Lost in Leadville

“I love it. It is wild with adventure.”
Henry Starr describing the bandit life in the Old West before he was shot to death in a gunfight in Arkansas.

WindowLeadville. You can find it yonder nearly 11,000 feet above sea level, known in the late 1800s and early 1900s as the best route for Easterners to head West. And while you experienced the most surreal scenery surrounding it all, you were lucky if you traversed there to survive the elements—both human and natural.

I offer this little preamble because Pete and I just visited this strange Colorado town caught in the web of the past and present woven by ghosts of gun shooters and prostitutes and gamblers and sheriffs and pioneer families and miners and millionaires and jilted lovers and some of the most famous and infamous characters in America’s history—including, John “Doc” Holiday, Carrie Nation, Baby Doe Tabor, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and even Oscar Wilde!

Their bodies might have long exited this god-forsaken city but, trust me, their phantasms are very much alive. In the midst of today’s Leadville coffee shops and hotels and restaurants and antique shops and pubs and theatres and historic sites with packs of tourists everywhere, those Wild West spirits ain’t dead yet.

CornerPete and I thought for sure we were about to have nothing but great luck on this two-day escape. First thing starting out that morning, Pete had won $8 (my lucky number) in a gas-station lottery ticket. Whoo-friggin-hooo!!!! But it didn’t take long before we began to feel a disconcerting sense.

You know how you have a gut feeling about something and if you’re wise you listen to it? Well, I had one of those, holy-shit-let’s-not-go-there moments even as we drove our mountainous climb in time to experience yet another Colorado site we’ve never seen. Foreboding stuff made its debut. Two hideous truck-loads of precious pigs on their way to slaughter—glimpses of their sweet pinkness could be seen as they crowded together on their way to impending deaths. A graceful deer lay dead on the side of the road and right across from it one of her family was mortally wounded and then shot by a group of the highway patrol—a puff of smoke from the gun report could be seen as we sped on. All in counter-balance to the breathtaking beauty putting on a nature show the likes of which we had never seen before. Buffalo roaming a verdant meadow. Lush vegetation—infinite acres of pine and aspen, wildflowers, crystal lakes and roaring creeks. Life’s yin and yang spread before us.
And then we arrived in Leadville.

ChurchThe perfect timing of our intro to this mountain world was that it followed our splendid visit the day before to the Denver Museum of Art and an entire Cowboy-Native American retrospective from Remington to Curtis sculptures, photographs and paintings to legions of other deeply moving works of art showing the drama of life back then—featured in the fabric of Americana. Including some of our most cherished movies of all time, many directed by the King of Westerns himself, the great John Ford. So with that taste of the sensory Wild West images fresh on our culture palettes of course we figured that visiting Leadville was a natural segue.

However we didn’t anticipate the heaviness that we began to feel there. Because though it’s alive with history in every twist and turn (in the Sixties it apparently was a hippy haven), there is a pervasive sadness, a feeling of a ghost town on the edge trying with all its might to stay relevant and contemporary and youthful.

Window signBut still it was impossible to ignore the fact that life during those olden days were though abundantly successful, filled with culture and opera and theatre and saloons and gobs of strike-it-richers noted for their extraordinary wealth, it was also an achingly raw and wrenching time. Infant mortality was rampant. Death was around every corner in a place that knew horrifically icy, mountainous snowbound challenges and disease and lawlessness that was boundless in its lack of rules of any kind. Public hangings and shootouts and a legendary story of a beautiful lady who ended her years as a mad woman impoverished and waylaid from her once privileged world of wealth caught in a love triangle of infamy. We walked through her tiny cabin where she had been found frozen to death. I could feel her screams of anguish in every molecule within that crypt-like world where she lived and died alone for over thirty years.

And so Pete and I spoke to some of the seasoned natives. Delightful, intelligent, caring elders who did all they could to keep the Leadville stories alive. They were wonderful people and eager to share what they knew; so refreshing within that pall of sadness. I mean so many antique stores were filled with sheriff’s badges and photographs and books and postcards written by long-lost lovers and siblings and parents, their formal language and lovely cursive an art form long gone.

Church insideA popular restaurant had their walls peppered with museum quality hats and boas from the 1800’s as well as photographs of dead sheriffs and bad guy hangings attended by huge crowds. It was a challenge enjoying a hearty breakfast with the photos of the dead within inches of our coffee.

What occurred to us looking beneath all the curios and signs and vintage paraphernalia abounding is that cruelty and violence and sorrow is unfortunately the story of the human condition—all ages and stages of life. We have always loved and always killed each other. And I have to wonder when will this madness ever end? When humanity ends and we start over with a clean slate?

