Have you ever noticed how kids always want to go to the bathroom every time you go out for dinner or to any location outside of your home?  Well I was no exception and my kids have perfected my childhood  bathroom proclivities.

As a little boy I was known for always going to the bathroom no matter where we found ourselves.  That is not to say I wore diapers for my entire youth, rather I was so well potty trained that I never met a bathroom I did not like, or at least want to check out.   My brother and sisters spared no effort in giving me a hard time about it and no matter how hard I tried not to, I could not resist a visit to a bathroom especially after boredom had set in, which was often the case when dining out.

If time permitted I would make multiple trips to the bathroom during a single visit out.  Visits to friends and family member’s homes were no different but they definitely smelled better than the public restrooms, well sometimes.

The worst thing to happen to a “bathroom aficionado” like me was during one of our many family vacations.  I am not sure where we were or what highway we were on, it really does not matter, but we came up on a flat bed truck with about a dozen “port-a-potties” loaded on it.  Before I could even try and change the subject or diffuse the situation it happened.

“Look dad!  There are a bunch of potties, we better pull over so Doug can use them all” followed by a round of laughter that was hardly funny if you ask me.  Cindy, my oldest sister, had once again created a problem for me that I am yet to live down.

This not to say I stopped my bathroom inspections following that incident, in fact the whole Port-a-potty industry is conspiring against me to this very day.  I would have more to discuss on this topic but I am off to the bathroom, I hear they renovated the one down the hall.

1965 – 1970

We have all made mistakes over the years and I am certainly no exception.  Like the scene in “A Christmas Story”, I have fallen victim to my own errors in judgment when it comes to putting my tongue on a frozen pipe only to have it stick there.  This and many other adventures took place at the old Aspen Elementary School on Bleeker Street.  The doors on the west end of the school had metal hand-rails on both sides of the steps and as kindergartners it was that door that we waited each morning to enter the school. 

I did put my tongue on the frozen pipe but I was not the only one, names like Stapleton, Comkowich, Hoffman, Wirth and many more could also claim the same act of stupidity.  Suffice to say, it was not the last time any of us did but all the other times were on “dares.”

The playground on the Elementary School was filled with fun year round but in the winter it took on a new dimension.  Big snow piles courtesy of the City of Aspen, Street Department as well as Frank Garish and the crew at the school.  There were usually more than one pile so the “upper classmen, you know, the third graders” did not toy with the younger kids or bully them around.  On a good snow storm my father would come by with his “snow blower” that the City of Aspen leased every winter and build a few piles in a matter of seconds.  At the time these piles seemed like they were 40 feet tall when in reality they were probably no more than three of four feet.

The kids immediately set out to carve slides in to them or play a mean game of “King of the Hill.”  The girls often complained that the boys dominated the hills and when the teachers came out to reserve a hill for the girls they were met with a near riot.  You don’t mess with a gang of elementary school boys. 

Now days snow piles like that would be a lawsuit waiting to happen but back then they were just good, clean fun.  Gone are the days filled with danger on the elementary school playgrounds.

July 1975

This summer day started out like any other, a quick breakfast, and a few chores and out came the scanner.  I used to listen to the scanner, monitoring Denver Center and the Aspen Airport frequencies.  Listening to all the comings and goings of private and commercial aircraft was a favorite hobby of mine.  I even kept a log of the aircraft to see how often they visited our airport.  Soon my log began to show how often the jets of major oil companies were visiting.  Atlantic Richfield, Conoco, Amoco and Texaco were frequent visitors as were jets belonging to CBAS, NBC, Chrysler and Executive Jets International (the company that is now known as NetJets) with their red and blue strips around the fuselage.

Over the summer I got to know Donnie Barr and the rest of the crew in the control tower and they would let me come up and sit quietly in the back and watch all the activity.  During times of slow or no traffic they even let me play with the radar displays.

On this day I had already made plans to go spend a few hours in the tower with Donnie’s blessings and I was unaware of the activities about to unfold.  My mom gave me a ride out to Sardy Field around 10:00am and dropped me off, promising to come get me around noon.

