Where thou art, that is home. – Emily Dickinson
This new year 2012 begins right here, at home. I decided to ask our regular contributors – and some new voices – to interpret their thoughts on “home” for this issue. What you’re about to discover are a variety of stories, memories, opinions, essays, artwork and poetry on an elusive topic for which everyone has some experience and thoughts on. Home isn’t necessarily where you were born or where you currently hang your hat. Home can be a longing, a state of mind, a place of tranquility or a place of contention. Where thou art …
Shortly after sending out this assignment to my talented contributors, I had a surprise opportunity in early December to visit a place I used to call home, literally. Deciding to spend my birthday weekend on the western side of the Continental Divide, I found myself, along with a guest passenger, Kevin Tonkin of Del Norte, pulling into my old neighborhood southeast of Durango amongst the piñon and juniper trees, sagebrush, yucca and inveterate gas wells of rural La Plata County to visit my good friend Sean Slattery. Sean was a friend and neighbor who lived about two miles up the dirt road from the first house I ever owned. Sean built his own house on a hilltop and claims to have designed the kitchen around his commercial-grade Wolf brand gas range. If you ever find the good fortune to have Sean prepare you a meal, you’ll understand why.
Rumors of a poker game at Michael B.’s house began to circulate. This aroused my interest for a couple of reasons. First, I really enjoy playing poker and have missed the weekly games that were part of my social life during the many years that I called Durango home. Secondly, Michael B. was the fellow who bought my old house and I had not returned there in nearly nine years. I was eager to see what he had done with it.
With anticipation and some apprehension we arrived early. I say apprehension because shortly after I had sold the property, the dreaded Ips bark beetle had hit the neighborhood with its thirst for pine trees, especially piñon. The four acres I had sold were loaded with old-growth trees, many of which were over 400 years old.
When we arrived I began taking a mental inventory of the forest and, although some of the grandest and oldest trees were no longer there, the place still had a rustic, woodsy feel. The views were the same, as well as the awkward downslope driveway, piles of firewood and the familiar aroma of burning coal.
Michael had done quite a bit of work putting his own signature on the place and I was glad for that. It declared in my mind that I no longer had ownership and that it was now “home” for others. That provided me with a surprising peace of mind. After the hellos, handshakes and welcomes I decided to take a tour of the property for old times’ sake. My first stop was a pile of rocks which marked the burial spot of a grey tabby named Maggie who I had discovered prone and unmoving in the backyard one autumn day. I kicked aside some residual snow, found the rocks and smiled as I remembered the antics of that sweet feline.
The next stop was another pile of rocks, but of a different nature. These were the spent volcanic rocks of a traditional native Lakota sweat lodge that a former roommate had built. That brought memories both sweet and bitter. Of moonlit nights filled with the aroma of sweetgrass and sage, of love gained as well as lost.
A path into the woods was at first disorienting as I sought out a clearing where once stood a teepee. Several of the old trees which marked the spot were now gone and I only located it because of the remains of a sleeping platform I had constructed years before. I wanted to lie on it but as it was covered with snow, I lingered instead, remembering nights spent sleeping within its canvas walls, and also of the Ft. Lewis College students who would sometimes rent it in the summers to save money.
Snow prevented me from crossing the old barbed wire fence into the quarter section beyond the property line where I used to hike – usually followed by house cats, eager to explore the land beyond their comfort zone. I turned back toward the house and paused near some of the new additions since I had left – an unoccupied chicken coop, a fenced garden, piles of “stuff” to augment the piles I stuff I had left behind.
When I returned to where the guys were hanging out, Michael asked “how was it?” and I replied “Nostalgic. Now let’s play some cards!”
It was great to be back at this home.
*********************
When I bought this magazine from Ed and Martha Quillen back in 2009, I wondered how was it possible to self-produce a magazine every month for twelve months and still find time for any kind of break. Well, after three years the answer was a resounding “It is not!” so I’ve decided to initiate an idea I considered right from the start; that of combining the January and February issues into one. Other magazines do it, I thought, so they must be onto to something. This is also a time of year when ad sales drop precipitously, so after gauging the idea with some advertisers, readers and contributors, the common response was a rousing “Yes, do it,” therefore we’ve beefed up this issue with a bunch of great extra content and I am taking some time off. To recharge the batteries, spend some needed time with my family, do some travelling, maybe some skiing. I also want to give a break to our copy editor Jeff Rowe and proofreader Lum Pennington, who generously offer their services to Colorado Central not for money, but because they believe in this magazine and in the important role of independent print media in the 21st century.
Thanks to all of our readers for their understanding. We’ll see you again in March!
– Mike Rosso
