You Know You’re from Scottsbluff If …

There is a big new trend on Facebook: hometown nostalgia pages. The one I'm interested in, You Know You're from Scottsbluff If ..., has become so popular I can't keep up with all the posts.

Not surprisingly, food figures prominently in the discussions. It's not for nothing that the Nebraska city was once named one of the fattest in the country. It seems people scattered around the world savor the memory of  Scotty's burgers and fries, rumbas, a rum flavored Coke beverage from the Dash In (Dash Out to the Dash In), and Taco Town.

Of course, non-food things are also remembered such as the elevator at Penneys when Penneys was downtown, stores staying open late every Thursday, the zoo being free, and a hair salon which used its phone number in a catchy radio jingle that remains entrenched in our minds four decades later (Six Three Two, Thirty-Two Ten, The Barber Den).

I only lived eight years in Scottsbluff, compared to 22 in Denver, which I consider my home town. But I have to admit that those eight years were formative, and since I was graduated from high school there, I suppose Sco-blo deserves at least honorary hometown status.

In the 70s (maybe still today), bluffers were a very proud people. We were different from, better than, the rest of Nebraska which was flat and humid and boring. Our town was built, along with twin city Gering, at the base of the magnificent bluff where trapper Hiram Scott was said to have died in the 1840s. Easterners (that is, people from Omaha and Lincoln) had no idea what a treasure existed way out in the panhandle.

 Scottsbluff wasn't huge but it had two TV stations (both now defunct, I think), an airport, traffic jams (when you had to wait for a long coal train at the crossing), movie theatres, a symphony, an art center, and lots of shopping which attracted those unfortunates who lived in smaller panhandle towns. Around 1980 when the mall opened we thought we were really big stuff.

Scottsbluff was a good place to be a kid. You could ride your bike everywhere including the zoo and the movie theatre. There were enough people there to make a lot of friends, but few enough that you always saw someone you knew when you were out.

Certainly there was no anonymity. Corporal Paul Manley of the Nebraska State Patrol (who had his  own radio spots – think the Shane Company but about driving safely) went to our church and reported to my mother that I'd run a stop sign. Yeesh. There was another time when I was goofing around in the street with a friend and a woman yelled out her front door, "Bill Calkins, does your mother know what you're doing?" I'm not going to say what it was. You'll have to guess.

Coming out as gay in Scottsbluff was very public regardless of whether I wanted it to be. Like all small communities, tongues wagged. Minds weren't always open and many of us fled at the first opportunity. I couldn’t wait to escape to the urban east, Lincoln, where indeed I did experience more diversity. I've since learned, however, that closed minds and gossip aren't limited to Scottsbluff or small towns in general. You can find ignorance everywhere.

I suppose we get nostalgic about hometowns because they help define who we are. The common experiences of a having shared a high school, dragging Broadway, and eating cabbage burgers at Bailey's Town and Country unites many of us who otherwise would have very little in common.

Bailey's and the Dash In no longer exist. But I understand Scotty's is just as good as ever. I feel a road trip coming on ...

Postblog from the Southwest: The Definition of Diversity

I get so offended when people from the west coast lump Colorado in with the Midwest – as if Ohio and the Centennial State have anything in common. Colorado is a land of cowboys, high plains, desert, and rugged mountains. Of course, if you live in California, it's just part of that great flyover which is of no consequence.

Please spare me the comments about how all Californians don’t think that way. I know that. I’m just using a little hyperbole to make a point.

Also, just to be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the Midwest. I think Ohio is beautiful. It’s just that I take offence when others dismiss the flyover as one vast homogeneous region where diversity is as foreign as the ocean tides.

In my travels around Colorado trying to visit every state park, I’ve seen a lot of variety. I have to grudgingly admit that the northeast, say Fort Morgan and Sterling, look kind of Midwestern, with corn and wheat fields and just that touch of humidity. Southeast Colorado is high plains hot and dry and though I’ve never been there, I imagine it resembles west Texas, which after all, is not that far away.

This week, I’m vacationing in the four corners part of the state which, in terms of U.S. regions, belongs solidly in the Southwest.

One need look no further than some of the pueblo architecture in these parts to be reminded that this used to be Spanish territory. Spanish names dot the map and descendents of the Spanish as well as the more indigenous people are everywhere, a reminder that these Americans’ roots go way deeper and further back than my own.

Visiting the ancient cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde remind me that though we think history in this hemisphere only started about 1800 or so, there have actually been prosperous people with complex social and technological constructs for many centuries before.

