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.

The Downhill Run

     Preface:  We travel to destinations, but it is the journey that we remember.  Such was the case when my friend Steve, and I embarked on a ski trip almost 40 years ago.  We were college students looking for some excitement and adventure.  What transpired gave us the memory of a lifetime.

Monarch Pass, Colorado

Wikipedia photo

The Downhill Run

memoir

by Greg Larson

     “We’ll have a blast!” said my friend Steve. “This is the perfect time to go skiing in Colorado.  I hear they had a lot of snow before Christmas.  Think of all the college chicks on the slopes…good looking ones, too!”

     Home from college during the 1971 Christmas break, we were sitting in the local watering hole, The Keg, in Garden City, Kansas.  I took another sip of beer, trying to figure out how I could afford the luxury of a ski trip.  Disposable income was non-existent, except for a few dollars of Christmas money from my parents.

     “I don’t think I can afford it, Steve.  What little money I’ve got will have to last me ‘til next summer when I can get a job.”

     “No problem,” said Steve, “I’ve got us a hotel on wheels.  The only money we need is for an occasional meal, rental skis, and lift tickets.”

     “What? I don’t get it,” I replied.

     “We have a camper on the pick-up truck my brother uses at the farm.  He uses the camper sometimes for pheasant hunting.  We can sleep in it.  It has a kitchenette and bunks.  We’ll take most of the food with us…and some beer.  It’ll be cool!  We can drive from one ski area to the next, just park and sleep.”

     “Now you’re talkin’!  We can pull this trip off.”

     I couldn’t pass up the free lodging.  I was ready to go.  Anything would be more fun than sitting at home in western Kansas.

     The next day, we drove to the farm to get the pick-up camper.  We talked excitedly as our plans came together.  Dust billowed behind us on the dirt roads for several miles before Steve pulled his car onto the ruts at the edge of a field.  We headed toward a lone, metal barn set in the vast emptiness of a western Kansas wheat field.  He parked the car and we walked through the dusty wind to the barn.  Steve slid back the large corrugated door, making just enough space for us to squeeze inside.  In the dim stillness of the barn, the smell of the hay was overwhelming, and the sparrows chirped and flitted about.  The barn door rattled in the unceasing prairie wind.

     The old Ford pick-up rested near the stacks of hay bales.  It was covered with dust and the tires appeared under-inflated.  The mice scattered as we walked closer to the truck.  The camper shell sat on a frame just behind the truck.  I wondered if mice were inside, occupying the kitchenette and the bunks.

     “It’s got a V-8 in it,” Steve said. “We’ll have plenty of power in the mountains, if we need it.”

     A smattering of dried bird poop adorned the hood.  “Looks like it needs a wash,” I said.

     “Oh, we can just hose it off when we get it to town,” replied Steve.  “I need to back this up so we can drop the camper shell into the bed.”

     The truck door creaked as he opened it and climbed in.  He turned the ignition.  Nothing happened.  The battery was dead.

     “This truck probably hasn’t been used since the wheat harvest.  The battery is fine.  It just needs to be charged up,” he said.

     Steve drove his car into the barn, and we connected jumper cables to the truck battery.  The pick-up quickly came to life with a turn of the key.  We found an air compressor, and inflated the tires.

     I followed Steve back to town, where we spruced up the interior of the camper, using Spic-and-Span, Windex and a lot of elbow grease.  Finally, we loaded up the camper with food, bedding and clothing.

     A new pair of gloves and a ski cap were the only costly items I had to purchase.  My “ski pants” consisted of Scotchgard spray on blue jeans.

     The next morning, we pulled out onto the highway, ready for adventure.  Steve dodged the tumble weeds as we drove west, mile after mind-numbing mile.  Holly, La Junta, Rocky Ford…the towns passed by as we crossed the Great American Desert of eastern Colorado.  Finally, after four hours in the cab, the front range of the Rockies appeared.  I had visions of schussing down the slopes.  Ski country, here we come!

     The air was crisp and the sun was beginning to disappear behind the mountains in the late afternoon when we arrived in Breckenridge.  Steve found a roadside lodge with some parking spots for camper trucks.  The proprietor said that hook-ups weren’t available in winter, so he’d only charge us five dollars a night for the parking slot.

     By evening, we were already shivering inside the camper.  We noticed there was a cozy bar and lounge in the old lodge, so we decided to go inside and buy a bowl of chili.

     The bartender actually served us drinks.  We were only twenty years old, and looked all of sixteen.  He must have felt sorry for us, since we had to sleep out in the cold.  The seasoned guests in the bar and lounge glanced at us from time to time, keeping their distance from the two of us in our ragged college jeans and sweatshirts.  We didn’t see the crowds of coeds that we had envisioned.

