Life is like a video game

When you get to be middle-aged it’s disconcerting because you’re in the prime of your life, but for the first time you can see the other side of the hill (and the finish line.) It’s weird to look around at your friends and realize you’ve all entered the next age bracket. And your conversations inevitably turn to the body: energy levels, aches and pains that were never there before, the advantage of having a child around to fetch things off the floor… Joint and back pains take the place of wild road trips and crazy late night antics. The old cliché is true; just as you mentally start to figure out what it really means to win in life, your body begins to show signs of defeat. In these conversations, as everyone bellyaches about their pain and loathing, someone always pipes up with, “Well, it beats the alternative.” To which I say, “Does it? Does it really?”

Is our fear of the unknown so strong that we would rather choose pain and suffering? Not me. I prefer a sudden death to spending years immobile or worse, in constant pain. I’m pretty sure I know how I’m going to die and it will be sudden. According to the palm reader at Mountain Fair my pancreas could ‘flare up’ while I’m driving, which I take to mean I’ll die in a car crash. There was something about the way she looked up at me, then quickly back down at the folding table, that made me think she could see the cause of my death in my palm. Plus, car accidents run in my family.

Probably my favorite thing about this life is that no one knows what happens when we die, and yet everyone subscribes to one theory or another. Mine is kinda like reincarnation, but with a slightly different take. Not like the movies, where an old man sits on his porch in a rocking chair— cut to a beautiful sunset on the farm, and by the time we get back to the man his chair has stopped rocking. Then, in the very next scene, he’s a baby being born with the same old man voice. I believe when we die the energy, or soul, or what-have-you; the difference in weight between a living body and a dead one; goes back to the source, back to where it came from. And I imagine this source as an abstract ball of gaseous matter that spits and sparkles like a geyser at Yellowstone. Instead of picturing individual lottery balls being thrown back into the forced-air lottery machine, I think each one of us is like a spoonful of soup; we are eaten by life and then regurgitated, so-to-speak, back into the pot on the stove.

I also like to think that, just like a video game, the levels get harder the further we go. In other words, we each started out as a white man of privilege, born somewhere like England, or Texas, and by the bonus round we’ll be a burro in Central America. With each life, as we overcome obstacles and gain empathy, we progress to a harder level of living. It might explain some of the injustices we’ve got going on in the world…

I’m hoping the in-between time is peaceful and calming, like the feeling as a child when someone plays with your hair. But I could see it being like the movie Defending Your Life starring Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep; everyone’s assigned a public defender to look back on their triumphs and trials, and a judging panel decides if they are ready for the next round. And then there’s the popular Sunday School theory; a long single file line ending with a white man with a white beard consulting a book to see if we’ve been naughty or nice. I have to admit, it’ll be a real knee-slapper for me if that turns out to be the case.

However this crazy beautiful thing we call life ends, and wherever our energy goes, I know there will be love. And hopefully, a nice little bench to rest my aching feet.

Slightly used, lopsided planet for sale

Last year, during the Keystone XL Pipeline vote in Congress, Greg Grey Cloud was arrested for singing an honor song about everything returning to harmony. Ever since then I’ve found myself clinging to the harmony concept like I would a life raft, especially when I’m drowning in environmental petitions on Facebook.

There was an earthquake in 2011 that, according to the U.S. Geological Survey, moved the main island of Japan eight feet and shifted the Earth on its axis. Inuit elders have written to NASA warning of the Earth’s shift; they claim the sun no longer rises where it used to and the moon and stars are placed differently. Considering how much time this tribe spends in darkness, star placement is definitely their bag, baby. I, on the other hand, can only tell if it is the big dipper or the little dipper when I can compare them side by side in the night sky.

If we are anything right now, as a planet, we are out of balance. Future earthquake-caused shifts (and the weight of more water in the oceans putting pressure on the plates and therefore causing more earthquakes) could significantly change life as we know it on Earth. And don’t even get me started on the dams; the weight of the stagnant water and silt piling up is making the Earth bloated. Water needs to move, and eventually— with, or without, our dam obstruction— it will.