It all started quietly enough, a few small aircraft were in and out along with the constant departure of Dieter Bibbig’s gliders and tow planes.  Around 11:00 N31WS dropped in to take John Denver off to a far off place.  Just as John, his dad and a few other passengers were boarding the Learjet, a call came over the approach frequency – N180AR, a Gulfstream II was inbound.  Minutes later N179AR, a Sabreliner 65, was also inbound.  Things were picking up.  Then another call came in, a less frequent visitor was inbound.  Gulfstream II, N400M, belonging to Daniel Flour or Flour Corporation was about 10 minutes out and was requesting priority handling.  Unknown to me, the tower controllers were expecting this visitor and the Gulfstream was granted the handing they requested.  A call went out to N31WS and all the other aircraft moving about on the ramp to shut down their engines and hold at their present positions.

N180AR and N179AR had landed at this point and were in the process of parking down at the far ramp near the newly completed passenger terminal.  There were all kinds of vehicles and activities down on the ramp where a number of other Atlantic Richfield jets were already parked.  The vehicles included a number of local police, sheriff and unmarked law enforcement cars, all surrounding the arriving aircraft.

As N400M landed it, too, headed for the far ramp and parked a good distance from any of the other aircraft.  Suddenly, the law enforcement vehicles all converged on the arriving Gulfstream.  As all of this unfolded I kept asking Donnie what was going on and never received an answer.  

Almost like clockwork a couple of passengers disembarked from N400M and immediately sped away in the unmarked vehicles.  Minutes later the ramp looked deserted with the exception of a few of the police cars that remained by the jet, guarding it.

After the commotion died down, Donnie looked at me and told me that the wife of the Shah of Iran, Shabanu, Empress of Iran, Farah Diba Pahlavi, had come to town to speak at the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies as an invited guest of Robert O. Anderson, then Chairman of Atlantic Richfield (ARCO).  Donnie offered to let me stay the rest of the day of which I was delighted.  A quick call to my mom not to pick me up and I was there for the rest of the day, Donnie even gave me a ride home.

John Denver’s pilot was his father, Henry John Deutschendorf Sr., a decorated Air Force Pilot who was known for his flying abilities as well as his quick temper, informed the controllers of his displeasure with the “ground hold.”  Donnie said nothing to him about what had just gone on.

The departure of N400M around 4:00PM that afternoon went off with the same amount of security and special handling we had witnessed that morning.  It was not until a few days later that anybody outside of the Institute knew of her visit.  Things in Iran were starting to heat up and the need for tight security around her was necessary. 

In 1979 the Shah fell from power.  Over the years, I spent a lot of time hanging out in the tower until security rules changed and my visits were no longer permitted.

1968 – 1973 

Al Prechtel lived across from us on Hopkins Street.  He had worked for many years in our family grocery store as a “jack of all trades” and prior to that he served in the US Navy during WW II and was a survivor on the USS Arizona in Hawaii.  He was one of those people who could do anything with his hands from fixing bicycles and appliances to building anything out of wood.

As a child I loved to go over to his house to look at the train layout he had built in his basement.  It was a cramped space, and yet he built the most amazing layout.  He always lamented on what he could really build if only he had the room to do it.  At the same time my brother had a big, eight- foot by twelve-foot table in our basement with some Lionel tracks tacked down to it that he never used.  I asked my parents if we (Al & I) could build a layout in our basement and got approval.

Al and my dad flipped the table over and construction began.  Al was like a child in a candy store.  He finally had the room to build a real layout.  For the entire summer of 1968 Al would come over after work and we would toil away as the diorama took shape.  We did not pattern it after anything specific as many do; we just wanted it to have tunnels, curves, a rail yard and even a Turn Table and Engine House.  Al was the expert when it came to laying the tracks, really on everything,  and became very accomplished at building papier-mâché mountains.  We built the main track using “H.O.” scale tracks and related engines and cars.  Al even managed to have two separate zones, so more than one train could run at the same time even in opposite directions.

As the route took shape I focused on the mountains and how they would be decorated.  I created  a number of mines with working “N” gauge engines and cars that would go in and out of the mine tunnels.  I had a “Boot Hill” perched just above the town, not far from the closest road we had constructed on the valley floor.

