A Sense of Place

     Preface:  We all have our special spots, those places of comfort that rarely change . . . places that give us our grounding, our roots.  They soothe and blanket us with a sense of peace.  Some seem to have magical qualities that awaken our senses.  Others calm us to the point of napping.  These places can be anywhere: a garden, a relative’s house, a public monument or a busy corner.

     My list of the locations in the Kansas City area is quite long, but I’ve picked three to share.  They are not the grandiose locations, such as the Liberty Memorial or the south lawn of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  No, these are places tucked into spots that are not obvious, but they provide a moment of respite and a time for renewal of the spirit.

A Sense of Place

by Greg Larson

Thomas Swope Memorial

Thomas Swope Memorial
internet photo

     Unless you’ve played golf at the Swope Memorial Golf Course, you probably aren't aware of the memorial to the park’s benefactor.  You have to be on a mission to find it.  First, negotiate the winding uphill road to the golf course, then drive through the parking lot and pass by the clubhouse.  At the end of the road there is a small parking area.  A short downhill walk to an opening on the wooded hillside is required to experience the monument and the vista.

     Two granite lions gaze towards the west entrance to Swope Park, almost a mile distant.  They guard the resting place of Colonel Thomas Swope’s remains . . . the remains of a generous man who loved Kansas City and its people.

     The peaceful setting is far removed from the everyday hubbub, on a hillside that invites rest and contemplation.  Faint noises from the zoo below filter through the trees. The towers of the Starlight Theatre point skyward.  Misty shafts of sunlight stream to the valley below, where the Blue River flows.  The Ozarks beckon.

vista looking west from memorial
internet photo

West Terrace Park

confluence of Kansas and Missouri Rivers

     Perched on the northwest edge of downtown Kansas City is West Terrace Park, the location where the Lewis and Clark party stood to view the confluence of the Missouri and Kansas Rivers.  The sights and sounds of the city create an ambience of vitality.

     Truck tires hum as diesels belch from the highway loop below.  The scent of coffee fills the air.  Planes float past at eye level, adjusting flaps to line up the runway beyond the levee.  Trains chug in the west bottoms, with an occasional blare of warning.  Barges pass underneath the arches of Broadway Bridge

     The heartbeat of Kansas City touches the bones. 

Broadway Bridge

Rose Garden - Loose Park

                        The Garden

American beauties

budding in June

earth and sky bond in petals of glory

formal attire for the weary eyes

a fountain flows in the outdoor parlor 

wild canes climb at garden’s edge

a union of chains

a circled path

forever beyond

old couples stroll the past

lovers embrace the future

intermingled blossoms and thorns

Two Coaches Remembered

essay

by Greg Larson



Knute Rockne crash memorial
Flint Hills, Chase County, Kansas

 Preface:

     The sunrise on April 2, 2011, blossomed and warmed the bluestem prairie grass in the Flint Hills in Chase County, Kansas.  It was a contrast to the cold wind and gray clouds that had swept the region for most of March, conditions that were similar to the day of March 31, 1931, when a plane crash near Bazaar, Kansas, killed Notre Dame football coach, Knute Kenneth Rockne, and seven other men.

     My brother, Dan, and I drove south out of Cottonwood Falls on the April spring morning to attend the 80th anniversary service in memory of the crash.  We participated in a rare traffic jam in front of the Bazaar, Kansas school house as busses and cars converged at the starting point for the tribute.  School busses shuttled the 250 attendees (including many Notre Dame Football fans) several miles south to the ceremonies held at the remote site of the crash.  The memorial is located on private ranch property, and is accessible to the general public only by appointment.

     At mid-morning, the haunting sound from a bagpipe silenced the crowd as a kilted musician walked closer to the memorial stone.  Then, Nils Rockne, the grandson of Knute (pronounced kah-noot by the family), held back tears as he said a prayer and shared some anecdotes.  After a memorial wreath was laid, a single-engine plane slowly circled the site in remembrance of the dead.

Memorial flyover

     The ceremonies included a tribute to Easter Heathman, the official caretaker of the memorial site, who died in 2008.  The memorial service ended with the crowd singing the Notre Dame Victory March and the school song, “Notre Dame, Our Mother.”

     The solemnity of the occasion left a lasting impression on my brother and me.  It was our first visit to the remote site.  The prairie stretched to the horizon, and time seemed irrelevant.  Blue sky and soft wind gave clarity to the ceremony.  The setting brought back memories of our grandfather, John Elliott Beck, and his link to the crash and to Knute Rockne.  At the time of the crash, Beck was the football coach at Chase County High School, located in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, just a few miles north of the crash site.