If you really want a taste of the Southwest, just visit the Four Corners Monument, a marker at the point where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah all meet. This interesting geographical occurrence, despite belonging to four states, is truly out in the middle of nowhere. This is desert with a capital D. To my eye it’s lifeless and barren, though the local Navajo selling food and jewelry at the monument would probably disagree. I seek the shade of a jewelry stand and buy a beautiful hematite necklace. I’m on the Arizona side of the marker, so I can say I bought this jewelry from a Navajo woman in Arizona. Don’t I sound well traveled?

Literally (sort of) burned out by the desert, I drive about 90 minutes and up several thousand feet into the green, lush pine and aspen forests of the San Juan range. This is more like what outsiders think Colorado looks like with its jagged peaks and breathtaking vistas. This year there’s been a lot of rain so everything is very green. Early in the morning, plumes of mist rise from the slopes like ghosts. At some points frustrated by the summer traffic, of course, I’m tempted to say that the San Juans look like the back of a camper and smell like diesel. But then I arrive in Silverton which is a truly historic town, preserved much as it was a hundred or more years ago. Unlike some other Colorado towns with their fake Victorian gingerbread looking facades, Silverton is the real thing. A piece of hot apple pie a la mode at the Brown Bear Cafe tops off the high drive in the mountains.

Those of us living on the Front Range are similar to my acquaintances on the west coast. We are at best ignorant and at worst dismissive of other parts of our state. There is a whole big Colorado out here which we should get to know. From the Southwest to the Midwest, Colorado is the very definition of diversity.

Nose Hair Signals That the End is Near

It's a delicate operation. One false move and it hurts. A lot. Using tweezers would be worse. I use little tiny scissors which don't take out the whole hair, root and all, but merely trim it down so I have to do it again in a few days. 

Lately, I've noticed something new. Some of the nostril hairs that I’m trimming are white. And that's just the tip of the ice berg. I have lots of white hair in other places.  Where did it all come from?  The hair in my ears is white. My beard has been white for a long time. My chest hair is turning white. The only place it's not white is on top of my head, and that's only because there really isn't much there.

It's not like I'm surprised to be getting older. True, I forget my exact age sometimes and have to subtract the year I was born from the current year. Really, objectively, I feel lucky to be getting old. By many measures, I shouldn't have survived this long. But here I am, saving for my retirement, wondering if universal health care will be a reality by the time I stop working.

I always told myself I'd age gracefully, without complaint, without regrets. Age is just a number, I always thought. I should welcome age and the wisdom it brings. Instead, I find myself continually surprised that the years are creeping up on me - and the decades are flying by.

Coming of age moments happen all the time.

For example, I occasionally go to the Village Inn near my office for breakfast. I've noticed that the same old guys are in there every morning. They talk with the servers like true pals, and say hello to each other by name. More often than not, the server doesn't even need to ask what they want to eat. She just brings it out. Kind of like how Betty knows to always bring me a coffee, no cream, and a large water. I kind of laughed at these old guys until it slowly dawned on me that I AM ONE OF THEM.

Face it: getting older is tough. Here are some of the frustrations I'm having as I age gracefully:

• Things I did to my body years ago are coming back to haunt me. I’ll spare you the details.
• I can't see.
• My memory isn’t exactly slipping, but I vividly recall a meal I had in 1987 - and I can’t remember anything about yesterday.
• I'm watching my friends age too. How can they look so much older while I still look the same?
• I'm working with people half my age who, for example, don't know the origination of the "cc" in email (if you're younger than 35, I should tell you that we used to type each letter by hand, using carbon paper to make carbon copies (hence the cc) because we couldn’t just print another document.
•  When predictions of a disastrous future are made, it is with guilty relief that I think to myself how great it is that I'll be dead before it happens.

Which brings me to the most startling thing about getting older. It is the thing that nobody talks about: the realization that you are going to die. With more than half your life behind you, time is limited. If you've always wanted to do something, now is the time to do it.

It's just a shame that I have to spend the rest of my life trimming unwanted hair from my facial orifices.

Machines Replacing People in Everyday Interactions

Every couple of months, I use this blog to spout off about technology. The occasion for this particular spout is that I just got a new GPS for my car. The Global Positioning System is a little gadget that plugs into the car's electric outlet (you know - the thing that used to be the cigarette lighter but isn't any more). A little screen shows me where I am and a voice tells me where I should be going.

It's one of those things we couldn't have imagined a few years ago and makes me think, as I often do, that we are living in the future.

