1971 (4^th Grade)

I know that some of my stories need to present the seedier side of life and expose me for the child I was and this is one such story. 

As more and more family vacations were spent in Mexico my parents themed their dinner parties and gatherings with a Mexican flair.  That meant the food was Mexican, the drinks were Mexican and the music, well, it remained the same.  You could never get enough of The Carpenters, The Kingston Trio or Herb Albert back then.

My mother spent days preparing the food for each of these gatherings.  The food was authentic to its very core and that meant the house would smell of deep fat fried food for days after the party.  As my mom was putting the finishing touches on the evening’s fare, my father made what seemed like gallons of Margaritas.  I had grown to like these drinks from the many “sips” my father permitted me to have, and I was determined to have more.  When my father was not looking I took the many aluminum film canisters I had collected and filled each one up with this tasty beverage.  By the time I was finished I had a dozen or so of the canisters filled and stashed away in my backpack.

The next day, with a pack full of Margaritas, I headed off to school.  At the time the forth grade was still in the “Old Red Brick Building” on East Hallam Street between North Garmisch Street and North Monarch Street.  Back then it was still known as the Middle School and later referred to as “the Upper Elementary School.”  During a break between classes a couple of friends met me in the hall and I happily shared my bounty with them.

Now, I have not always made the right choices when given a chance and this was one of those times.  Not because I brought Margaritas to school, I was OK with that.   The mistake was made when my older sister, Debbie, came by and asked me what we were drinking.  Without hesitation I told her exactly what was in the canisters.  That was the mistake.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister very much; but, what she did next was not cool!  After seeing the expression on her face I expected to incur the wrath of my father when I got home, but instead, she headed directly to the principal’s office.  I was doomed!  In a matter of minutes the principal was doling out my punishment.

I enjoyed the rest of the week off from school and had a lot of time to clean my room, mow the lawn, wash dishes and fold laundry.  Being grounded had its upside as all the projects you had never finished finally got done; and, with time off for good behavior life slowly returned to normal.

 

1963 – 1977

With four kids in the family there was always some sort of strife going on.  I would say we got along as well as any family with four very strong willed kids.  Since all our family vacations were by car or camper there was a lot of time spent cramped up together in a rather confined space.  As tolerant as my parents were, there were times when the constant battles between us got the best of them and something had to be done.  I am not sure whose idea it was, and I am sure that in today’s world it would be highly frowned upon, but back then it seemed that the only way to get peace among the ranks was to burn off excess energy.

The solution was to make the offending individuals “get out and run a mile!”  Not only was this good exercise and a sure way to burn off energy, it had another desired effect.  When the “runners” got back into the car they were in no mood to talk to anyone; and thus, peace reigned over the land, for awhile at any rate.

Hermosillo, Mexico

While traveling north towards the United States border in Nogales after a week in Guaymas, the usual battles began to ensue.  The main road from Guaymas is Mexico Highway 15D, and it runs right through the middle of Hermosillo.  On this particular occasion, Cindy, my oldest sister, and I had been going at it long enough.  Dad pulled over.  “This cannot be happening, we were in the middle of the city and he was actually going to make us run?”  Sure enough, Cindy and I exited the camper and started running along the highway, past homes, businesses, hotels and even government buildings.  One building we ran past had armed guards with machine guns standing outside.  I was terrified and I am sure the locals we confused by what they were witnessing.  They must have thought we were nuts.   I am sure we did not run a full mile as expected, but this particular running left a very lasting memory.  Cindy did not utter another word for two hours, long enough to enter back into the United States.

Colorado Highway 24 at Balltown (Hwy 82)

Parents make mistakes, and on this occasion they made a big one.  I was told to get out and run; I was the only one.  Now, we all know it takes two to fight but somehow the other “perps” were allowed to miss this particular “running.”  I know who else was involved,  but they will remain nameless.  Let’s suffice to say that I was not guilty!  Like 100% of the people in America’s prisons, I was wrongly accused of the crime and the real perpetrator was still running free.  None-the-less, I did my time.

No one else ever had to run!

Most of our family trips included other family members and friends.  We traveled in loosely packed caravans everywhere we went.  I remember my Aunt Shirley laughing as she told the stories of her coming over a hill on a long highway only to see one or more of the kids in our family running along behind our camper.  She always got a good laugh out of that one, but I do not remember any of her kids running.  They must have been “angels.” 