80th anniversary memorial service, April 2, 2011



Two Coaches Remembered
essay

by Greg Larson

     As he boarded the commercial air flight in Kansas City on the Tuesday morning of March 31, 1931, Knute Rockne was in the prime of his life.  He was the Notre Dame football coach, with a winning percentage of 89.8 (105 wins, 12 losses, 5 ties), and was an exceptional motivator for the athletes, alumni, and fans.  His vision for a new stadium, seating 54,000 people, in South Bend, Indiana, had become a reality and the 1930 football team members were undefeated national champions.

Knute Kenneth Rockne

       Wherever he spoke, people listened.  A sportswriter, Westbrooke Pegler, once said that when Rockne gave a speech, it was like “a battered oil can giving off champagne.”

     Rockne was traveling to Los Angeles to sign a promotional agreement with Studebaker, and to meet Hollywood producers to discuss a film titled “The Spirit of Notre Dame.”

     The Transcontinental & Western Airlines, Fokker F-10A tri-motor passenger plane, lifted into the sky at approximately 9:15 am.  The plane encountered ice, snow, and strong winds as it flew into the silvery gray ether over the Flint Hills southwest of Emporia, Kansas.  It was too much for the seventy-nine foot wingspan made of wood and fabric.  Unbeknownst to the airline pilots and the passengers, the wood and glue of the internal framework of the wing had deteriorated from rain and condensation over a long period of time prior to the flight.  The buffeting winds and extreme weather conditions on that fateful day caused a portion of the left wing to rip from the plane and fall to the ground.  At approximately 10:35 am, the F-10A spiraled downward into the Flint Hills prairie, causing death on impact to the crew and passengers.

     Two brothers tending their cattle near Highway 13 (now K-177) heard the plane sputter and come into view as it spiraled out of the clouds and into the ground.  They raced on their horses, discovered the plane debris and bodies, and then sped home to have their dad notify the authorities.  A light blanket of snow coated the grassy, muddy fields.  The ambulance from Cottonwood Falls negotiated the mud and arrived at the site around 11:00 am.  A part-time deputy eventually arrived, along with local ranchers and townspeople.  Chains were used on some of the cars to gain access to the crash. Quite probably, many sightseers walked the mile and a half from the gravel highway.


John Elliot Beck

      My grandfather, John Beck, was teaching at the Chase County High School in Cottonwood Falls at the time of the crash.  Word spread that a plane carrying Rockne had crashed south of town.  As soon as possible, Beck left the school and hurried to the site.  Upon his arrival, he saw a horrific pile of wood, glass, metal and body parts.  The finality of Rockne’s passing sunk in as he looked at the wreckage.  Knute, the one Beck had emulated for so many years, was gone forever.  His hero had met his fate in Cottonwood Falls’ proverbial backyard.  Even though Beck had seen the horrors of war as a U.S. Army ambulance driver in France during World War I, the sight of mangled and dismembered bodies at the scene turned his stomach.  At that moment, he made a personal resolution and vowed he would never fly in a plane.

     At the time of the crash, Rockne was considered the greatest college football coach of all time, a belief that is still held by many football fans today.  News of the crash tore at the fabric of the nation’s heart.  The entire country mourned the loss of Rockne.  I believe that my grandfather, who had revered and studied Rockne for many years, must have felt a deep loss.

     Knute Rockne (height: 5’ – 8”, weight: 160 pounds) was considered a great innovator of the game during the years when football grew out of its infancy.  He promoted the forward pass and open field, slash-type running in his attempt to move away from the scrum-like rugby style of play that was the norm at the turn of the century.  This newer style of play was successfully executed by Beck’s coach, Bill Hargiss, when Beck and his teammates played varsity football at Kansas State Teachers College in Emporia (now Emporia State University) from 1920 through the 1923 football season.

     Beck, named all-conference halfback in his senior year, was similar to Rockne in size.  He was a natural athlete, and was comfortable playing many offensive positions.  Coach Hargiss used him in several capacities, from quarterback to running back, and from returning kick-offs to drop-kicking field goals and extra points.  A favorite with the KSTC fans, he was dubbed “Johnnie Beck with the educated toe.”

Johnnie Beck with the educated toe

     After graduation from KSTC in 1924, he taught and coached at Horton, Kansas, for one year, and then began a seven-year stint as teacher and coach at Chase County High School, where he built several powerhouse football teams, and coached basketball and track.

     At most, Beck would have hero-worshipped Rockne, and followed his every move during the 1920’s.  This interest in Rockne was not unusual for football devotees of the era.  At the very least, Beck was a pragmatist, emulating Rockne’s style of football and coaching to improve team performance.

     Both Beck and Rockne played numerous offensive positions during college.  They were older players during their college years; Rockne worked in the Chicago post office after high school, and Beck served in World War I before enrolling in college.  Both became teachers and coaches after obtaining their degrees.  Rockne was born in 1888. Beck was born in 1895.

