OK, I confess. Besides the scrambled egg, Grace also gets a little ice cream once a week.  I can only imagine what those employees say after we drive away. Sunday is a really good day to be a beagle at our house.

MONKEY BREAD

Other food related rituals include only having sweet corn on the cob in the summer when you can buy it from the roadside stands. Chili is only made and served starting in September and isn't usually served much after the holiday season. Monkey Bread made with Rhodes frozen sweet dough is always served on Christmas morning after we've opened our gifts. We averted a near crisis last year when GK couldn't locate the Rhodes sweet dough at her usual grocery outlets. I went on a mission one night to find the dough and vowed not return home without it. I even made a stop at the Super Wal-Mart, a store I avoid like the plague.  The ritual of the Monkey Bread meant I had to expose myself to the mutants and trolls who shop there. If you shop at Wal-Mart and are reading this, you are exempt from the mutant and troll reference. Of course they didn't have the dough, but I did finally locate several packages of the Rhodes sweet dough at the Hy-Vee and the Christmas ritual was once again secured.

Our yearly trip to Colorado is all about rituals and routines. The drive up the Big Thompson Canyon is the warm-up act. We always stay at the same condo in Estes Park, usually in the same unit. We arrive on Sunday afternoon, the first week of October, unload our stuff, then  head for the local Safeway to buy any needed groceries that we didn't bring with us. GK uses her Safeway card which she keeps in her purse all year, to get the extra discount ( We don't have a Safeway in Omaha).  We grill fillet Mignon steaks, purchased at our neighborhood Fareway store, for our Sunday night meal. 

Mr. Elk near the golf course in Estes Park

First thing Monday morning, we walk around Lake Estes and get our first up close and personal look at Mr. Elk, who is usually guarding his harem on the golf course.  If you haven't yet witnessed the annual Elk rut, it's a sight to behold. Think Testosterone Overload. "He who gets the most cows wins" is the name of the game. Here is a brief synopsis of what you get. Starting in September,  the elk come down from the higher elevations for their mating season. The more senior and experienced bull elk try to round up as many female elk as they can. More is better. We once saw one who had 37 cows. Stud Elk. There are duels and jousts between the bulls especially when some junior wanna-be, "still with fuzzy antlers" guy tries to hone in on the harem of a more senior elk and steal a few cows. Can you  blame them? Do you want to be the junior elk who, after the rutting season is over and you're hanging around with the other guys and one asks, "Hey junior, how'd you do?" and you got nothin'? I didn't think so. Nonetheless, there is a lot of bugling, snorting, posturing  and chasing, and according to my sensible wife, "ridiculous, inefficient, and sophomoric" behavior. Even the commentary is part of the ritual.

Sprague Lake

Then it's back to the condo for breakfast before we head into Rocky Mountain National Park for the rest of the day. Even our first day in the park is a routine. We start off at the Endovalley, then drive up the Old Fall River Road to the summit of the mountain  (elevation 12, 183 feet). We get that part of the trip knocked off on our first day just in case it snows and they close the roads for the season. We stop in at the  Visitor's Center, have a drink and a snack, then drive back down Trail Ridge Road to view the majestic views and the aspen that are turning a hundred shades of gold. On Wednesday evening of our week, we always eat at the Dunraven Inn. On Thursday, we order pizza to-go and spend our last night relaxing in the condo before heading back early the next morning. In between are trips and hikes all over the park, elk watching and taking in the sights and sounds of nature. The condo sits right on top of Fall River so hours are spent sitting and listening to the water rush by, reading and just smelling the mountain air. We've never tired of our routines and rituals.

GK and the Aspen

Which brings us back to this year's trip. Because of the extensive rain and flooding, (no plagues, grasshoppers or famines, thank God!) the  two primary highways into Estes Park are closed. No Big Thompson Canyon warm-up show this year. But we will be able to take an alternate route in for from the south that was just opened up last week. The condo where we usually stay is not able to open in time for our trip because of sewer problems. GK said ixnay to the idea of using port-a-potties when we heard that another property nearby was offering them as an interim solution.  Fortunately, we were able to secure what looks to be a nice condo on a property in another part of Estes that has working toilets, just no river running outside our door.  A reasonable trade-off, we both agreed. And Rocky Mountain National Park, which was closed for over a week and a half, is now 93% open to the public. 

As much as we cherish our rituals and routines, we pride ourselves on making the best of what life deals us. Going with the flow- doing a little rope-a-dope in the face of reality. Lord knows we've had enough practice to last 2 lifetimes. So our trip out and back will take a few hours longer, but we'll get to see some scenery we've have not yet seen. We won't get to stay by the river, but we'll still be grilling our fillets on Sunday night. The park didn't get washed away in the flood. Mr. Elk is still up to his old tricks and promises to put on another bawdy, tawdry, foolish show. The Dunraven Inn is open and ready to serve.  And the aspen will still be turning a hundred shades of gold.

Aspen trees in RMNP