The GPS speaks to me in a casual business-like female voice. I've started to call her Blanche. She really helps me out. Gone are the days when I have to mess around with a paper map and its complicated folds.

Of course, Blanche isn't perfect. In Vail with my sister recently, I decided to have Blanche direct us to a particular Mexican restaurant we were interested in. Blanch guided us to some empty lot on the frontage road which was clearly not a restaurant. My sister was not impressed with my gadget.

Blanche isn't the only new interaction I've been having with machines.

Since the classes I took earlier this year didn't work out, I'm attempting to learn Spanish from a computer program. If you pass by my place at just the right time, you'll hear me talking to simulated virtual people who only exist in software. They are Norman, Claudia, and Isabel. They always understand me in spite of my accent, and they are endlessly patient, allowing me to repeat each lesson as many times as I want.

Blanche and Isabel are not real people, of course, but sometimes I forget that. When Blanche reminds me just one too many times that I will need to turn right in a quarter mile, I sometimes call her a bad name. If I miss the turn, Blanche sounds just the slightest bit annoyed when she says, "Recalculating..." and attempts to get me back on track.

Technology pervades. Who goes anywhere without a cell phone? We use ATMs to interact with our bank and we check out our own groceries at the supermarket without even thinking about it. I can go all day without speaking to another human. And then there are the many times when my co-worker and I instant message each other though we sit only 10 feet apart.

I see where the Japanese are developing robots to take care of elderly people. Is this the companionship we have to look forward to in our old age? Yeah yeah, it's easy to complain about technology, but it really can help us. The Japanese robots, for example, will enable people to live more independently for a longer period of time.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I contribute to technological depersonalization. In my day job as an Instructional Designer, I write curriculum that can be accessed from any computer in the company. Web based training at your own desk at your own speed is more efficient and requires much less interaction with other people. Whether that's a good thing is debatable. Hey, I didn't start  the depersonalization of technology, I'm just making money off of it.

Animals Have Souls

Of all the ridiculous nonsense religious people have spread throughout the centuries, one item in particular stands out. It first came to my attention when I was in about the sixth grade and my Sunday school teacher, a guy named Gary, pronounced with certainty that animals don't have souls.

Of course I knew he was wrong. Anyone who has been close to an animal, I thought way back then, would know old Gar was mistaken. In my case, it was a little black dog named Gyp who communicated with her eyes.

It wasn't the first or last time that an authority figure at church bombarded me with bullshit. But this one really got to me.

What you believe about a being's soul reflects how much you value said being. If you believe animals (or slaves, or women, or Russians...) don't have souls, it's easier to treat them badly.
I would like to think I value my fellow beings of all species.

Some people carry the value to extremes – by never eating another creature, or promoting animal rights above all other considerations. I don't go that far. While I wouldn't say that my life has intrinsically more value than any other, I also can’t deny that some life forms eat others. If you don't believe me, turn on one of the National Geographic predator documentaries.

Betty White, known for her decades long devotion to animals (oh, and something about a career in TV comedy), says that she's not interested in animal rights. Her concern is animal welfare. I think I'm with her. I want my cats well fed and comfortable. I don't think every right I have needs to be available to them. For example, what would they do with the right to vote?

I have so many food allergies, I couldn’t be a vegetarian even if I wanted to be. I'm not going to stop eating meat, but given a choice, I'll eat the animal that was ethically raised and humanely killed.

Somewhere I heard that some indigenous Americans thank the spirit of the animal before eating it.

I tried to thank a chicken after removing frozen parts from their plastic encased styrofoam container. It kind of fell short of the magnificent spiritual experience I'd envisioned.

Studies have shown that people who beat animals are more likely to act violently to other humans. I assume this means that respecting animals also increases our capacity to respect each other.

I HATE Talking on the Phone

When the device in my pocket beeps or vibrates, I moan with dread. As I write this, I’m interrupted by a call from a worthy nonprofit wanting to pick up my cast off furniture with their truck, my alma mater suggesting that I increase my annual giving, and a pollster about the Denver mayor’s race. Those are the ones I answer. Most others go unanswered because they don’t show up on caller ID.

Thank goodness for caller ID. There are probably two people on this earth for whom I would answer any call, any time: my sister and my father. Unless I’m in an exceptional mood, the rest go to voice mail.

Thank goodness for voice mail.

Of course with voice mail, you have to return the call. I am terrible at returning calls. If you've called me and I haven't called back, I apologize. You are not alone. It's nothing personal. I'm not sure what the problem is.