The feeling we had of Leadville was the relief of leaving it. Especially since poor Pete was simultaneously suffering from a raging gastrointestinal attack that definitely motivated us to get the hell out of Dodge way faster than we had planned. He said that it was a case of “Lead(ville) poisoning.” I know he was right because he was fine soon after we returned home. Before a bird dive-bombed into our car as we headed back down the mountain.

In 1883, Sitting Bull was a guest of honor at the opening ceremonies for the Northern Pacific Railroad. When it was his turn to speak, he said in the Lakota language, “I hate all white people. You are thieves and liars. You have taken away our land and made us outcasts.” A quick-thinking interpreter told the crowd the chief was happy to be there and that he looked forward to peace and prosperity with the white people. Sitting Bull received a standing ovation.

Oscar Wilde’s West

Thursday, 5th July, 2007
First published The Guardian by Sam Jordison

Wall signI’m writing this in Leadville, Colorado and frankly, I’m a little bit scared. I don’t regret coming here (so far). I love it. The place is enjoyably, though worryingly, “authentic”. I’ve already been unwillingly involved in a saloon discussion about whether a local I’ve never met and whose name I can’t remember is “a mummy’s boy”, I’ve have had to dodge my way home past fireworks flying up the street, and have noted with alarm that the average bicep size here is thicker than my waist.

But bracing as life here is now, I can only imagine the storm that must have greeted the unwary visitor back in the 19th-century boom days when it was, by all accounts, the place that put the wild into west.

Back in 1883, Leadville was a frantically bustling town of 30,000 people – 29,000 of whom had arrived in the last six years, following the discovery of thick veins of silver in the area. At 10,200ft above sea level and overflowing with desperate fortune hunting miners and their hangers-on, Leadville could lay claim to being the highest and toughest town in the US. Hooch sellers made more money than mine owners, justice was a question of who could pull a gun fastest and the majority of local culture was to be found as bacterial growth on the food supplies that had to be shipped in by wagon train over the perilous mountain passes.

SignCuriously, however, this new town also had a rather splendid opera house, and it was to this ornate structure that the singularly incongruous figure of Oscar Wilde made his way during his 1882 lecture tour of the US, glittering with diamonds and done up (if contemporary accounts are to be believed) in a purple Hungarian smoking jacket, knee breeches and black silk stockings. And on what subject did Wilde choose to lecture the hard-bitten, hard-living miners?

Surprisingly, this sensible-sounding talk does not appear to have gone down well. Even Wilde gave mixed reports, once claiming that: “I read them passages from the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini and they seemed much delighted. I was reproved by my hearers for not having brought him with me. I explained that he had been dead for some little time which elicited the enquiry ‘Who shot him?'”
On a later occasion, however, he sadly admitted that his audience “slept as though no crime had ever stained the ravines of their mountain home.” Meanwhile, other accounts describe how the local stagehands decided that the great Irish playwright was a bit too “sissified” for their liking and pushed him off the stage into the orchestra pit.

WallApparently, those same stagehands then marched Wilde off to Leadville’s notorious red light district, where they intended to humiliate him further by getting him dead drunk. Wonderfully, however, the aesthete triumphed. He drank his would-be persecutors under the table and proceeded to become so popular in the town that they decided to name a silver vein after him.

This christening necessitated a ceremony in which Wilde was lowered to the bottom of a mine in a bucket (“I of course true to my principle being graceful even in a bucket”), ate an underground meal and smoked a cigar. “Then,” he explains, “I had to open a new vein, or lode, which with a silver drill I brilliantly performed, amidst unanimous applause. The silver drill was presented to me and the lode named ‘The Oscar’. I had hoped that in their simple grand way they would have offered me shares in ‘The Oscar’, but in their artless untutored fashion they did not. Only the silver drill remains as a memory of my night at Leadville.”

RewardAfter the vein was named, Wilde and his new friends retired to yet another saloon where he saw what he described as “the only rational method of art criticism I have ever come across.” Over the piano there hung a notice: “Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best…”

Predictably, Oscar had something clever to say on the subject. “I was struck with this recognition of the fact that bad art merits the penalty of death, and I felt that in this remote city, where the aesthetic applications of the revolver were clearly established in the case of music, my apostolic task would be much simplified, as indeed it was.”

At which point, I find it far too tempting to resist asking if anyone else can think of a good punishment for bad art – and to whom would you give it? With reasons.

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My Mother’s Voice…

Happy Soon-to-Celebrate Mother’s Day! I’ve included a piece I wrote a few years ago with a re-touch, but the sentiment is the same. I have to admit that there’s a bitter-sweetness about this time for me. It  will be the first Mother’s Day without my beautiful mother. I know that many of you are experiencing a similar loss now as well, missing your mothers and grandmothers and others—like a phantom limb. My heart goes out to you, too.

