Spending some time recently with old friends made me think back on my late teens and early 20s and while I'm first struck, naturally, by how vastly different life is now, but also some themes that still hold very true. I remember the excitement and anticipation of getting ready for a night out - music blaring, curling iron heating, cigarette burning in the ashtray, coffee cups littering the countertop, nag champa smoke swirling across the living room. Taking a deep breath and holding it in to be nice and steady while I put on my black eye liner thick and swooping gently at the corners of my eyes. The piles and piles of clothes strewn all over the bed and floor, the vow to put them all back before I left so I wouldn't have to deal with it when I got home in the wee hours of the morning (I never did). The realization that nothing fit right/looked good usually spurred me to make last minute alterations, rip off sleeves or dye my hair "really quick" but still, more often than not I would declare myself ready and grab my bag in my standard uniform of those days: vintage bell bottoms, fishnet socks, platform clogs or mary janes, a turtleneck or a t shirt of my own design and one of my many kimonos or vintage coats with fur trim. The car was always filled with excited, nervous energy as we sped off into the night, chattering away about crushes, break ups, unsubstantiated rumors, new music we wanted to tell each other about. Hoping that we had the right directions, that the good DJ was playing, that the boy we had been eyeing would be on our loop for the night (most of my friends back then were gay men, so a straight guy in that crowd was always a rare gem to behold and required our immediate and full attention). Laughing over a late dinner, maybe getting a coffee to bolster ourselves for the night ahead, certain that so and so said they'd be here/there/let us in through the back entrance so we could skip the line out front. More often than not those nights were filled with dancing and hijinks, drama and missing false eyelashes. Blistered feet. Missing bobby pins. Of all I remember from those days, the intense stomach pains from laughing that hard for hours on end still come back. We'd drag ourselves through the door early the next morning, commenting briefly on the beauty of the sunrise but not lingering on it too long - we'd be seeing another one soon, no doubt. We'd sigh and curse the piles of clothes, shoving them off the bed before collapsing on top of the blankets, face down on the pillows, trying to ignore the advice of all the magazines that sternly warned how going to bed with makeup on was the absolute cardinal sin.
Occasionally, though, plans would go awry. Details would get missed and the night would never materialize. The party would be a bust. The good DJ wouldn't be there. The crush, the one your friend swore was eyeing him for weeks? He's over there, hanging on someone else. The usually empty girls' bathroom (only in certain gay bars is that concept even possible) would be taken over to settle a dramatic domestic dispute. Since these were the days pre-GPS, a set of wrong directions and someone not answering a page or not having their gigantic cell phone on the dance floor could leave you hanging for hours. In those times it was easy to wallow, to lament about the time you'd spent primping and plotting, to feel dejected and skulk home, declaring the entire night a waste. But not us. When that happened we'd quickly regroup and head off to one of our usual haunts for food and treats, we'd make our way to the bar that didn't have a dance floor or the best music but everyone was friendly and you were always sure to run into someone you hadn't seen in ages. Like Cheers, but with glitter. And Cliff would be transitioning to his real self, Samantha. Now I'm reimagining Cheers as a gay bar and it's not so far off. Anyway, if the party was bad we'd spend the night camped out on the deck or the couch, giving commentary to the scene before us. Or we'd hole up in a bedroom, rummaging through coat pockets to see who could find the most interesting item (no, we never took anything). Or maybe we'd declare it a bust, admit defeat and end up on someone's couch, curled up together under a blanket watching our favorite old movies while we passed around hot sauce packets for our individual stockpiles of Taco Bell. Our motto on those nights, no matter how bleak, was, "At least we brought our own fun."
I've employed this mantra a lot as a parent. If ever there is a perfect recipe for things to go downhill quick, it most certainly includes detailed planning and children. Things don't work out all the time. Just like I remember feeling like a night surrounded by my best friends was still a great night, I feel the same about my little family. And so when things don't go as we'd like we pout, certainly, and stomp our feet in anger. Maybe we cry a little. And then we move on. Boring holiday party? Food taking forever? Flight delayed? Car broke down? At least we brought our own fun. I hope my kids will someday see this ability to be flexible, to see the hilarity, as the same invaluable life skill that I do.
We had big plans for this past weekend; the forecast was in the 50's on Saturday, with a snowstorm coming in on Sunday. Knowing that Saturday was going to be the perfect Colorado bluebird day, we decided to hit up a beautiful spot about 40 minutes from home to go snowshoeing. The
Lost Lake Trail is just a few minutes from downtown Nederland and only 20 miles or so from Boulder. It's an easy loop for kids and boasts a lot of beautiful views along the way. It sounded like just the thing. We all packed up and got in the car late morning, where the older boys dug into the snack bag as though they'd already been out on the trail for hours. As we headed north, the wind blew against the car and bent the bare tree branches along Highway 93. I hoped it would die down as we moved further along and made it into Coal Creek Canyon. Not so. All along the windy canyon roads the wind blew forcefully and I leaned back against the seat to close my eyes and let my stomach settle from the twisting roads. Whenever I get motion sick I always think back to long trips in the back seat of my grandparents' Chrysler where I had the unpleasant job of monitoring their old and incredibly squeamish dog, Beagle Bailey. The car window cracked, my Grandpa offering me up the small glass jar of lemon drops to help settle my stomach.