Even after completion Al continued with his afternoon visits throughout the winter, making tweaks where ever necessary and to just sit back and watch the fun he had created.  By the following summer Al did not drop by all that often.  His focus had changed to rebuilding every broken or abandoned bicycle he could get his hands on.

I remained close with Al over the years immediately following our construction project, that was until 1972 when we picked up our house and moved it to the west end of town.  Moving the giant layout became a daunting task.  First, we tried to cut it in half and move it that way; but, we soon learned the layout would be a victim of the move.  We offered Al the first pick at anything he wanted (which was quite a bit), and sold the rest of the parts and pieces off to other collectors.

Al offered to help me build a new train layout in our new location but that was vetoed by my parents.  They had hopes of finishing the big room downstairs and the table would have been in the way.  I think Al enjoyed building these kinds of things more than the operation of them after the fact. 

As I got older I lost track of “Mr. Prechtel” and do not recall if he stayed in Aspen much longer or not.  Looking back I wish I would have learned more about the man and his past.

“Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting”

1974 (8^th Grade)

Kathy Chaloupka, our middle school gym teacher, would spend three months each fall teaching all forms of dance including the Waltz, the Bus Stop (Disco), Country Swing and anything else that was popular at the time.  At first the kids scoffed at the notion of dancing in gym class, but after the first few days it became the highlight of the afternoon for many of us.  For some of us, we saw it as a sanctioned event for us to hang and dance with our girlfriends without the usual “ribbing” from our friends or consternation form the teachers.

As young teenagers we all became very proficient at dancing in all the various styles.  Disco was just getting started as the latest dance rage in the early 1970’s and when the class got to that dance style many of us believed that there was nothing to be taught to us that we did not already know.  Our waltzing skills carry us forward throughout our lives, not that we have much call for that dance style these days.  As for the Country Swing, turns out the basics she taught in elementary school were the building blocks to a great life of “swinging” that I still do to this day.

Near the end of the fall quarter Ms. Chaloupka split us into groups of three or four and instructed us to come up with our own dance routine to share with the rest of the class on our final week.  I was paired up with Dean Stapleton and Gary Hudson.  Gary had all the right moves and wanted us to do a routine to a song that was big in the day, “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting” by Carl Douglas.

With a little debate Dean and I agreed to go with it and it was up to Gary to come up with the moves.  By the time it was all finished; with a few extra hours in the gymnasium after school we had a routine.  It included a lot of Disco moves, summersaults and what little we knew of Kung Fu moves.  “Us cats were fast as lightning with expert timing….”

On the day of the class presentation we were lucky enough to go last, Kathy had secretly seen our routine, and we pulled it off.  Little did we know that Kathy even signed us up to do it again for the entire school at the next “Pep Rally.”  Again it went off without a single mistake.

Ever since I decided to write this story I have had the song stuck in my head and I offer the same to you,

“Everybody was Kung Fu fighting
Those cats were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit frightening-hell yes!
But they fought with expert timing

Oh–ho-ho-ho Kung Fu Fighting
Hands and feet as fast as lighting

Oh-ho-ho-ho-huuh!
Oh-ho-ho-ho-ha!
Oh-ho-ho-ho-ha
Keep on-Keep on-Keep on
Oh-ho-ho-ho
Yeah-Yeah”

Enjoy!

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https://www.createspace.com/3457189

Be sure to use the following discount code and save $2.00 on your order.  Code: DA2FXBES

It can also be ordered through your local book store, have them order it using the following ISBN Number: 978-1-4528-9565-9

Our old Victorian house had a clothes chute that had been added during one of its many renovations over the years and the kids in our family loved to play in it.  We dropped all manner of clothes, toys and even food down the chute, all of it landing in the catch bin in the basement.   The chute also had an opening on the main floor of the house and we would try to catch things as they went by, usually without success.

Aside from the usual hazards of falling to the bottom or the nails sticking through, we often tried to go down the chute or climb up it at least as far as the first floor.  We even waited just inside the chute at the first floor level for our mom to open the door to drop something down it only to have one of us looking out in an effort to scare the living daylights out of her.  No matter how many times we did it to her it was always a big laugh, at least for us if not for our mom.