     The cause of the Rockne crash was not immediately known.  Due to his notoriety, the public demanded the federal government determine the cause, which they did, after a long investigation.  Congress understood the need for stricter rules for periodic maintenance and inspections of commercial aircraft, and created the Federal Aviation Administration.

     The Rockne crash was a symbolic beginning-of-the-end of Beck’s football career as player and coach.  The stock market crash of 1929 and the start of the Great Depression affected the Chase County High School enrollment. It dropped from 189 students in 1928 to 142 students in 1930.

     After the 1931 plane crash, Beck coached just one more year at Chase County High School.  Seeking a more stable teaching position, he moved his budding family to Emporia, Kansas, in the summer of 1932 and accepted a job as physical education instructor at Lowther Junior High School.

     John and Ethel’s third child, their only son, was born on June 22, 1932.  They named him Kenneth.  Although we have no evidence or family knowledge as to why they picked the name “Kenneth,” it is very plausible that John Beck wanted to pay tribute to Knute Kenneth Rockne, the famous coach who died in the prime of life on a gray day in a remote pasture in the Flint Hills of Kansas.

Rockne Prayer to Play Fair in the Game of Life
(recited by grandson Nils Rockne at the 80th Anniversary Rockne Memorial Tribute)

Dear Lord,
In the battle that goes on through life
I ask for a field that is fair,
a chance that is equal with all in strife,
the courage to do and to dare;
and if I should win, let it be by the code,
my faith and my honor held high;
and if I should lose, let me stand by the road
and cheer as the winner rides by.  

Knute Kenneth Rockne (1888-1931)

Flint Hills, Chase County, Kansas

If Stones Could Speak



Manhattan, Kansas cemetery



If Stones Could Speak

memoir

by Greg Larson

     The cool morning air washed over my face on a Sunday in September as I rode my mountain bike on the brick streets of Manhattan, Kansas.  It was a stressful time in my life.  Having gone through a divorce at the beginning of the millennium, I was spending the weekend with my oldest daughter and her husband.  I decided an early morning ride would be just the prescription to clear my head and allow me to meditate.

     I pedaled up Sunset Avenue to the entry into the cemetery, and began to cruise through the manicured lawn dotted with various sizes of marble tombstones.  The cemetery grounds felt like a safe haven, a place to relax and enjoy the landscape.  I floated past the stones with names and stories long forgotten.

     The sun’s early morning rays filtered through the trees.  I coasted towards the west end of the cemetery, where the edge of the hillside dropped to the valley beyond.  At the last curve, I came to a stop.  Other than the melancholy sounds of the mourning doves, silence blanketed my surroundings.

     Beyond the road, at the edge of a wooded area was a padlocked gate that beckoned.  What was beyond it?  Why was it padlocked?  The padlock made no sense, because the gate was merely a few pieces of welded pipe, with plenty of empty space for me to crawl through with the bike.  I didn’t see a ‘no trespassing’ sign, so I slipped on through to the gravel road on the other side, and pedaled farther into the mystery.

Locked gate and forbidden road

     I soon discovered stacks and piles of stone, timber, and gravel in the overgrown weeds on one side of the road.  It appeared the area was an extension of a city maintenance yard, hidden below the cemetery.  The other side of the road was a densely wooded area with a steep slope down to the west.

     As I rolled through the forbidden area, my eye began to notice some massive blobs in the dense shade of the woods.  Were my eyes playing tricks on me?  Were the ghosts from the cemetery having an early morning meeting?  I stopped and walked to the edge of the woods to take a closer look.

     To my surprise, some old limestone steps created an entry into the sloped, shadowy area.  I accepted their invitation and descended into the shade.  This was my third decompression from the city streets, having already passed through the cemetery, the gated road and now into the woods.  My mind was far from reality.



Stone steps


     That’s when I noticed several massive stone slabs along the hillside.  Who put them here . . . and for what purpose?  As my eyes adjusted to the shade, the forms of giant picnic tables and benches came into focus.  Their massive size and scale seemed odd.  It appeared they were constructed for giants of biblical proportion.

     I sat on one of the benches in the still of the early morning and felt the everyday concerns melt away.  The hidden picnic ground seemed odd in its size and location, totally hidden, as if left in the past, like the stones in the cemetery.

     I pictured the men of the W.P.A. crews who must have created the tables.  They were men with hungry families during the Great Depression.  Desperate for work, they drove 50-100 miles to labor for some cash, and to eat government-issued cheese and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.  Stone was quarried and hauled, then lifted into place to create the park.  Their sweat had built a picnic ground where families could enjoy the sunsets.  The only problem was their supervisor hadn’t been given instructions with the proper scale and size for the benches and tables.

     With a bit of imagination, I could hear a 1939 Chevy pull to a stop on the road.  Doors opened and children shouted and ran down the steps.  Trunk lids slammed shut and parents with picnic baskets and blankets followed into the woods.  They had unfulfilled dreams and desires and worries of war.