     An older woman, who looked all of thirty, walked over and asked us where we were from.  We explained our situation, and she gave us an odd look.

     “You guys are either crazy or brave…I don’t know which.  I hope you don’t freeze to death out there.”

     Steve and I bought some popcorn and another drink, trying to eke out some more time in the warm lodge before going outdoors, into the inevitable cold.  Finally, we forced ourselves to walk back to the camper.  I was shivering before we made it inside.  I shivered getting into the sleeping bag, and I shivered all night.  The high country was brutally cold on the clear, starry night.

     In the morning, we quickly ate grocery-store cinnamon rolls, pulled from the foil pan.  We washed them down with bottled juice, then jumped into the cab of the truck and fired up the engine.  The warm air began to fill the cab and I put my hands and gloves up to the air vents.

     “Let’s go skiing!” I shouted and clapped, just to get the blood pumping.

     We skied for two days at Breckenridge.  The cold wind at the summit pierced our clothes.  The fact that we were already cold just made it seem even colder.

     At the end of the second day, I made a suggestion to Steve, “Let’s go to Monarch Pass tomorrow and see if the snow is any good there. It’s farther south. Maybe it’s a little warmer.”

     “Sounds like a plan,” said Steve, “I’m ready for a change.”

     The drive through the mountain valleys was scenic and it was nice to spend the morning hours in the warm cab.  We turned onto U.S. 50 highway and climbed to Monarch Pass.  The roads were dry all the way to the top.  We pulled into the ski-area parking lot and went inside for hot chocolate.  As we sipped our chocolate, we watched the skiers on the slope and noticed the conditions were not good.  The surface looked rocky and slushy – not something we wanted to ski on.

     “Let’s drive down to Salida and regroup,” said Steve.

     “We can decide in the morning whether to drive back north or head back to Garden City,” I added.

     We left Monarch Pass (elevation 11,312 feet) and drove east towards Salida.  Steve guided the truck through the curves and rock cuts, hugging the guardrail while braking to slow our speed.

     All of a sudden his eyes got big and he gasped for air.  He pumped the brake pedal, then glanced at me with a look of sheer terror.

     “HOLY SHIT!” yelled Steve, “There’s nothin’ there!  No brakes!  WHAT SHOULD I DO?”

     The truck continued to gain speed down the mountain, and a curve loomed about a quarter of a mile ahead.  The needle climbed on the speedometer…forty-five…fifty.  My mind raced, and then my instincts took over.

     “DOWNSHIFT!” I yelled. “Downshift again, if you can! If we pick up too much speed, just turn the truck toward the mountainside!”  I decided I’d rather survive a crash than launch through a guard rail and over a cliff.

     The engine screamed as Steve shifted to a lower gear.  We sped around the curve with the truck leaning precariously.  To our amazement, we didn’t tip over.  We continued down the highway, curve after curve, at about thirty miles an hour, with the engine whining in second gear.  The next ten minutes seemed like an eternity.  Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, and the highway leveled out as we entered the valley near Salida.

     We’d survived the descent, but now we had another problem.  How would we stop the truck at the intersections in town?  Steve downshifted to first gear and guided the pick-up onto the shoulder when we approached a stop sign.  With the truck barely rolling at the intersection, he gently gave it some gas and we crossed to the other side.

    We crawled along the highway and crept onto the main street in Salida, looking for a gas station.

     “There’s a Standard station up ahead on the left,” I exclaimed! “I think we’re gonna make it.”

     We slowly rolled into the gas station and over the cable in the pump lane.  The familiar “ding-ding” announced our arrival as the truck came to a complete stop.  A short, stocky man, with “Bob” stitched on his shirt, wiped his hands with a rag as he appeared from the garage.  A chaw of tobacco bulged from his cheek as he spoke.

     “Regular or Ethyl?” he asked.

     “We have a bigger problem,” said Steve. “We have no brakes.  They went out on our way down from Monarch Pass.”

     Bob looked down at the wheels.  He gave out a low whistle and then said, “Hell, you’re lucky to be all in one piece!”

It was Saturday afternoon.  They were busy at the gas station, but they put the truck on the lift and raised it high enough to remove the wheels and look at the brakes.  After the inspection, Bob met us in front of the garage to give us his report.  First, he spat out some juice from the side of his mouth.

     “Well, I got good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that we can fix the brakes.  The master cylinder has gone bad and needs replacing.  The bad news is we don’t have a master brake cylinder for this truck.  If they have them at the Ford dealer in Pueblo, it’ll be late Monday or early Tuesday before they get here.”

