Tried to explain what goulash is to The Kid ~ we never eat it because I ate it all the time as a kid. she keeps calling it "dogloosh"about 7 hours agofrom TweetDeck
Amazing view, huh? See, I moved to Colorado six years ago for a job, not the mountains or the lifestyle like many do. Eventually, though, the active outdoorsy stuff gets in your blood because here it’s constantly in your face. And you get curious – about pushing yourself beyond your limits and about what it’s like to summit a mountain peak 14,000 feet above sea level and whether or not you’ve got the cojones to finish or instead will perish a la “I Shouldn’t Be Alive” (Gosh I love/hate that show).
This summer I’ve done a lot of this Colorado-y kind of stuff and thankfully I have a lot of skilled + experienced people to guide me on my outdoorsy adventures. This time, these manly men happily joined me as we climbed Mount Yale. Aren’t they handsome?
I was ready to surrender to the experience and to trust those with me (and to trust myself). I knew it was going to be a long, challenging task (and that I tend to tap out of anything after an hour or two). I knew I might struggle with breathing (thanks, asthma!) or altitude sickness. I didn’t know if I was in good enough shape. Or if I would cry.
But climbing a 14er is just a thing you must do at least once if you live here. Correction: if you move here or visit here. For some reason, the native Coloradoans I know are happy to just view the mountains as is and don’t feel the need to conquer them. Me? I wanted to cross “climbing a 14er” off The List once and for all.
We woke at 5:30a.m., hit the road by 7a.m. and hit the trail at 8:30a.m., which was later than we wanted to. Even I know you want to get on the mountain early so you can get off the mountain before the afternoon storms. Storms with lightning. Lightning known to strike and sometimes kill people climbing 14ers. Confession: I am terrified of lightning. I cower. I cry. I run.
At some point early on I lost my ponytail rubberband, which while a seemingly small thing to complain about, which made climbing a 14er ever so slightly more uncomfortable. I stuffed all my long, thick, strawlike hair under my hat and kept on.
The guys, to their credit, left me mostly to hike alone at the rear. If they babied me, I would be a baby and want to stop. Or if they were tough on me, I might be a bitch. Nobody wanted any of that (especially me). Instead they walked a little bit ahead, talking about college football and urbandictionary slang.
Me? I was in the zone.
Take three steps.
Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
At alpine, the wind stole my breath and and roared in my ears and chilled my hands. I was soaked in sweat under my fleece. Inside I grew angry and frustrated about my slow pace. Outside I smiled. I faked it. I kept going. You know, life.
Suddenly the landscape got interesting. Scrambling. Even though I was exhausted and the terrain was scary and uncertain, my energy and interest piqued and I was hauling my tired body over boulders and down crevices. Hey! This felt a little like rock climbing! Happy memories flooded my heart. FINALLY: Fun. Fun. Fun.
And then in a nonchalant fashion
we arrived at the summit.
We had the top to ourselves.
It was calm, quiet and warm.
It’s nice!
Uh … what now?
*oh relax*
I’m just being dramatic
playing “mostly dead.”
(I minored in theater, dontcha know.)
The view from the summit was surreal. It felt fake. Like a dream. Like a screen saver. Like Old Navy pajama pants circa 2001. I thought about the giant landscape paintings in the museums of Washington, D.C., the ones I visited when I was a high school student. After 20 minutes for photos and a PBJ, it was time to head back down.
On the way down, I began to feel ill. Nauseated. Shaky. Exhausted to the point of tears. I hoped nobody noticed. I didn’t want to stop because I knew I couldn’t because it didn’t get me what I wanted (which was off the mountain). I fell down a few times as the earth literally gave out underneath me on the loose trail. I had to get up and keep going. You know, life.
Back at the car, I peeled off my soaked layers, laid down in the back seat and covered up with my fleece. I took off my gloves to reveal swollen hands. My ankles burned. My knees ached. My toes earned their blisters. My face burned hot while my body shook with chills. My lungs hurt, and I’m pretty sure I pulled a chest muscle with all that deep breathing. I barely moved or spoke on the ride home.
I had made it to the top of a mountain peak. And I had the best kind of people with me, who were gracious and patient and encouraging and had food. No storms chasing us off the mountain. No mountian lions. No injuries. No tears or fodder for a documentary TV series about epic stories of survival.