     My disappearance into the woods lasted only a few minutes, but the stones had disappeared from public view for a generation.  It was time to leave this odd Stonehenge in the vines, a nice diversion from my reality.  With a sense of renewal and peace, I walked up the steps to the road, carefully navigating around the poison ivy.


     But the stone tables seemed to have a gravitational force on me.  I was slow to get on the bike and begin the journey out of the woods and cemetery.  I thought of my daughters, with their hopes and dreams as I began to pedal towards the city streets.  What lay ahead in their lives?  What memories will they have?  Will their stories be passed on to new generations or will they be locked in stone? Only the future holds the answers.



A table sized for giants



Abandoned picnic grounds





Scottish Royalty

Douglas McAllister Larson

Scottish Royalty

non-fiction

by Greg Larson

     I noticed the sleek dog on the evening news.  A Scottish Deer Hound had won Best in Show at the 135th All Breed Dog Show sponsored by the Westminster Kennel Club.  Foxcliffe Hickory Wind, a bitch with a fine pedigree, was out on the town, dining at the finest restaurants in New York.

     I tried to get the attention of our Cairn Terrier in-residence, Douglas McAllister Larson.

     “Douglas, did you hear that?  One of your relatives just got her fifteen minutes of fame.”

     Douglas, perched upside down on the edge of his favorite upholstered chair, didn’t move a muscle.  He was not impressed.  Yes, McAllister is his middle name, but I’ve convinced my granddaughter that his real middle name is Drinkwater.  She is easily entertained by watching Douglas lap the water out of his bowl.

     He’s a big dog in a small package, with a blue-collar attitude and no lack of self esteem.  He is fiercely loyal to Gretta and me, but he has an air of aloofness, and he doesn’t beg for attention.

     Although the Cairn breed of Terrier wasn’t recognized by the major kennel clubs until 1912, they were bred on the Isle of Skye for centuries, along with the Scottish and West Highland Terriers.  The landowners used them for chasing out foxes, badgers, and rodents from the rock crevices and mounds of earth.

     Douglas believes he’s earned the right to be king of our household, working 24/7 to secure the property from any evil that lurks on the perimeter.  Squirrels, birds, rodents, plastic bags, and kites are on the top of his enemies’ list.  He’s especially vigilant when I grill meat on the barbeque.

     “Douglas,” I said, still trying to get his attention, “I noticed the Deer Hound was eating filet mignon at one of those New York restaurants.”

     I detected a hint of jealousy as he moved his head ever so slightly.  It’s because he has been threatening a hunger strike for the past couple of years.  At his mealtime ritual, he stops after a couple of steps and stares at the food bowl, and then looks up at Gretta and me as if to say, “Do I really have to eat this crap?”

     He continues to stage closer to the bowl, and eventually Pavlov’s theory becomes reality as Douglas finally starts crunching on the dry dog food.

     “Little guy, this food is supposed to be good for you,” Gretta tells him.  “It’s specially made to keep you fit and trim.”

     I inspected the bag of scientifically formulated dog food, and read some key information: “Precisely balanced nutrition for your dog’s special needs…Clinically proven antioxidants for a healthy immune system.”

     “You’d think this food would keep his allergies in check,” said Gretta.  Recently Douglas’ eyelids reddened and swelled without warning.  Gretta took him to the vet and to an eye-doctor specialist, and returned with a cadre of eye drops and pills.

     “I just don’t understand why the poor little guy has these allergies and conditions,” bemoaned Gretta.

     “Dogs are inherently unsanitary,” I responded.  “Have you noticed the places he sticks his nose when we take him for a walk?  Why, he’s killed squirrels, birds, and mice in our backyard.  Stuff happens.  I’m the one who gets to bag it up…what’s left of it.”

     Gretta looked at Douglas and continued to chorus, “Poor little guy.”

********

     The phone rang one day while Gretta was out running errands.

     “Hello.”

     “Mr. Larson?” asked the caller.

     “Yes”

     “This is Dr. Johnson’s office,” she stated.  “We’re calling about Douglas.”

     Douglas was sleeping in his usual chair.  I couldn’t imagine why the vet was calling.

     “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

     “Dr. Johnson had a consultation with Douglas’ eye doctor, and they’ve concluded that Douglas should go on a special diet to see if it will clear up his allergies.  They want to start him on venison or duck formula for his nutrition.”

     I should be so lucky.  Fresh game sounds pretty fancy for a dog.  Where do they hunt these deer and fowl?  Sounds expensive.

     She continued, “If you and your wife are okay with the decision, we can have the new dog food ready to pick up tomorrow.”

     “My wife is out at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll want Douglas to try it out,” I responded.