     Steve and I looked at each other.  We had no choice but to wait for the repair.

     “You can park your truck on the street during the day, and at night, you can pull it onto the driveway in the station after we close,” said Bob.

     I looked around at the small town.  This was going to get old real fast.  I was glad we had a stack of newspapers and magazines in the camper.  Our trip of terror down the mountain had now turned into a boring wait for the repairs.  There wasn’t much else to do but read or walk around town.

     Steve discovered an electrical outlet in the phone booth next to the station, and we borrowed an extension cord from Bob so we could plug in the electric heater in the camper.  Even though the nights were still cold, we didn’t shiver quite as much with the heater.  By Monday, we’d had our fill of macaroni and cheese, beanie-weenies, and peanut butter sandwiches.

     “Steve, if we stay here much longer, we’ll need to put up an address and a mailbox,” I said.

     On Tuesday morning, Bob gave us the good news that the parts had arrived.  By mid-afternoon, Steve paid for the repairs, and Bob filled up the gas tank.  We were on the road again – this time back to Garden City, driving straight through, only stopping once for gas.

     When I returned to college, I bought a “ski kansas” poster to put in my dorm room.  Every time I looked at it, I remembered the frightful downhill run that Steve and I survived on the Colorado highway.  I was glad to be alive.

Brunelleschi's Timeless Masterpiece

     Preface: Bricks and mortar have always fascinated me. During my freshman year in college, I worked a part-time job as a brick tender and laborer at a gymnasium project. I erected scaffolding, hauled bricks, mixed mortar, and quickly learned that the masons were kings of the construction site. Their craft, which has been around for thousands of years, is highly respected.

      When we planned our trip to Italy this year, we included Florence, a vibrant city, rich in history, art, and architecture. The essay below tells of our experience of coming face-to-face with Brunelleschi’s architectural engineering feat, the world’s largest masonry dome, built more than five centuries ago.

Cityscape of Florence

Brunelleschi’s Timeless Masterpiece

Non-fiction essay and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA
 

          I looked out the train window at the Italian landscape as the high-speed Eurostar approached Florence, Italy. A few minutes earlier, Gretta and I rocketed along the countryside and through the tunnels at 160 miles per hour, but now we were slowing down. While the train made its slow curve into the terminal, I strained my neck, looking in every direction. Ah, there it is . . . the Duomo (One of the Italian terms for cathedral). The large, red-tiled dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was a beacon with its white cap and golden sphere and cross for all to see. It would be our compass, our point of reference for the next four days. 

          The Duomo is a structure that defines the Italian Renaissance period.  It speaks of a time when the conditions were ripe for advancement in technology and art, and when Florence became one of the cultural launching pads for Western civilization.  The Duomo is the largest masonry dome ever built, a massive structure that overshadowed the city of Florence when it was completed.

 Florence Duomo

 

          We walked from the train terminal, rolling our luggage along the crowded stone streets and sidewalks to the piazza in front of the cathedral, and stood in awe of the church and dome. How was it possible for the Florentines to design and build such an enduring structure? How were they able to get all the material into the air and set it into the proper place, to withstand wind, earthquakes, wars, and gravity itself? Thousands of tons of carved stone, marble and brick have withstood the test of time and nature.

Santa Maria del Fiore (Duomo)

     The current cathedral replaced an older church structure that had been built in the sixth and seventh centuries.  Construction began in 1292, and continued for over 150 years.  There were many architects involved in the different parts and stages of the project.  The design and construction was overseen by the Woolen Guild, a group of city leaders.

           Numerous design competitions had occurred, but a final master plan was eventually approved by the Guild and by city referendum. The plan included a large cupola or dome that spanned 140 feet. It would be larger than any dome in existence. The leaders and the city proceeded on faith that a solution would emerge, even if by divine guidance.

          Fillipo Brunelleschi (1377-1446) was an artisan and a goldsmith; not the person one might expect to oversee the design and construction of the Duomo.  But, he was a true Renaissance man.  As a goldsmith, he learned intricate procedures for making jewelry and clocks.  He became fascinated with the gears and mechanisms that were required to make them function.  Born prior to Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) and Michelangelo (1475-1564), Brunelleschi helped establish the tradition of sketches and coded notes when creating new inventions and machinery.

 

          In 1401, Brunelleschi lost the Florence competition to design and build the baptistery bronze doors to Lorenzo Ghiberti. Shortly thereafter, he went to Rome to further study art and architecture. After several years, he returned to Florence to win the competition to design and build the Duomo.