There were no limits as to when we were told to run.  If we fought then we ran, even if it was the middle of the winter, in the middle of a hot desert or through town.  You would think it would not take long to figure out how to get along but we never learned, and we paid the price for it every time.

Summer 1970

A good practical joke takes precise planning and a perfect execution.  You must be willing to prepare for the event and then wait weeks or even months for the perfect opportunity to present itself.  My father was willing to go to any length to have fun and make sure that those around him were having as much, if not more fun than him.  One example of this took place on a weekend trip my family went on with a few of our friends.

Over the years my family had numerous campers and RVs.  At the time of this prank we had a 4-door Dodge Power Wagon pick-up with a “slide-in” camper.  We headed out of town to go to some of the old mining towns of Colorado.  Included in our plans was Cripple Creek and Victor.  We also hoped to drive down the old railroad grade out of Victor toward Pueblo.  The tracks had been removed during the Second World War for the needed metal but the steel trestle and tunnels remained.   The trestle had wood decking installed so vehicles could pass safely over it.

On this particular trip the six of us rode in our camper.  Our friends, the Stratfords, trailed behind in their classic Pontiac convertible, the Guys in their big International Travel All as well as Don and Robin Rayburn.  Occasionally, we would all stop to visit or discuss the historic features of our journey.  We took the time to look around in both mining camps and even rode the historic narrow gauge train in Cripple Creek.  As we left Victor  we headed down Phantom Canyon Road.  This was one of three ways to get to or from Cripple Creek to the south.  Phantom Canyon was originally used by the Florence & Cripple Creek Railroad until the early 1900’s when a series of events spelled the end of the line.

Like a spider in a web, my father led the small caravan into one of the many tunnels only to come to a stop near the middle.  Without any notice or noise the truck began to billow smoke, filling the tunnel.  Without hesitation, Steve (Stratford) came running to our aide with a fire extinguisher in hand only to find my father sitting in the driver’s seat sipping on a beer grinning like a Cheshire cat.  Steve knew he had been had and still had to drive through the smoke filled tunnel to the other end with his convertible top stored nicely in its boot in the “down” position.

Later that day, after all the laughter and fun, my father revealed the source of the smoke and the nature of this prank.  My father had run a line from the windshield washer tank, filled with diesel fuel, through a valve on the truck’s floor and out to the “hot” exhaust manifold.  With a turn of the valve, diesel fuel poured onto the hot manifold and the thick white smoke was the result.  

If I know my father, this prank was probably planned weeks or even months in advance.  He calmly waited for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Winter of 1969

8:30pm and practice had gone well.  The team was ready for the big game.  Our competition was driving in from the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs.  They were considered the best team in the state at all levels but we knew we could beat them.  Our best center lived in Glenwood and rarely made the 42 mile drive up for practice but always made the games.  He was good and we knew we could count on him. 

It was cold outside with a fresh blanket of snow on the ground.  Even though I only lived three blocks away the thought of carrying my gear home after a long practice was the last thing I wanted to do.  One option that existed only after a good snow was to actually skate home.  I checked outside and the roads were perfect.  That was it, I would skate home.  I had skied home numerous times even though according to local statutes, it was against the law to do so.  But this was skating.  Were the laws specific enough to include that?  Who in their right mind would skate on the roads?  Me!  

I headed out the door with my gear over my shoulder and headed east on Hyman Avenue.  At the other end of the block I rounded the corner onto 1^st Street and like Christmas, the red and blue lights lit up the trees and houses on both sides of the street.  Had he been waiting for me or was it a case of really bad luck?

I sheepishly skated towards the officer to see what I could do to get out of this one.  As he pulled up next to me in his Ford Torino I realized I was probably doomed.    I do not remember which officer it was but I do remember him being a bit “harsh.”  I was instructed to remove my skates immediately or that he would take me to City Hall which was where the jail was at the time.  Even at the age of eight I remember thinking that it was a bit over the top to take me in for skating home; and besides, what was he doing behind the Aspen Ice Gardens at that hour of the day?

As directed, I removed my skates and walked the remaining block and a half home, all the while he drove slowly behind me until reaching my front porch.  If anyone else had followed me in that manner I would have called the police but since he was the police, well…

I remember skating and skiing home many more times until we moved our house to the “West End.”  I always kept a watchful eye out for police hiding in the shadows or dark alleys.