     Douglas has won the hunger war. He’ll get new food, fit for a king.

     The next day, Gretta brought the new bag of special food into the house.

     “Douglas,” she said, “You have something new to eat…duck and potatoes!”

     She began to mix the new and the old food, following the veterinarian’s instructions to slowly convert Douglas to the new diet.  Otherwise, it would be too rich for him to digest.  Yeah, right.

     Douglas’ ears and tail were on high alert as he smelled the new formule pomme de terre et canard.  I actually detected a smile on his face, with his moist tongue anticipating the gourmet meal.

     There was no hesitation as he went for the bowl.  The food disappeared quickly.  He looked up to us wishing he could have more.

      "You’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow,” said Gretta.  “But we can give you some pieces for a treat.”  She waited until he sat in his special place by the cabinets and gave him a piece of the new food.  He ate it like candy…something he would never do with his old food.

     I tried one of the little nuggets out of the bag.  It was gamey and had a bad aftertaste.  Based on Douglas’ love for the new food, I suspected the formula was designed more for his taste than mine.

     After eating his meal, he went to the front door to look out on the sidewalk action, school kids and dogs on leashes…anything that moved.

     “Douglas,” I said, “You are really lucky to live like a king.”

     He looked at me as if to say, “I’m not like a king. I AM king!”

Douglas sleeping on his throne.

 

The Little Nun

non-fiction

by Greg Larson

     This story begins over fifty years ago, when Gretta and her sister attended Notre Dame de Sion, a private Catholic school operated by an order of French nuns in Kansas City, Missouri.  Tucked on a wooded hillside near Gillham Parkway, the school was a fascinating and unusual place for two young girls from the suburbs in Kansas.  The ornate staircases, secret passageways, wood paneled rooms and a large chapel seemed bigger than life.  In addition to the unique building, the nuns, with their religious discipline, created a surreal school environment.  To this day, Gretta has strange dreams about her grade school days.

     Fast-forward to the ‘70’s, and to Europe.  Gretta was a college student, studying abroad in Germany. During Spring break, she spent time in Paris with one of her French schoolmates.  On their frequent visits to the patisserie, Gretta found a favorite pastry that she ordered many times by pointing to it behind the glass case.  It was a double-decker cream puff, shaped like a little snow man with chocolate drizzled on top.

     I digress to share…Gretta does have a weakness for chocolate-covered items.  For a woman with willpower and self-discipline that towers above most mortals, Gretta has some chinks in her armor.  The weaknesses include potato chips, cashews, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, and anything chocolate.

     On a slow day in the patisserie, Gretta asked the young sales girl for the name of the pastry as she pointed to the double-decker cream puff behind the glass.  The sales girl giggled and said, “religieuse,” or French for “nun.”  Gretta wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

     The next time she craved the chocolate-drizzled pastry, she went to a different patisserie and asked for a “religieuse,” not knowing what type of reaction to expect from the sales clerk.  Very efficiently, the person behind the case retrieved the rolly-polly pastry and put it on the counter for Gretta.  There it was…a little nun!

     Fast-forward to the summer of 2007 and to Paris.  While Gretta and I were out exploring the streets one afternoon, she led me to a patisserie near the Sorbonne.  I have a weakness for gooey pastry, and I've learned that France has a much better supply of gooey stuff than Italy.  In the middle of the afternoon, we sat on a curb in a small, triangular park and enjoyed our treats, while shooing away the pigeons that were awaiting the spoils.  Gretta ate her “little nun,” while I enjoyed a maple-covered pastry and licked my fingers.

     We then traveled to southern France to meet with a bike tour group and to have our first dinner with them.  Gretta and another participant, Roseanne, learned that they had both attended Catholic school, and they began to swap school stories.  Along with the after-dinner wine, the stories continued to flow.  What several of us witnessed that evening was Gretta and Roseanne releasing long repressed feelings they had, both good and bad, for the nuns.  Gretta related that she didn’t eat her beets for lunch at school one day, so she quietly disposed of them beneath the table.  The nun in the lunchroom caught her in the act, and forced her to eat another portion of beets.  Roseanne told us about a time that she and some of her classmates were disciplined for dancing.  All of the stories came out, and Gretta and Roseanne felt much better.

     During the bike tour, there was a rainy day when many of the riders opted for a shuttle bus to the next overnight stop.  The vanload, including Gretta, stopped at small town for cappuccino and pastry.  Gretta ordered a “religieuse” at the patisserie.  She showed Roseanne the pastry, and then she wasted no time eating it all.  That evening, Roseanne made a point to tell everyone that Gretta had thoroughly enjoyed the “little nun” and that it was devoured in quick order (no pun intended)!

     Another tour participant, Tiz, listened and then she put her finger to her lips and said, “Hmmm, there is something going on here…something deeper.”