I don't dislike most people. I like my friends. I just don't want to talk on the phone. I don't mind talking in person. Usually. I love email and texting. But the phone conversation is a problem.

Phones are everywhere in our lives. People use their cells out in public while standing in line or walking down the street. A man I dated once spent the entire evening on the phone. We didn't go out again.

I've heard guys talking on their phones in public restrooms. I go out of my way to flush loudly when encountering that situation.

Previous generations only used the phone for emergencies. If the phone rang in the middle of the night, you wanted to know who died. I miss those days.

If I do get roped into a conversation, I like it short and sweet. What is the plan, what needs to be done, what do you want from me, goodbye.

Chit chat? Let's save that for our "in person" time.

I don't know where my hang-up originated (hang-up - get it? har har har). Perhaps it goes back to the time I worked as a switchboard operator when I was between "career jobs."  I had to answer by the third ring, route to voice mail, take a message, juggle people on hold, and handle multiple calls at once.  I was not allowed to eat or go to the bathroom. After working the phone under such pressure perhaps I burned out.

Perhaps it goes back even further to when the homophobic aunt I didn't like called and my dad insisted that everyone in the family take a turn talking to her. He literally chased me around the house with the phone because I refused. I finally hid under a bed. True story.

I met a guy once who didn't have a phone. Talk about a lifestyle choice. He didn't want it controlling his life. And the little parasites do control our lives. What other instrument is allowed to interrupt whatever you are doing? What else demands that you drop everything and respond to its beckoning? For what else do we wake up from a nap, stop dinner, put down our work, or interrupt a face to face conversation?

I really can't explain why I have this strong anti-phone reaction while most people don’t.

It's probably some manifestation of social anxiety. Maybe I'm just contrary.

I’ve always tried to fight it and get over it, but I’m getting to an age where I think I should just accept it as an eccentricity and hope my friends understand.

If you have any ideas, give me a call. Better yet, text me.

Postblog from the Arkansas Valley: Cramming a Lot of River into One Weekend

Arkansas Headwaters Official Page

Lake Pueblo Official Page

John Martin Reservoir Official Page

In a manic effort to see as many state parks as possible this summer, I decided to hit three this past weekend.

I don’t recommend it. It’s a lot of driving. One inch on my AAA map is actually a pretty long distance.

I had a lot of time to think in the car. I kept wondering if people call Southern Colorado, “SoCo.”

A lot of people shorten the names of places in Colorado. Everyone knows that “The Springs” is short for Colorado Springs. If you’re from Grand Junction, you might refer to your hometown as “Junction.” Likewise, I’ve heard people call Fort Morgan, “Morgan.” But I’ve never heard Fort Collins referred to as “Collins.” I have heard it called “Fort Fun.” There’s also the popular “LoDo” for Lower Downtown Denver. Some people call Aurora, “Saudi Aurora,” but that’s a different topic, a comment on the number of trees or lack thereof in the sprawling suburbaplex (I just now made up that word).

If you’re expecting a travelogue about my visits to the state parks, you may be disappointed.

To tell you the truth I tried to cram too much in. I was too busy worrying about the drive to enjoy the parks adequately. Sure, they’re all real pretty and interesting in their individual ways. Basically I followed the Arkansas River from its spectacular headwaters high in the mountains (Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area) down to the city of Pueblo (Lake Pueblo State Park) and out to the lowland plains (John Martin State Park).

Presumably, if I’d kept on going I’d have followed the river through Kansas, Oklahoma, and I suppose into the state of Arkansas, right to the Mississippi River.

In case I didn’t get it before, I’m positive now that the Arkansas is a major river. It cuts through SoCo’s near desert landscape like a wide ribbon of green. Following along on Highway 50, windows down so I could smell the sweet spring air, I had the opportunity to see some towns I’d only heard of such as Rocky Ford (home of those incredibly sweet, juicy cantaloupes) and La Junta (where some of the natives say they live in “Lunta”).

The big city on the Arkansas, however, is Pueblo.

I’ve always liked Pueblo. It has real character. From rusting factories to modest southwest-style homes, it’s kind of a cross between Youngstown, Ohio, and Tucson, Arizona. There’s no phoniness in Pueblo. No districts of fake lofts, no faux gingerbread (come on Vail, it’s cute, but maybe you’ve overdone it). Just regular people, in a normal, unpretentious town.

The point of my State Parks venture isn’t just to visit the state parks but to explore the rest of my home state. I saw a big chunk of it over the weekend.

So with something like 38 state parks left, I’ll keep going, but I’ll try to plan the driving a little better.