I was glad I did it. Yet … I didn’t love it. I wanted to. I felt like I should have. I tried to. But I just didn’t. Kind of like when in the fourth grade and everyone loved NKOTB and I didn’t? Sure, there were small moments of joy on the mountain, such as musing to myself that the lichen-covered boulders resembled a Jackson Pollock artwork or spying an endangered toad on the trail, but by the end of the day, if I am honest with myself, I could have cared less about climbing another one of Colorado’s 53 other 14ers ever again.
My friend Jeremy Buckley was my music guru in college. The kind of person I like to have around because they seem to be in the know of up and coming musicians before anyone else does. The kind of person who made me CDs of bands he knew I would like (and I did – how did he do that?). The kind of person who has a passion and the brains to back it up. He first came to me as a person pissed off by a column in the college student newspaper where I worked as editor of the entertainment section. He figured if shit like that was allowed to print, he who had no journalistic training might as well get in there and write something better. And so he did, and it was good.
Fast forward a few years: Jeremy is now a college graduate (which is a big deal to people like us who come from families like ours) and, amongst other endeavors, the founder of the multi-day, multi-band music festival Lincoln Calling, this year Sept. 28 to Oct. 2. I’m so very proud of my friend.
Long story short: Over the years I’ve asked Jeremy for cool band posters, and when I am in town and lucky enough to see Jeremy, he obliges. I’m not familiar with Built To Spill’s music, but I liked this poster for its bright color scheme and comic book illustration style. I was lucky enough to find a $3 metal yellow frame and matte from savers in Boulder to put it in.
And because I am dorky, I strategically put this in the powder room.
Confession: I love Lincoln, Nebraska. I spent a lot of time there and wanted to share some of my favorite places.
***
One of my first jobs ever was working an ice cream stand next to the buggy, muggy Susquehanna River in Pittston, Pa. We were “swirl girls,” young females in short shorts and white + hot pink tees who served soft serve ice cream a la Lolita. And nothing, I mean nothing, could ever kill my love of ice cream. Not the smell of chlorine and scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees. Not the May bugs that swallowed the riverfront neon-light lit shack (which later became a Papa John’s and eventually was demoslished, I think, to build a high rise). Not even the sacchrine-infused pop music of the mid 1990s that after a few hours on shift would repeat – I blame this job for my knowledge of all the words to “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer, by the way. No matter what, I still love ice cream.
Better than birthday cake.
Better than Christmas cookies.
Better WITH a brownie.
Fast forward to college (and better music): This is the Creamery Building, a landmark located at 7th and P Streets in the Historic Haymarket district near downtown Lincoln. Inside on the first floor, to your left, is Ivanna Cone. You can smell this place out on the street. A good sign if you ask me.
The ice shoppe is striking to me because it is both hip and old-fashioned. A marble counter. Dainty chairs. Vibrant colors. A chalkboard menu. A play area. Cash only. Hipsters with ink and piercings and funky haircuts and friendly smiles serving up ice cream-craving folks. Another good sign: when a place, when a product, can draw in people of all ages and kinds.
Near the entrance are ice cream makers with rock salt and ice churning out creamy cold batches of homemade heaven, ranging from the traditional to the whodahthunkit? flavors with such descriptive + playful names much like those often reserved for birds or flowers: Sweet Corn Blackberry, Salted Caramel, Bruiseberry (in honor of the city’s roller derby team), Raspberry Espresso Porter, “Breakfast of Champions” (bourbon with cornflakes?!?), Ginger Honey Carrot, Baklava, Saffron Rose, Maple Custard …
*drools*
Typically, I get one scoop of Sweet Cream and one scoop of something with chocolate in a cup (boring, I know) and then mosey over to coffeeshop across the street, order a small flavored coffee, and then sit on the porch and alternate between cold bites and hot sips. I have a BFF who not only doesn’t think I’m weird for this habit, but she happily joins me and we have hours of conversation once the ice cream + coffee is gone. This is an example of a good day. Near perfect. #love
That is my usual order. Usually. But not always. Just mostly.
Here’s a really great blog post about an out-of-state foodie’s recent first visit to Ivanna Cone. GREAT photos. And you can check out their Facebook Page for their everchanging menu of flavors (Kudos to Ivanna Cone for actually using social media to engage with your customers. Bravo!).
On Sundays, not all but some Sundays, I like to go to Javastop at the corner of Third Avenue and Main Street in downtown Longmont. In 2004, after flying all day from southwest Florida, getting off a plane in Denver, renting a car to drive to this little town I had never heard of 35 miles to the north, I first stopped at the newspaper to check in for my job interview. Soon after I visited Javastop, the coffeeshop right around the corner.
I knew I was home.