What I hope is happening, is that the planet is flipping over, giving the Southern Hemisphere a turn on top. (Of course, in space there is no top or bottom, that’s all propaganda from the guys making the maps.) But what I fear is happening, is that we are causing irreparable changes to our planet in the name of negligence and greed. And in this society, instead of respected elders, we’ve got reverted-to-seventh-grade-mentality elders. What is it with the texting and tweeting while the President of the United States addresses the nation?! Are you freakin kidding me? You’re not even allowed to text in seventh grade Social Studies class.

Today’s government is comparable to melee on a playground; we, the people, are pinned down by the corporations, with our faces in the dirt, while Congress argues with itself over who has the ball and then hands over our lunch money every single time. Recently Colorado dodged the ball that was SB 232, a hop-scotch to jeopardizing our public lands through the subterfuge that is state management. I now realize why the Koch Twins made such large campaign contributions in the last election, as they are poised to buy the western half of this country so they can lay pipe all over the goddamn place (even as the correlation between fracking and earthquakes becomes more apparent with each new day.)

“Someone needs to explain to me why wanting clean drinking water makes you an activist, and why proposing to destroy water with chemical warfare doesn’t make a corporation a terrorist.” Winona Laduke

Let’s face it; our planet is in the discount bin because of corporate greed, and our government has forfeited the people for the profits. The recent give-away of sacred Apache land in Arizona to a foreign mining company because of the copper deposits buried deep underground is just another shining example of how it works; Congress giving away land that isn’t theirs to give for copper that won’t be ours to sell. It makes me irate that it’s legal for a foreign corporation to take possession of land already owned, but it’s illegal for the owners of that land to protest the land grab.

But then I remind myself to take a mental step back, to think about humans in the big picture, and harmony in the end, and I do feel better. Sure, it’s a hard realization that in the sea of life our individual little boats don’t really matter, but it’s massively reassuring to know that the other side of that coin is that we can’t frack up the whole world— beyond our own existence, that is. The Earth will be fine, upside down or not. We, on the other hand, may be lost at sea without so much as a dipper to guide us.

The 'tank

“Satank is like Narnia; it’s hard to find, but once you’re there you never want to leave.” –JB

For those of you who don’t already know, Satank is a neighborhood to the west of Carbondale. It’s not actually in Carbondale, as in the town limits, but you can walk to Sopris Park in about fifteen minutes— and that’s with two dogs who like to stop and smell the opposite of roses. Satank was originally called Cooperton for founder Isaac Cooper, who has streets named for him both in Aspen and in Glenwood Springs. Satank sits just above the confluence of the Roaring Fork River and Rock Creek (the Crystal River) with many old trees lining the quiet roads. A lot of people have lived in Satank at least once in their valley rental history, and everyone I’ve heard from has enjoyed living here.

That’s not to say Satank doesn’t have its quirks; it does. As residents of unincorporated Garfield County, Satankers have, for the most part, adopted a laissez-faire attitude when it comes to rules and regulations. From tribes of free-range chickens to plastic ones artfully placed in the front yard, anything goes in Satank; we even have a free box corner. And for the most part, neighbors overlook each other’s strange habits because we acknowledge our own idiosyncrasies.

Over the years, Satankers have earned the reputation of being everything from ‘challenging’ to eccentric, to just plain cray-cray. But don’t let the lawn clutter and patch-worked outbuildings fool you— being a recluse goes hand in hand with having a high I.Q. Yep, I said it; only the good die young, and only the bright choose a little hinky over an HOA. Sure, our neighborhood may resemble Sanford and Son, but at least we can have a yard sale any time we want and leave the Christmas lights up after January 1st.

One of these days we’re going to start the Satank Country Club, and then look out! “We have a pool and a pond… Pond’d be good for you.” –Ty Webb (Caddyshack.) Truly, the future look and feel of Satank is anyone’s guess. With a range of individuality rarely seen in such a small area, Satank is enduring and unique. Even with all the changes Carbondale has undergone in the last few years, I’m not worried. As satankerous* as some of my neighbors are, I seriously doubt we’ll even see curb and gutter work in my lifetime.