February 1971

Our family took many vacations when I was young.  My father was famous, or infamous, for coming home from work and without warning, declaring we were going on vacation, leaving that day.  My mother was always willing and these declarations sent her into panic mode.  Meals needed to be planned; kids needed packed, homework assignments needed to be obtained, animals needed to be kenneled and money needed to be withdrawn.  Back then grocery stores closed early, schools planned homework in advance, banks closed no later than 5:00pm and credit cards were a new concept and not commonly used adding a bit of complexity to my Mom’s tasks.  “Where are we going?” was always the big question and Dad always gave the same answer, “We will decide once we get on the road.”  Within a few hours we would be off and heading to destinations as yet unknown.

Often our destination was left up to the family which usually took place by deciding whether to go left or right at each major intersection.  On this trip, the first big decision was determined when we reached Glenwood Springs.  Were we going to go left or right?  A brief discussion ensued.  What did we want to see if we went left?  How about if we chose right?  Left it was!

Now each of the kids had their own list preferences as did mom and dad.  A lot of ideas were thrown out for the group to think about.  Among the ideas were Yellowstone, San Francisco, San Diego, Disneyland or someplace known as Ensenada and Tijuana.  The list would be narrowed at the next decision point, Rifle.   The Interstate system was still very fragmented so much of this trip would be on two-lane highways, giving us a lot of time to discuss our options between decision points.  At Rifle Yellowstone and San Francisco were eliminated and Southern California was the leading contender.  By now it was well after dark so the rest of the decisions would have to wait.  We stopped somewhere along the highway.  Some of us climbed in back and the rest took over the two front seats of the Dodge “Power Wagon” for a good night’s rest.

By 6:00am we were back on the road heading west.  At some point the family came to a consensus, Disneyland it would be.  I remember my parents talking about friends they had living in Los Angeles.  He was an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department and they had two young kids of their own.  Mom and Dad hoped to include a visit with them while in the area.  Hours and miles passed slowly by and our next night’s rest was somewhere near the California border. The four kids were all filled with anticipation about getting to go to Disneyland.  We had all heard of it before but this would be our first visit to the park.  We arrived at in Anaheim too late in the afternoon to go in so we found an RV park nearby and settled in.  Our camper was the “slide-in” type that fit comfortably into the bed of a pickup truck.  Dad had purchased one of those Dodge Power Wagons that had four doors and two bench seats. The camper was too small for us to all sleep in the back; so, two of us would be sleeping in front.  The boys drew that assignment on this trip.

The next morning came early, too early.  At 6:00am we all awoke to the camper shaking.  We were convinced Dad was rocking the camper to get us all up; Cindy cried out for dad to stop it!  None of us were amused but then the real shock came when dad announced from the bed above the truck cab he was not doing it.  What was going on?  Within minutes all of the campers were out of their vehicles and standing around, a bit amazed or dazed if you will.  One of them called out, “Earthquake!”  By now the ground had stopped shaking and there was an eerie quiet in the air.  Dad turned on his AM radio and began to get a clearer picture.  The earthquake hit somewhere up in the northern suburbs of Los Angeles and there was significant damage.  We learned after breakfast the park would not open until all the rides had been inspected.  With that news, our parents decided the family would go on to San Diego and see the zoo and Sea World.  Reluctantly, we loaded up and headed south.  We spent the next couple of days in San Diego.  We went to the zoo, the newly opened Wild Animal Park, took a harbor cruise and got wet watching Shamu do her tricks.  News of the “quake” was not far from our minds and neither was Disneyland.

We also headed further south into Mexico through Tijuana and on to Ensenada and beyond.  We looked around the coastal towns and eventually found ourselves in the Baja wine country known as Valle de Guadalupe.  We stayed on the property of Bodegas de Santo Thomas (Winery); and, late that night the owner had a disagreement with a dog that involved gunshots and a lightning fast escape.   We eagerly left the next morning, heading north.  The roads back then were unpaved and deeply rutted in spots, unlike the paved highways and byways in that area today.  It was a dusty and dirty trip back to the border.

Later in the week we headed north and straight to the park.  I do not remember if we spent one or two days in Disneyland, but whatever it was it was a memory of a lifetime.  At some point our parents decided we would go to Sylmar in north Los Angeles to see our friends.  It turned out that they lived right near the epicenter of the quake and may need our help.  The closer we got to their house, the more damage we could see.  Fallen trees were everywhere, roads were closed and many of the buildings had large cracks down the sides.  Our friends’ house appeared to be in one piece, but most of their belongings were in boxes in the front yard.