          In the autumn chill, we bought tickets to climb to the top of the Duomo, and began the long process of climbing the equivalent of a 25-story building, one step at a time. The stairs at the beginning of the climb were wrapped around the columns, or internal piers of the dome. While we climbed the stairs, I thought of the arguments that raged in the early design process, when the leaders debated whether or not to have exterior flying buttresses, which evoked the gothic architecture of the north, or a more Romanesque design which would internally support the weight of the tall structure, and would be more representative of the designs in the regions around Florence. The internally-supported structure was the more popular choice.

          Eventually, we arrived at the base of the dome, and our path opened to a balcony walkway that was inside the cathedral.  The frescoes of biblical characters, frozen in their baroque poses, hovered on the dome above us.  In the hushed atmosphere and the mellow light, we looked down at the church tourists who appeared like ants moving across the inlaid stone floor 171 feet below.

Frescoes on the dome interior

View to the cathedral floor...171 feet below

 

          I tried to imagine what the masons thought centuries ago as they climbed the stairs each day, with their trowels and tools, along with their lunch and wine in their bags. It must have been a surreal environment for the workers, perched high above the church floor, with the sun above, and the pigeons landing nearby on the newly-set bricks and mortar.

          For such a large dome, Brunelleschi had many challenges to overcome in the design and construction.  Most domes built in that period had a temporary understructure to hold the stone and mortar in place until it was completed.  The Duomo’s size prevented any temporary framework.  No trees existed that were large enough, nor was there any way to lift and hoist the trees above the cathedral piers and walls.  The dome was too high above ground to build any wooden scaffolding from the ground below.  The masonry would have to support itself as the dome construction progressed upward, and the workers would have to trust that Brunelleschi’s design would support them as they built the inward-curving masonry walls.  The scaffolding was anchored to the masonry construction, and was moved upward as construction progressed.  Brunelleschi specifically designed a platform below the masons’ perch to prevent them from looking down while they worked.

          Gretta and I continued upward on the narrow stone stairway.  We climbed in the sandwich space between the inner and outer shell of the dome.  I was able to touch the individual bricks and see the masonry ribs between the two dome shells.  Every so often, I peeked out through one of the nine vents that are located in each exterior dome section.

           For Brunelleschi and the workers, the construction logistics were staggering.  Over four million bricks, along with the mortar materials, had to be lifted hundreds of feet into the air and precisely placed at the proper curve and elevation.  Brunelleschi’s watchmaker skills were put to use as he secretly developed sketches and plans for lifting and positioning devices.  He is credited with inventing an ox-driven hoist with a reverse mechanism that allowed the crane operator to raise, lower, or stop the suspended load without requiring the oxen to change directions on their circular path.  His hoist designs were a major breakthrough for large construction projects and are considered the first inventions of modern-era construction cranes.

          We gasped for breath and our calf muscles burned as we climbed the last rise of steps along the curve of the dome to the top.  The bright sunlight pierced the opening as we stepped out onto the observation deck at the base of the lantern, or the dome’s cap.  At a height of 295 ft., we were at the top of the crowning achievement of Florentine history.  The only portion of the structure above us was the spire with the eight-foot diameter sphere and crown at the very top of the dome.

Observation area at the dome's lantern

          The dense city of Florence lay before us, with patches of sunlight and cloud patterns washing the streets and buildings in the cool, steady breeze.

          Sprinkles of rain began to fall, and my thoughts turned again to the workers who constructed the dome in all types of weather.  The tramontana, or the severest storms from the mountains, caused them to cease work. The project was also halted when leaders were concerned that city-state skirmishes were imminent. The masons were asked to travel to strategic outlying castles to fortify the stone walls.

          The dome construction continued from 1421 to 1436.  There was a lantern design competition, won by Brunelleschi.  The ball and cross at the very top were designed by Verrocchio.  Construction of the lantern, built with white Carrara marble, was completed in 1446, barely a month before Brunelleschi died.  His remains now rest in a crypt below the cathedral.

 

          For the remainder of our four days in Florence, I continually peered towards the Duomo, my anchor.  It was the dominant feature on the cityscape from places such as the Boboli Gardens, the Piazza Michelangelo, and the Ponte Vecchio.

          I looked out from the windows in our room on the piazza in front of the cathedral and watched the townspeople and tourists scurry about. I imagined the pride of the fifteenth-century Florentine citizens had in their city and church, as they went about their daily work in the shadow of the massive dome. It is a pride that still exists in the hearts of the townspeople today.
 

Brunelleschi's Timeless Masterpiece

   

Sources:

King, Ross. Brunelleschi’s Dome. New York: Penguin Books, 2000.

Prager, Frank D., and Scaglia, Gustina. Brunelleschi – Studies of His Technology and Inventions. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1970.