The newest Satank trend is to live in a trailer while you build a house, and I must say, I’m rather envious (my retirement dream is to live in a trailer on the beach.) Back when we moved our house to Satank, we felt it fit in perfectly because it is a stick-built to look like a modular. My husband’s brother, Jack, was the first one to buy land from my uncle Charlie, (he bought the land from Bud Fender) and he built a straw bale house on the river. Next, we moved in an old wood house off my grandparents’ ranch; it took about fifteen minutes to drive down Hwy 133 with a Wide Load truck leading the way, and more than two hours to negotiate the twists and turns of Satank. So now, if the youngest Wilfley brother moves his family to Satank they’ll need a brick house, in keeping with the Three Little Pigs storyline. My in-laws are not as corny as I am, but they put up with my huffing and puffing jokes.

Maybe that’s the secret to Satank, a sense of humor. No one here takes life so seriously that they won’t kick off their shoes and put their feet in the ditch with a neighbor on a sunny afternoon. When Brad Hendricks (Satanker extraordinaire) passed away, there were little handmade signs in front of the houses that read: ‘park here’ and ‘parking for Brad H.’ It was heartwarming to see neighbors reaching out in consideration instead of calling a tow truck. True community is about appreciating each other’s differences, and paying it forward in kind. And in this respect, Satank’s diversity makes it, already, a very rich neighborhood.

*courtesy Tom Camp

Going home

They say you can never go home again; meaning, I suppose, that as we grow older and lose our sense of wonder about the world, places we return to just aren’t the same. And as we age, we lose our friends and family members, making us all the more homesick. Well, I’ve found a glitch. I went to the National Western Rodeo and Stock Show at the Denver Coliseum this year for the first time in thirty years, and I’m here to tell you it is exactly the same. The same denim and fringe sights, the same animal husbandry smells, even the time-consuming banter between the rodeo clown down on the dirt and the MC up in the stands was just as awkward as I remember.

When I was a kid my dad took us to the Stock Show every year, and we sat in my grandparents’ seats right down in front where you really felt like a part of the action. So, wanting to replicate my childhood memories, I bought tickets in the second row. Seeing this timeless event through adult eyes did offer a bit of a different perspective— like when a clomp of dirt/poop went flying into my plastic cup of beer with a decisive drink-ending plop, but the overall experience was like travelling through time.

Growing up, my sisters and I would come to Carbondale to visit our grandparents on their cattle ranch. As you entered their house through the dutch door, there was a metal grate in the floor for scraping the mud (and other stuff) off your boots. Meanwhile, high above on the wall, elk and deer heads watched you with apprehensive disdain. At the top of the stairs was a wood-framed glass door and through that a mud room with a wood stove and a bench along the wall. The mudroom was always full of coats, hats and boots; you need a lot of different kinds of boots when you live on a ranch.

Once through the door at the other end of the entryway, you were in the kitchen. The pantry was the first door on your left, but there wasn’t anything worthwhile in there, trust me. My sisters and I spent hours planning elaborate schemes to get our hands on cookies or potato chips— any snack we weren’t supposed to have between meals. Plans complete with double lookouts and an escape route through the laundry room, only to get away with a handful of red hots, or maybe some semi-sweet chocolate chips if we were lucky. As a last resort, we could go downstairs and probably find a cousin or two hiding in the cool basement eating Jello packages by licking their fingers and sticking them into the sugary powder (like homemade Fun Dip Lik-a-Stix.™)

My grandmother had seven children and dozens of grandchildren, so she had resolved long ago to only get involved when it was a matter of ‘life and death.’ Plus, it was the 70s, and adult supervision wasn’t nearly as prevalent as it is today. I don’t know if the adults just had more to do, or what, but kids had more privacy back then. The Ranch had a million great hiding places, inside and out. Thinking back on those days, I instantly conjure up the surfaces: green slate kitchen countertops, shag carpeting on the scary dark staircase, flagstone patio, and all the different sizes and shades of blue circular tile in the outdoor pool behind the house, where we spent countless hours underwater.