By the time we got to the trail head the wind had really kicked up. The street leading up to the trail was packed and we could see people walking off in that direction, snowshoes in hand but one look toward the peaks showed that telltale blanket of snow moving in. Still, we started to bundle everyone up in the way you do when you force yourself to be committed even though it seems like a not so great idea, not willing to let the drive be all for nothing. Once a happy baby boy was packed into his bunting and wrapped firmly in the carrier and the older boys had thrown on their snowpants and boots we set out, heading up the street. Almost immediately a gust of wind kicked up and blew tiny little pellets of ice straight at us. "AAAhhhhh!" we all yelled. Now the blowing little ice balls came steady, forcing big kids to shield their faces with their arms and frustrating a baby who wanted desperately to look around but had no choice and resigned himself to snuggle into my shoulder. We made it up to the trail head and I looked around, noticing that the ice balls were blowing almost completely horizontal at this point. Dejected, Chris and I looked at each other. This wasn't going to work. The older boys were disappointed but when we pointed out how miserable their little brother was they had to agree turning back was the smart choice.
They went on to check out the trail for a few minutes while I hustled a babe back to the car, the wind now coming at our backs, nudging us along. We jumped into the front seat and sat for a moment, breathless, our faces red and stinging, our eyes wide, gusts of wind rocking the car steadily. I held that baby tight, his hands cupped in mine as I breathed onto those frosty little fingers. Once everyone else had piled in the vibe was very anticlimactic. "So what? Now we just go home??" someone asked. Nope. We'd planned on surprising the boys with a trip to
The Carousel of Happiness in Nederland once we came off the trail and now it seemed like the quickest and fastest way to salvage the remainder of the day.
If you've never been or should ever find yourself in Nederland, Colorado, this is a must see. Each of the carousel animals was carved by hand, by one man. He started in, I believe, 1986 and just kept churning them out. Looking at each unique one up close, it's almost impossible to believe that they all start out from humble 2 x 4s. Each animal holds so many unexpected touches and intricate details; the llama in ballet slippers, the rabbit holding a globe. We plunked down enough cash for each boy to have three turns and they chose different animals each time around. Indy sat quietly with Dad, soaking it all in. I'd already used up all my circular motion points for the day and elected to sit the carousel out, snapping pictures and waving at the boys like a loon as they went around each turn.
Back outside I eyed our overflowing picnic basket and decided to give in fully to the day, get us out of the wind and treat us all to lunch. We headed to Boulder to what is, in my opinion, the most superior of all the gluten free/vegan friendly/dairy free/local spots - Fresh Thymes. If you live where it's hard to find restaurants that easily accommodate your diet, where you can generally just open a menu and pick something without a laundry list of modifications, then Boulder really is your place.
Shine,
Zeal and
Blooming Beets are all happily willing to cook you something that works with any restrictions and preferences but I just can't get that excited about them. Yes, the food is good and you can feel good about eating it, but I've just never really been WOWED after meals there. And by the time you shell out $70 to feed a family of five you come away thinking, "It was fine but I don't know...maybe I should have just cooked dinner." Not so at
Fresh Thymes. Their mac and cheese can stand on its own, but offers tons of add ins. Beautiful steak tacos, a burger that is made with local grass fed beef and cooked to perfection. Great vegetable sides to choose from, a decent beer menu and an incredible selection of treats make this place worth the trek. We had a great lunch and then I snuck next door to
Pekoe for a decaf Americano and a large black coffee for my husband to fuel us for the afternoon.
Once we'd all piled back into the car, the boys sharing their key lime tart with Indy and us sipping our hot coffee in the front seat, someone asked, "So home now?" NO! We headed out of Boulder, along Highway 93, the road that leads us back to Golden and one of my absolute favorite drives. Just outside of Boulder we turned west into Eldorado Canyon. Just then the sun seemed to intensify a bit and the wind died down as we wound down towards Eldorado Springs. The parking lots for the trails were filling up and we noticed that here, there was no snow on the ground. Once you go through town, past the pool, you make it to
Eldorado Canyon State Park. This place holds so much love for all of us. It was my favorite hike to do with the boys when I was hugely pregnant and I still recall the day we went further...and higher, than we ever had before when from above me, Flynn stopped, turned and called down to me, "Should you be up here, Mom?" I looked down and realized, that no, I should definitely not be up that high, unsteady enough on stable, flat ground as I was.
The boys immediately shot off, down their favorite path, somehow having already accumulated long sticks since they'd left the car. We shed our heavy coats and hats and spent the next hour or so running, playing in the dirt, craning our necks and shielding our eyes to look up, up, just to the left of that tree to spot climbers on the rock walls. Sun kissed and tired, we slipped off our muddy shoes and placed them next to our unused snowshoes in the back and headed home. Leaving our hopes behind, as we always do, for a little spot of land to call our own, down off the road into town.
We listened to
yet another A to Z Mysteries audiobook on the way home, the boys deep in concentration, me wondering what kind of parents let their 8 year old kids roam the streets looking for stolen gold bars, poached falcons and grave robbers. And really, just how useless could that Officer Fallon be? I also note that his son is named Jimmy and wonder if the connection is true...could one of my favorite late night show hosts really have a dad that inept at catching the riff raff of Green Lawn, Connecticut. I closed my eyes and soaked up the late afternoon sun coming off the Flatirons, ready to go home and clear a spot of clothes off the bed for a quick rest.
**Some photos below are from the last day of the Marilyn Minter show at MCA Denver, where a friend and I took a baby, eager to try out his new walkin' sticks and let him run wild.