The opening to the chute on the second floor was a simple door that opened up and it made it very convenient for accessing the chute.  It was also a real easy way to get rid of any “evidence” from childhood activities that our parents did not support.

Another benefit of the chute was that the opening on the first floor was in our kitchen where our parents spent 90 percent of their time when they were home.  This meant that we could eavesdrop on them and figure out what they were saying about us, for us or what they were planning to do to us.  This feature not only prepared us for impending punishment but also gave us warning if something bad was about to happen.  Unfortunately it also let us know about any surprise trips or gifts we were about to receive thus spoiling the surprises.

Over the years each of us probably climbed up the chute on more than one occasion and luckily enough none of us ever got stuck.  We did often emerge with good scrapes or scratches as well as enough splinters to make us float on water but we could not resist that chute.

1963

I was a very active child to say the least and kept my whole family wondering where all that energy could possibly be coming from.  What they did not know was that I have always enjoyed a good nap as the best source of new energy.  At the age of three I possessed more energy that ten three year olds and kept my parents on the go constantly.

That kind of energy required constant naps to “re-energize” and I was never one to refuse a nap as long as it was when I wanted to take one.  In the summer of 1963 during my daily activities I found myself playing in the “fort” under the basement stairs behind the clothes chute catch bin.  Over time my brother and sisters had turned this “fort“ or space into a secret hideout.  They had even managed to put a stack of old towels and clothes in there to make it more comfortable than the cold cement floor.

On this particular day I managed to squeeze my way into the “fort” for some fun and fell fast asleep.  When you are known for talking too much and being constantly underfoot, your absence does not go un-noticed for very long. 

I no time my mother called everyone she knew for help.  The word spread fast and soon, what seemed like half the town, everyone one was out looking for me.  Even my father and his crew left whatever construction site they were working on to join in the search.  Over a period of two hours they searched just about everywhere including in the clothes chute bin to no avail. 

After a good nap I emerged from the “fort” and headed back upstairs to a kitchen filled with friends and family.  The look on my mother’s face was one of relief as well as “once I know you are ok I am going to kill you!” 

With my whereabouts known it was time to celebrate.  My mother loved to tell that story and did so for the next 35 years.

1960’s & 70’s

Trips to Glenwood Springs used take a good hour or more in the sixties and seventies, long before the highway 82 re-alignments and the addition of multiple lanes that we see today.  At the same time, Glenwood had all the “big” chains that we needed to shop at on occasions, things you could not get in Aspen.  Places like F.W. Woolworths, Coast-to-Coast, Radio Shack, the Sears Catalog Store and even the local chain that eventually made it to Aspen, Bill Bullock’s.  Glenwood had other attractions too like, Dairy King (not a typo), Robo-Wash, A&W Drive-in and my favorite, The Spudnut Shop.  The Hot Springs Pool was an obvious attraction and few trips to Glenwood Springs did not include a visit to the pool.

“Mr. Spudnut”, the company mascot, frequently appeared in front of the store enticing all those who had not yet tried those potato based delights.  I remember Bill and his wife working all those years in the shop.  He always saved the Spudnut holes; they were never for sale as they were reserved for their best customers, kids! 

My family members were big fans of the A&W Drive-In and our trips to Glenwood Springs or just passing through included stops at both locations.  We used to come home with the gallon jugs of Root Beer and return them for a re-fill on our next trip.

In time each of those brands disappeared and were replaced with McDonalds, Wendy’s and the anchor stores out at the recently completed Glenwood Springs Mall in West Glenwood.  Bullocks could not survive against J.C Penny’s and the other clothing stores arriving in town during the 1970’s and beyond.

The A&W Building still stands and has gone through major changes over the years.  Everything else has long since disappeared from the Glenwood Springs landscape.

Long after the Spudnut Shop closed, I ran into Bill in Grand Junction.  We had a great time reminiscing about our visits to the shop.  It amazed me how he remembered so many of his former customer’s years after his retirement.  By the 1980’s the Spudnut Corporation went out of business but there are still a few stores in Colorado and around the US operating as independents.