It’s funny how a place in our memory can connect us long after we’ve moved on. I can definitely relate to the symbol of a family tree with strong roots and many branches, (many, many branches!) But it is a tapestry I think of when I think of my father’s family, each member a unique part woven together into the larger picture. My grandmother passed away last week, and I feel like I have lost my last thread to a time and place. But if I close my eyes I can still see the large diving rock above me, shifting back and forth through the lapping light blue water.

Carbondale: A Great Place to Be (Yourself)

In the last few years Carbondale has been featured in several magazines, showcased as A Great Place to Be! Well, it’s working; we’re like a fly strip for transplants. I get it, if you weren’t brought up by people who carry a pocket knife, there’s a romantic quality to the whole ‘living off the land’ lifestyle, and it’s authentic here. Carbondale has a quality not found in many small towns; it’s a capable-yet-laid-back feel, definitely worth preserving. And while change can be good, I think we should go over a few things, in the hopes of making the transition smooth for everyone: new and old, good and bad, upstanding and down-to-earth.

Attention newcomers: welcome to our Rocky Mountain town at the confluence. Yes, we know how great it is to be here; we live here, we work here, we play here. And while we’re glad you’re here, please don’t try to change it. Just let Carbondale be. The sooner you let go of your past, the better our future will be. And the same goes for the old-timers: no use grumbling about all the new faces. Just think of it like this; there’s a whole new batch of folks to buy the drinks and listen to your stories…

I’ve put together a few tips on being a Carbondale local; how to act when confronted with real life in this small mountain town:

When driving on Catherine Store Road, (yes, that is the name of the road. There’s no ‘s and it doesn’t bother us, grammatically or otherwise) and you find yourself driving at the pace of cows walking, show some patience and slow down. Those beasts are your future fancy cheeseburgers with Gorgonzola aioli. (True Carbondale natives will want to know the definition of aioli: “It’s what rich people call mayonnaise.” -MM)

When hanging out at the Pour House, trying to blend in, it is imperative that you A) don’t wear a black cowboy hat unless you can back it up, and secondly, don’t bother ordering ‘stiff’ drinks from the bartenders. That’s the only way they know how to make ‘em. (It should go without saying, but I’ll say it: don’t bother ordering ‘light’ drinks either.) And if you’re going to eavesdrop on the next booth’s conversation –hardly your fault, as their voices get louder with each round, whatever happens, do not interrupt with a story about how you did it back home. Also, for your own safety, leave your yoga mat in the car.

Don’t ask what’s in it, just drink the Piehole.

Do not set your car alarm. Ever. It is pretentious (the antithesis of Carbondale) and you might as well have a loudspeaker on top of your car that shouts, “I am from out of town!” Know that as a Carbondalian, you will eventually drive a pickup or a station wagon; it’s up to you how long you hold out.

Quit buying up all the open space you can get your hands on. Going in and outbidding the Entities That Be before they can get their unruly ducks to line up is not making you popular with the locals. That land belongs to our children’s children and they’re going to need it for hunting and foraging. If you don’t believe me, you should eavesdrop at the Pour House more often.

When walking down Main Street early in the morning try not to gawk at the folks who are still in their clothes from the night before, as those are real locals. They may not know exactly where their car is at the moment, but they’re the ones who’ll stop in a blizzard to help you out of the ditch. Also, please refrain from stating, “What a cute little town” at any time of day.

When driving down Main Street and someone walks out in front of you, stop. Take a deep breath, try to relax, and smile as you wait for them to shuffle across the street. Which reminds me, smile a lot. The more you do it, the more familiar it will feel and maybe one day when someone you don’t know smiles at you on the street, you’ll automatically smile back. Life is good here.