We spent the afternoon playing with their kids while the adults talked about what happened in the “Big One.”  Rather than sleep in the truck, my brother and I decided to sleep in their front yard in a tent.  That night the biggest of the many aftershocks hit, and I was certain the ground would open up and suck us in.  All the houses in the neighborhood emptied out into the street.

A day or so later, we headed home.  Our trip was quite an adventure.  We saw many new things and even got to experience an earthquake.  All of us wrote about it as part of our homework assignments that fall.

1960’s

The Outhouse

The town was slowly putting its past behind it.  Modern conveniences were replacing the modern conveniences of the past and the residents were accepting a new modern age.  Gone were the ice boxes, replaced by refrigerators.  Washbasins became antiques and washing machines became necessities.  Aspen was beginning to be a real town with a modern feel about it.  This was not the first time as changes seemed to happen with the arrival of every new generation.  That brings us to the first half of our adventure.

Although most of the homes in town had full utilities including plumbing for decades by now, there were still some remnants of the past in every neighborhood and it was time for many of them to go.  One such remnant was an old outhouse in the backyard of a home on Hyman Avenue between Aspen Street and Monarch Street.  It was not Francis Herron’s old house on the corner, the white Victorian that was always picture perfect.  It was her neighbor’s house on the east side of hers where the Snowflake Lodge eventually sat.  One summer day in the late 1960’s my father was asked to haul this old relic away; but, this was not the end of the story.  My father came by with the Michigan Loader and scooped it up. 

A short time later the outhouse arrived on the deck of Peter and Barbara Guy’s new home on Warren Creek Lane about three miles from town up towards Independence Pass.   The Guys were not home at the time, in fact they were out of town and the house sitter did not know what to make of the new arrival.  The outhouse remained on the deck long after Peter and Barbara returned home.   Eventually it had to be removed once they learned that their two boys had been using the outhouse for its intended purpose right there on the deck.

From there the Outhouse was moved to Arthur’s Restaurant on Main Street where it remained for many years serving as a decoration and later as a phone booth.  Soon after its arrival at Arthur’s it received a guest that stood watch for some time before finally succumbing to the elements, but that is the second half of my story.

The Minuteman

The curtain dropped for the final time and the High School play had completed a successful run.  I do not remember specifically what the play was about but it did include life sized Minutemen as props.

Late one evening while at home with the rest of my siblings and some friends from the neighborhood there was a commotion on our front porch.  We could see some people on the porch, but none of us had the courage to see what was going on.  As the noise calmed down one of the occupants on our porch remained, staring in through the closed drapes, never moving, just watching us.  When my parents came home they discovered one of the Minutemen from the play stationed on our porch.  Not long after we discovered that one of my cousin’s was to blame for our unwanted guest.

Like many things back then, this Minuteman’s own adventure was just beginning.  Late one evening my father took the statue out to the Guy’s home; yes, once again they would fall victim to one of my father’s many pranks.  The Minuteman was strategically placed on their deck just outside of their bedroom window.  Unknown to my father at the time, the Guys had experienced some recent bouts with unwanted prowlers; so, this prank would take on a much bigger level of success than ever expected.  When the Guys arrived home that evening, preparing to turn in for the night, Barbara noticed a “man” standing on her deck.  The details of what happened next are known only to the Guys but word did get back to my father of the success of his prank.   Once again, the occupant of the Guy’s deck was headed to Arthur’s.  For years after he stood guard in the outhouse.  Over time the elements eventually took their toll on the Minuteman and he was relieved of his duties and disappeared from his post.

Gone but not forgotten

Eventually Arthur decided the outhouse had to go.  He was doing some renovation and the newly upgraded restaurant did not include plans for the outhouse.  By now the Minuteman was long gone and the Outhouse needed a new home.  Once again my father was called upon to move this relic of the past to a new location on Aspen Mountain, Little Nell to be specific.  It was to serve as part of the “Ski Coral” at the base of Little Nell.  From there no one can recall where it went or what happened to it.

Summer 1964

When the streets were originally plotted in the downtown area their location was more of a concern than how level they were or where the water would go after a good storm.  Back then the residents would either wade through the mud or take an alternate, dryer route.  As Aspen became “civilized” the city fathers were quick to put in a good sewer and water system.  The main streets were surfaced or paved while the side streets remained pretty much as they had been for decades.  By the mid-1960’s there were still many streets that remained unpaved or were without any sort of drainage system to remove the water from the summer rains or the spring run-off from the hills above.

