Dirt-road grit

Yesterday, while driving to and from town, I saw two roof cave-ins. One was especially sad. The back end of one of the more rustic barns along HWY 95 just south of my mother's, along Sand Creek, had gone down in the past few days. I always loved that place for its picturesque qualities, and the barn was the centerpiece. Part of the roof is still hanging in there, but who knows for how long.

While driving home along Center Valley Road, I noticed that a side roof on a barn was lying at an angle on the ground beside the main structure. I surmised that we're certainly not alone in the neighborhood with the demise of our storage shed. And, within the area, the stories continue to filter out about Jean Offermann's roof, and the two cave-ins up at Western Pleasure and some at McNalls.

Last night, I was telling my sister about the additional story Bill had told me about a horse being lost due to one of the cave-ins at Western Pleasure when she told me about yet another rather significant roof collapse at a dressage arena a few miles from where we live. I'm sure there are plenty more horror stories to share about the destruction of this winter of '07-'08, and I'm sure they're being shared.

One of the better stories I'd heard came from a neighbor who moved here several years ago from California, vowing never to return. Even he, who has a back hoe to clear his snow, has entertained thoughts similar to the fabled family who reportedly left many of their belongings at the Dufort Mall "free" pile a few weeks ago and headed out of town, planning not to return again.

Our neighbor had just had it a week or so ago and even expressed surprise that he hadn't read about more suicides in the local paper. Bill jokingly suggested to him that maybe nobody's found them yet cuz they might be buried under a snow pile. As readers know, this season has been wearing on all of us, but-----

In spite of everything that has gone wrong and all the work we've asked of our bodies over the past couple of months, I remain committed to this lifestyle, and I'm more than confident that a lot of other battle-worn winter warriers, even my neighbor, share the same conviction. An undying, yet often tested, spirit runs to the core of our being. That spirit constantly reminds us that we're willingly in it for the long haul, and when you're in anything for the long haul, you're going to be tested.

Buildings will crumble. Bodies will scream in protest as we hurl one more shovelful of heavy snow with our achy arms. Things will just get in the way, making us often wonder just how insane we must be to put up with all this toil and trouble.

We know, however, that enduring this rural life can be summed up just like mothers-to-be who deal with nine months of physical challenges, topped off by the most excruciating of pains as they, at last, give birth. In most cases, at that moment, all undesirables of the past few months are immediately forgotten when the pain ends and another beautiful newborn miracle screams its arrival to the world.

In the rural life, so many pluses outweigh the minuses. Even on the darkest of winter days, in this country especially, we know that tribulations will eventually end. We know that in what seems like a far-off spring when another multitude of newborn miracles surrounds us and sustains us, we'll be wondering why we ever complained. Loving the rural life is just a part of our souls.

This morning, Bill read to me a short segment from a book he's currently reading about fly fishing. Written by John Gierach, it's called Standing in a River Waving a Stick. Apparently, Bill thought it pretty much summed up our situation and the situation of so many others who've been tested to the core this winter and who will continue to embrace the lifestyle. I agreed. So, with no further adieu, I'll close with John Gierach's apt words:

"McCook is the kind of small Middle American city where you can find a cheap motel patronized mostly by truckers and hunters this time of year---complete with a garbage pail and a yard light out back for cleaning birds---a quiet little bar off Main Street that serves a great steak dinner special and a breakfast joint where the farmers hang out and where the waitresses ask you how the hunting has been without first having to ask what you're doing in town.

"It's hard not to overhear snatches of conversation in a place like this, and I'm always struck by a certain sensible outlook I've come to miss here in the People's Republic of Boulder County, Colorado, which is a hell of a lot less rural than when I moved here almost thirty years ago.

"(I don't mean that Colorado has gone completely to hell, it's just that there are a few too many people around now who moved out west so they could live on a dirt road, only to spend all their time bitching about the dust.)

"You see, urban folk somehow assume that things are supposed to go perfectly for them at all times: schedules must be met, expectations must be fulfilled, comfort must be maintained. Consequently, they're aggravated beyond all reason by any little mistake or delay. But rural people understand that life is basically a dangerous, unmanageable mess, so when things go wrong, their suspicions are confirmed and it's just a blessing no one was killed. When things occasionally go right, they're delighted. Whatever happens, they have a comfortable grasp on reality, not to mention an ironclad work ethic."