The interior is vibrant, often with local art. The mood is chill and cozy – if you go early, it’s usually packed so good luck trying to find a seat. The owners, Kevin and Ellen, are like friends: sincere and oh so witty, which seems unfair to banter with them before the fist cup of caffeine kicks in. Javastop is like a bar where everyone knows your name but they serve *my* poison, a fresh cup of hazelnut.
It’s a cash-only establishment (and if you’re a regular, you get wall priviledges = a tab, which for a cub reporter was completely soul-saving when payday was far away), and they open early and close early afternoon so they can be with their kiddos after school. Another tip: park either on Main Street or on Coffman Street in front of the Elks Lodge, one street to the west.
I would gladly be their apprentice someday.
There’s running wordplay about gnomes (ask Kevin); the red-capped creatures dot the shop in its nooks and cranies. The food is homemade and good for you and the community: my favorites are the cinnamon rolls (they go quick so get ‘em early), the PBJ cookies, the breakfast burritos and homemade salsa, and made-to-order sandwiches. Even The Kid knows this is my favorite coffeeshop in town; we usually stop in for a cup to stay and for a bag of beans to go.
Tip generously: Ellen and Kevin deserve it. Bonus: another favorite place, Serendipity, is directly across the street.
The shop is tucked within the bricks walls of what was once a grand hotel; its tenants are now a chinese restaurant at the front, a nonprofit serving the homelessness out of the basement, and apartment dwellers upstairs. On nice days you can sit outside or inside by an open window. And parents, there’s a stacked toy closet, which allows for ample quiet time for you or a chance for a mostly uninterrupted conversation with another adult.
I mean, The Kid knows the joy of Mr. Potato Head now because of Javastop. #justsayin
Finally, some time and a clear enough brain to recap Mom’s recent visit to Colorado. I’ve counted that we’ve seen each other on approximately six times in as many years; it’s not for lack of want, let me assure you. But I’m grateful when I do see her. I’m also, as any adult child with a parent as a house guest, grateful for my life to return to normal. But seeing these pictures makes me wish our visits were more frequent.
On the first morning of her weeklong visit,
a common sight in the Colorado skies this time of year
made an uncommon appearance right behind our house.
Mom, Kid Sister and The Kid (heck … me, too) are impressed.
Activities included making paper bag puppets, hopscotch, Scooby-Doo DVDs and baking. Field trips included the playground, a picnic in the oldest park in Longmont, a pottery studio and the library.
I freakin’ HATE Scooby-Doo.
Mom still crochets. A lot.
My brother and I recount that the majority of our memories
of Mom are either of her in the kitchen baking or on the couch crocheting.
Upon arrival she gave The Kid not one, but TWO handmade afghans,
which my little Martha Stewart just loved.
(heck … me, too.)
When I was little, my mom and I had a weekly ritual of heading to a local diner, located in a strip mall by the Kmart, where we each had a patty melt on rye, its goopey innards of sauteed onions and cheese spilling out on to the fries, and a chocolate malt.
We had the best conversations a 7-year-old and a 27-year-old could have.
So of course I took her to Longmont’s greasy spoon,
located downtown on Main Street which I love
(heck … Mom did, too) for our usual.
Mmmmmm, steak fries.
I need moments like this with Mom.
To remind me we had that connection. And that we still do, even though our lives are very different and unfold now far apart from each other. Because at times the geographical distance between us is too great as is the time between visits too long. And when she pulled out of the driveway to head back to her home, even though most of the time I am A-OK on my own,
that slightly orphaned feeling I sometimes feel crept in a bit.
I realize my life as an adult might scare my mother.
My job. My pleasures. My approach to life.
I’m more outspoken, opinionated and outgoing
than the “obedient” girl she raised.
A daughter she gave freedom to explore, trust to do the right thing
and unconditional love no matter what.
A daughter who hopes to do the same for her kid.
(Even if she likes Scooby-Doo.)
You know how there are, like, crews of people who just gravitate towards each other for whatever reason but it’s like a time capsule, securing a time and place in your life? Like Smalls and Benny and the rest of the kids in “The Sandlot“? (GREAT movie)
This summer I was somehow absorbed into a lovely group of climbers who humored me and my non-climbing ways over good food and good conversation. I like to think they thought I was charming and not completely hopeless. Besides, someone had to bring dessert.
I thank them for helping me fill my summer with good food and good conversation.
Favorites as a Little Kid including Gem (truly truly truly outrageous!) and Thundercats, now a favorite On Demand of The Kid’s. Later on Saturday mornings were about PeeWee’s Playhouse and Saved by the Bell.