At the time, we were living at Garmisch and Hopkins, just across the street from Paepcke Park.  I remember in 1964 Aspen went through a very wet summer with one rain storm right after another.  That year things would just get dried out only to be drenched once again.  At the time neither Garmisch nor Hopkins were paved, and there were no storm drains.  The lowest spot in our neighborhood was on Garmisch, next to Main Street, as well as out into Paepcke Park.  That year the water would collect in that location covering the street with three feet of water at the deepest part.  One third of the park was also flooded.  With the rains still falling the puddle looked more like a pond or lake. 

All the kids in the neighborhood showed up to play in the water.  We watched with amazement as a person approached in their car and attempted to cross the expanse of water.  With the exception of a few trucks most had to be pushed or pulled out of the abyss.  The water stayed for about a week before draining off naturally, all the while the kids played in the muddy waters until summoned home for dinner each day.

The following year the city hired my father to add a storm drain to the intersection and re-contour Garmisch to eliminate the low spot and make the intersection a little more gradual when turning on or off Main Street.  For the kids, we were sorry to see the improvements as they called them.  Over time all of the streets were paved, storm drains were added and the steep approaches to Main Street from the side streets were filled in.  Luckily enough, the following summer the Smuggler Lodge, next door to our house, added a swimming pool and we were allowed to use it in exchange for my father helping to maintain it.  But, it was still not the same as the giant mud puddle we all enjoyed the previous year.

Circa 1966

Summers were quiet in Aspen back in the 1960’s and 70’s compared to the busy winter months, but that is not to say the town was “dead.”  Back then as it is now most of the construction work had to be packed in just a few months between spring and fall.  People worked hard in order to get everything done before the first snowfall of the year.  With hard work came the need to play just as hard.  Sometimes the playfulness was ferocious but not necessarily filled with common sense.

My father knew how to make the most of things.  He could find fun in everything he did, and does to this day.  From my earliest years I do not remember a time when my father did not have a keg of beer tapped and ready in his garage refrigerator.  By age 6 I was very accomplished at tapping a new keg and that was back when you had to drive a long stainless steel spear down into the keg with the oxygen and dispensing hoses attached.  Every time I drove that spear in I would get a face full of beer, Coors of course.

Many afternoons after the work was done my father and a group of friends would show up to unwind over a couple of beers.  Often that led to other activities which in today’s society would be very much frowned upon, but back then it was all in good fun.  My father’s friends used to tell me that by age seven I could fill a pitcher from the tap better than any bartender in town.  I wear that badge with honor to this day.

A “Kegerator” was not all that was installed in my father’s garage.  For a number of years he also had a shooting range which consisted of a wooden box mounted to a steel plate attached to the far end of the garage.  The back of the box had a steel plate angled down so that the bullets would pass through the targets, hit the metal plate and ricochet into a 50 gallon drum of sand below.  As far as I knew back then all men’s garages had these amenities.  These afternoon parties did not stop there; these intrepid men were always coming up with new ideas.  I remember one Friday afternoon “get together” led to the planning of a party that to this day is still brought up as one of those “good ol’ days” events.

The following weekend our house was in full swing by 6:00am.  Mom was working on a Mexican feast big enough to feed 200 people.  This feast was to include all manner of Mexican cuisine, most of which my mother had learned to cook during our many vacations in Mexico.  By 9:00am our driveway was filled with an old car or two which my father had just picked up at the dump.  With a few extra kegs, 10 I think, which had arrived earlier in the week the preparations were nearly complete.  By 2:00pm the party was going strong, I was filling pitchers and delivering them to our guests as fast as I could with no end in sight.  With a few hours of beer consumption behind them the real activity began in earnest.  Those cars in the driveway were about to be the object of attention.  Each person took their swings with a sledgehammer at the cars, slowing reducing them to rubble.  At some point in the evening even the local police stopped by to see what was up, but the party went on.  By the end of the night the cars were completely destroyed with parts and pieces all over the driveway.  The kegs were empty as was the liquor cabinet in the house.  With the exception of a few sopapillas, none of the food remained as the crowd dwindled down to just a few last guests.  I am not sure what time the last guest left, but one thing I am sure of was that my father had gone to bed long before the end of the party.  My father was known for sneaking off to bed well before the last guest left any of his parties.  He even resorted to going a few blocks away in his car if he needed to in order to ensure that he was not discovered and expected to return to the party.

The next morning my father showed up with his loader and scrapped up all the pieces and parts of the cars.  He loaded them into one of his trucks and took them back to the dump.  The house was clean and the back yard all picked up by noon.  Then life returned to normal, at least until the next Friday.