     She gave Gretta a stern look while shaking her finger.  “It seems you are eating these ‘little nun’ pastries very quickly and aggressively!”  Then she began to laugh.

     I turned to Tiz and said, “Whoa!  How perceptive!  Have you ever thought of a career in psycho-analysis?”



The Little Nun

(internet photo)

Max and Edna's Place

     Preface:  I've reposted this article from the same time last year.  Gretta and I went back to Ski Tip Lodge for another visit, and it was just as nice as before.  For some unexplained reason, all the photos had disappeared from this posting, so I re-inserted them, and hope they remain.

 

Max and Edna’s Place

non-fiction
by Greg Larson

     Gretta and I drove up Montezuma Road, about a half mile east of Keystone Ski Area in Colorado.  “There it is,” I said, pointing to the weathered pine board sign with hand painted letters: Ski Tip Lodge.

     I steered the car into the snowy drive and parking area and noticed the unassuming lodge, covered with snow and nestled among the pine, spruce and aspen trees.  Part log cabin and part stucco Swiss chalet, the layout was somewhat rambling, and it appeared that several additions had been constructed through the years.

     We had reservations at the lodge, mainly because it was a bed and breakfast inn.  I thought it would be a great way to get a hearty breakfast before hitting the ski slopes each morning.  I had no inkling of the amazing history of the site and the structure until we checked in and we received a tour.  We discovered that it is the oldest operating ski lodge in the U.S. That’s when we learned about Max and Edna.

     Before high-speed gondolas, ski-condos, and mega-resorts, there was a young couple, Max and Edna Dercum.  They came to Colorado in 1942, with a passion for skiing, a love of people and a zest for life.  Max was a forester and had a job with the U.S. Forest Service.  Edna, his wife, was raising their young boy, Rolf.  Their dream was to develop a ski slope and build a ski lodge.  It was the quintessential American dream worthy of a book.  At least that’s what Edna thought in 1981, when she wrote her memoirs titled “It’s Easy Edna, It’s Downhill All the Way,” a title that had been a quote from her husband before she started a local ski race in the 1950’s.  In the book, she gives us a glimpse of what rural mountain life was like in Colorado at that time, before plumbing and other minor necessities.

Mega-resorts at Keystone

     We were shown our room upstairs.  It had no phone or television.  On the tour given by a member of the lodge staff, we fell in love with the quaintness and charm of the place.  We touched the handmade, rough hewn columns and beams, as well as some of the wooden ski tips, used as handles on the doors.  A four-star restaurant was on the first floor near the small entry to the lodge.

Ski Tip Lodge

     Overstuffed furniture and antiques dominated the large, log-cabin living room with exposed wood trusses.  Huge plate-glass corner windows made us feel as if we could touch the trees and the mountains outside.  There was also the “Rathskeller,” a large parlor, where people gathered around the giant stone fireplace to visit in the evening during happy hour and to have after-dinner drinks and desserts.  Guests were encouraged to tend and stoke the fireplace.

Gretta reading in the living room at Ski Tip Lodge

     Max had purchased the small ranch with a cabin, which was previously a stagecoach relief station in the 1860’s for the wagons that came from Georgetown.  Passengers and horses took a break after the rocky trip over the Argentine Pass before making their way to the small mining town of Montezuma.

     When Max and Edna began work on the lodge, the original structure was in such bad condition, they rented a cabin on their neighbor’s property.  They set up their temporary residence in it and began in earnest to fulfill their dream.

Exterior of living room at Ski Tip Lodge

     In 1945 Max and Edna began construction on the Ski Tip Lodge, building it around the old cabin.  Max had also been looking at a snow basin located southwest of Loveland Pass for the possibility of creating a ski slope.  He checked the county records and determined that the three mining claims in the basin were tax delinquent, so he presented a bid to the county commissioners and it was accepted.  Shortly thereafter, Max and two of his friends created the Arapahoe Basin Ski Corporation.  Once they received their forestry permit, they began to prepare the slope and construct a tow rope to pull the skiers to the top.  Arapahoe Ski Basin opened in 1946.

     Max and Edna continued work on the lodge, and purchased bunk beds for two large rooms upstairs, planning separate men’s and women’s sleeping quarters.  Once the slope was operational, the requests came in from as far away as Chicago for a place to stay and ski.  Edna started as head cook and lodge manager.  She now had two children to raise: a son, Rolf, and a daughter, Sunni.  She charged the guests $3.50 per day for a bunk, breakfast and dinner.

     Gretta and I woke up on our first morning at Ski Tip Lodge with the outside temperature at fifteen below zero.  But the sun was out and the white peaks shone through the pines.  We took our time getting ready for breakfast and then went down to the dining room.  It was one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever experienced.  Gretta had eggs Benedict, and I had blueberry pancakes with macadamia nuts and maple syrup, with eggs and bacon on the side.  The place seemed so cozy that we lingered downstairs before we decided to hit the slopes.

