Friday Fun – Top Five Snowday Activities

People love Colorado for the skiing, and the snowboarding, and snowshoeing, and other snow-centric mountain-based activities. But not me. Generations of Harrises before me spent the majority of their time trying to get OUT of the mountains, and back down to civilization. Well, to Denver, which was the closest approximation available. The idea that I would willingly trek BACK up there for the sole purpose of hurtling down a snowy slope on greased-up fence slats or on an ironing board would have them laughing their asses off at me.

You see, more than 100 years ago, my people came from the cosy tea- and clotted-cream-filled tin mines of Devon and Cornwall via the flatlands of Michigan to settle the optimistically named Central “City” in Colorado Territory, during a War. Which says something about the available opportunities and lifestyle in 1800s England.

Ah, Central City — its two to three streets paved with the dreams of immigrants, but mostly just with dirt and typhus. Overrun regularly with mudslides, funeral processions, fires, floods, and church picnics, it was miles and several steep, pointy mountains away from civilization. Like normal pioneer people of the merchant classes, my forefathers, mothers, and Uncle Ned stayed only long enough to profit from the silvery greed of the miners, build several large dry-goods and furniture stores (the Harris Block) and spawn the massive, repetitively named family from which I have descended — literally, if you count following Clear Creek past Golden and down 38th past Gaetano’s to Lodo, as a descent, which it is.

There, in the shady streets of Denver, they lived, until they died of the tin lung, clotted cream, oldness, having 20 billion children, and being Victorian. Only my great-grandfather and his family stayed up in the dying “City” to embalm the remaining miners and picnic-goers and such. My grandfather was born in the back of the funeral parlor — circle of life, etc. Later, a young Bob Dylan would play annoyingly in the same building, renamed the “Gilded Garter Saloon,” thus closing the circle and cursing all who now play $5 hands of poker there.

In 1910 or so, Great-grandfather bundled up his 12 or 15 children, all named Margaret and Edward and Uncle Dick, and turned his back on the mountains sent them to live in Denver. Finally, when the last miner was neatly embalmed and buried in the Knights of Pythias cemetery, he sold the Harris block buildings and joined the Margarets and Emmas in the Queen City of the Plains. He lived a long happy life working part-time at Olinger Rogers Mortuary, divorcing my great-grandmother, and generally pissing off his horrified daughters at every available opportunity. I can’t think of a departed Harris relative of whom I approve more highly.

As a child with such a family history, I went to the mountains for Outdoor Lab School purposes only. Otherwise, we visited at the normal time of year, namely summer. We’d look at the view from the VW bus and maybe get out and marvel at the fact there was a building with our last name on it, and then beg for money for candy and the rock shop. Sometimes I would throw up on the way home. But never, never did we venture up into a snowstorm to spend dollars being cold and exhilarated. It’s my view that getting all those Harrises from Bere Ferrars, Devon to Central City, Colorado is enough adventure for several more generations of us. That’s why my snowday activities include:

▪ Soaking in hotsprings – http://www.mtprinceton.com/ , http://ojocalientesprings.com/
▪ Drinking hot toddys (Jameson, hot tea, lemon, honey)
▪ Eating cinnamon toast
▪ Window shopping downtown, especially here: http://www.larimersquare.com/shops/114/victoriana
▪ Walking my dog Taggart