     We made our way over to the ski slopes at River Run Village at Keystone, and boarded the high-speed gondola to ascend the mountain.  The gondola cab gave us protection from the wind. Our plan was to stay on the easy slopes for a while, since we hadn’t skied in several years.  Once we exited the gondola, we soaked in the bright sunlight at the top of the ski runs.  We stood in awe of the natural beauty before us.  The white peaks of the Ten Mile range and the Gore range looked like giant molars glistening in the sun, with the deep green forests draping the lower slopes.

Gretta at the top at Keystone

     In the early years of the lodge, Edna cooked breakfast for the guests, and then hurried up to the slopes to teach ski lessons, with the smell of bacon grease still on her clothes.  As the ski slope and the lodge became profitable, Max and Edna hired a cook and assistants to take care of the lodge operation.

     They never advertised their lodge. It’s popularity spread by word of mouth.  Their clientele, mainly wealthy skiers from Chicago, St. Louis, the East Coast and Texas, returned year after year.  Max and Edna became long-time friends with many of them, and they participated in the Rathskeller entertainment in the evening.  It usually consisted of swapping ski stories, having a few drinks and singing a few songs.  Many times the partying continued through the night, with only a couple of hours remaining for sleep before dawn.

     Today, you can see pitons anchored near the rafters of the living room stone fireplace, where two inebriated mountain-climbing guests proceeded to demonstrate climbing techniques to the other guests, decades ago during one of the evening parties.

Rathskeller

     Over the years, the Ski Tip Lodge accommodated a variety of well-heeled and famous guests.  some Chicago mafia stayed at the lodge, but registered under fictitious names and addresses.  Several movie stars frequented the place, including Henry Fonda, who came one summer to relax.  Many of the male guests insisted on helping in the kitchen, especially if the hired assistants were young, blonde women.

     Gretta and I enjoyed our routine of eating a grand breakfast each day before the ski slopes beckoned. We skied to our heart’s content until late afternoon before returning to the lodge. After a good soak in the deep tub, we’d go to the living room and have a beer and some pistachio nuts. In the evenings, we played gin by the fireplace, and threw a log on the fire every so often. We sat back and watched it crackle and pop, with sparks sticking to the flue momentarily, like fireflies ready to launch into the sky.

Apres ski beverage

     We visited with folks from various places like Texas, Illinois and Arizona.  Some were guests at the lodge.  Others had come just for dinner.  Some lived in condos nearby.  We enjoyed the two male guests from Holland, who I dubbed ‘Hans and Dieter.’

     What Max and Edna accomplished was nothing short of amazing.  Their passions were skiing and people, not wealth or fame.  They were talented ski racers and ski instructors.  Max and a handful of other ski instructors established the Professional Ski Instructors of America, Inc. in 1961.  Edna’s mom and Max’s parents moved nearby, and gave them a boost while they raised the kids, built a ski lodge, and developed the slopes.

     In the ‘60’s, Max had another dream of developing the mountain at Keystone into a ski area.  In the summer he drove his jeep up into the forests and walked every part of the mountain, seeking the best places for different ski runs.  Max and his friends partnered with Ralston Purina Company to develop what is now the Keystone Ski Area, which opened in 1970.  When the high-speed gondola was installed, Edna christened it.

Greg warming in the sun at Keystone

     On our last evening, we made reservations for a special dinner at the highest operating restaurant in the U.S., the Alpenglow Stube.  It is located at an elevation of 11,660 feet on North Peak at Keystone, and it is accessible only by gondola.  We were given the royal treatment by the Keystone workers and the restaurant staff.  When we boarded the gondola, the man in charge gave us a couple of blankets and wished us a great evening, then closed the gondola doors to prevent any night skiers from boarding with us.  It was a romantic dinner and evening, with a ride back down the mountain in the moonlight.

     At our last breakfast, I thought of Max and Edna, and all the history at the Ski Tip Lodge.  Even though it is now operated by the Vail Resorts, it still retains the spirit and charm of a small independent ski lodge at Keystone.  It is hard to express the feelings we had while staying there.  It was so comfortable I wanted to call it ‘home.’

     Edna died in 2008 at the age of 94, and Max passed away in October, 2011.  But their original dream, Ski Tip Lodge, is the best kept secret in Colorado.  It remains tucked in the solitude of the winter forest, just off Montezuma Road.  As we left, I quietly spoke to Gretta, “I think we need to book another trip here…same time next year.”

     “Shhhh,” she said. “Let’s don’t tell anyone.”

Outdoor solitude at Ski Tip Lodge

Universal Language

Non-fiction
by Greg Larson

     I am convinced that men and women are wired differently when it comes to conversation.  Men often use few words, sometimes mumble and use an occasional grunt in their vocabulary.  They communicate mainly when it is necessary to help them complete their work or to find something they need…like a car part or a tool.  Women, on the other hand, network and connect on a more emotional level.  Gretta’s recent experience, which she shared with me, solidified the “women” side of my theory.

     She had gone to Panera’s, a bakery and deli in Prairie Village, with expectations of meeting an informal Italian conversation group.  According to a friend, the group met there every Wednesday at 3:30.  Gretta thought it would be a nice opportunity to hear and speak the Italian language.  Since it was her first time to meet with the group, she arrived at 3:35, thinking that it would be easier to spot them in the large dining area.

Gretta walked into the deli and inhaled the familiar smell of coffee, soup and the warm, fresh bread.  She scanned the interior, but didn’t see any obvious groups conversing in Italian.  She saw mostly groups of two or three people at the occupied tables.  Not sure of what to do next, she bought a cup of coffee and began to wander through the dining room.  Maybe I have the wrong date or time for the meeting.  She strained to hear snatches of Italian conversation.

     Gretta plucked up the courage to find out if others were also waiting.  She approached two women who were in the middle of a conversation, one a younger, dark-haired woman, and the other an older grey-haired lady.

     “Excuse me,” said Gretta, “Are you here for the Italian conversation group?”

     The women smiled at each other and sheepishly chuckled, apparently sharing a private joke.

     “No we’re not here for Italian conversation,” said the older woman, as she smiled and pointed to the younger woman.  “But I do have to tell you why we’re laughing.  My daughter here lives in Rome!”

     “Oh!” exclaimed Gretta, “My husband and I just came back from a trip to Italy, and we spent two nights in Rome.”

     “Where else did you go in Italy?” asked the daughter.

     “We were on a bike tour in the Abruzzo and Molise regions, and then we spent four days in Florence,” answered Gretta.

     “Very nice,” replied the daughter.  “It sounds like fun.  I hope you find your conversation group.”

     “Thanks.  I guess I’ll keep looking for them,” said Gretta as she began to wander farther into the dining room.  There were no new signs of a group gathering for discussion, so she approached two well-dressed women who were having coffee together.

     “Excuse me,” said Gretta, “I’m looking for an Italian conversation group that meets here, and I wondered if you were here for that, too.”

     One of the women laughed and then spoke a bit sarcastically, “Oh sure, we speak Italian!”  Then she politely continued, “No, we don’t speak Italian, but I wish we could.  I hope you find the group.  Speaking Italian sounds like fun.”

     “I’m learning Italian and when I heard about this conversation group, I thought it would be good for me,” said Gretta.  “I’ll keep looking for them.”

     She continued to wander through the dining room, feeling somewhat like the storybook chick that was lost and kept asking each animal, “Are you my mother?”

     No, I’m not asking the two girls by the window.  She watched one of them texting, while the other talked on her cell phone.  Then she noticed a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, sitting by herself.  I’ll ask one more person before I give up.

     “Hi! I’ve been looking for someone who’s part of an Italian conversation group,” said Gretta.

     “Well I’m not part of it, but won’t you sit down?  I noticed you’ve been looking for someone.  I’ve had a hard day,” said the woman.  “My name is Carol.”

     The woman looked tired but seemed eager to chat.  “This is the first chance I’ve had all day to get some lunch,” she said as she dipped her spoon into the bowl of chicken noodle soup.  “I grew up here in the neighborhood, but I live in Louisiana, now.  My mom just moved to a nursing home, and I’ve come to visit her and work on getting the house ready for sale,” she sighed.  “There’s so much to do!”

     “You must be exhausted.  I know how it feels.  We just sold my mom’s house and had an estate sale.  It took months for us to go through all the stuff,” Gretta empathized.

     “I went to Shawnee Mission East,” Carol reminisced.  “Now when I drive around here, so much has changed.  My mom and I used to go to the Tippins restaurant across the street, and now it’s closed.  We used to have a big piece of French Silk pie…oh, that was my favorite chocolate pie.”

     “You can still buy Tippins pies at the Hen House grocery store,” replied Gretta. “They have whole pies, and I think they sell them by the slice in the deli department.”

     “Oh, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Carol as she grabbed a pen from her purse. “I’m making a grocery list, and I’ll add the pie to the list.  My mom isn’t eating well, and I think the pie would be just the thing to perk her up a little.”

They visited for about ten minutes.  Carol finished her soup, and Gretta was done with her coffee, so it was time to go.  They said “good-bye” to each other and left Panera’s.  Their random paths had crossed and now separated.

     If I had been the one to seek out the conversation group, but not found it immediately, I would have bought a cup of coffee and left.  But not Gretta.  She and Carol had connected, and their day was brighter because of the conversation…even if it wasn’t in Italian.