LilliesMy mother passed last year and the void echoes loudly. She was such a vibrant force in so many lives other than my own. A beautiful “Lilly” I will cherish forever. It’s the first Mother’s Day also for my entire family not having her to physically celebrate—sister, niece, great niece and nephew, my husband, sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons and legions of extended other family and friends who loved her so much. But among the many aspects of my Lilly that I long for is her beautiful voice and the songs she sang to us—and I now sing to my grandchildren. I so miss my sweet mother’s voice.

Right now, our precious country and entire planet need mothering like never before. Let’s make this a loving time. I’ll be lighting candles, gathering lilies and gardenias (her favorite flower), donating in my mother’s name–and being so grateful and blessed to be Momma, Nana, Auntie C, and Mama Cara. There is nothing better I’d rather be…

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The Nature Remedy

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” – John Muir

You know that great saying, “Holding on to hatred and revenge and anger is like taking poison and hoping it kills the other person?” Yeh. We’re the ones who implode and ultimately die from keeping those abhorrent toxins tucked inside our own cells. I know this and yet I have been guilty of such destructive toxin build-up. So overwhelmed by the world of cruelty and sorrow and brutality that I have been greeting each day with white-knuckles, gritted-teeth and verbal tantrums sounding as if they were lifted straight from “The Exorcist.” I am becoming the hate that I hate. Not good.

The Remedy? Mama Nature. Pete and I took off for the day for a gorgeous nature tuck-away in Morrison and instantly I was cocooned by the “Ahhhhh Effect.” Thanking the Universe for the gift of my senses (if you only have a few of them then embrace and use whatever you have!) I took in the soothing sights, sounds, feels, tastes, smells of the natural beauty patiently waiting to be discovered and embraced.

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The Peace Pebble…

Ripple, water and peace

As deeply moved and heartened as I am by the rallying together for and against everything I believe in right now there’s a gnawing voice in my gut that keeps telling me this is not enough. We’re preaching to the choir. Our like-mindedness is the very thing that caused this political cancer to grow in the first place. We turned a blind eye and deaf ear to those who believe that Trump was and is the answer to “make America great…” These are the people we need to be talking to. Not yelling at or calling names…but seriously speaking to in real efforts to make positive changes.

To listen to each other. To reach out.

Jimmy Fallon had a great bit on his show called Common Ground in which both Republicans and Democrats on the street were asked what they both liked and didn’t like and in that brief moment they found that they did have something in common, they shook hands, laughed and even hugged. It was just a little moment but I found it touching and true.

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Gridlock Life Lesson

It was Friday the 13th. A bright full moon night. My husband, Pete and I were headed out to Manitou Springs (in Colorado Springs), basically around 40-ish minutes away from where we live. I was to give a talk at the Storytellers Project, a popular monthly venue followed by a loyal and pretty large group of storyteller aficionados.

We gave ourselves over an hour to get there by 7 p.m., when Sharon Friedman, the Owner/Director of the Project requested I be there. No problemo. We loaded up the car with some extra books (Strength from Tragedy) hopefully to sell and autograph. Most of you already know the book and topic about my nearly 20-year friendship and correspondence with Anne Frank’s father, Otto Frank.

I was both excited and terrified. Because though I’ve been giving this talk for years now, this would be the first time I was to be speaking “off-book”. In other words, no cheat sheet. No fat notebook in front of me filled with the entire story, quotes, references, etc. Nope. I was to wing it and just tell the story from my heart as I needed to convince myself I already knew it and to tell it in a far more personal way than I’d ever spoken of it before. I was waaay out of my comfort zone.

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My Birthday/New Year’s Wishes…

CandleSo many mixed emotions facing this New Year. The first birthday of my life without my beloved mother to cheer me on as she always did each and every year. I have packs of her letters and notes inscribed with her beautiful cursive and loving words. My little cheerleader of the heart now off in the heavenly ethers of time and memories along with so many others in that ephemeral Land of Use To Be. Gone but never to be forgotten.

Another year of Auld Lang Syne. I was born on the 31st of December so for as long as I can remember I thought that poignant melody was my birthday song. It always made me feel sad inside, nostalgic for something I didn’t even understand why it moved me so but it always did. It still does.

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Why I Share Responsibility in this Upside-Down World…

This morning we watched CBS Morning like we always try and do most Sunday mornings and this one really got to me. It was the segment about those Trump supporters in West Virginia –at one time mostly Democrats but now die hard “Trumpsters.” I could feel my ire starting to boil over and my judgement chip rarin’ to go becoming as vile in my thoughts as I have felt this “other” faction to be. And then I listened to them. And I watched them. And I looked at their lives and their frustrations and their pain and fear.

They have been ignored by everyone. Left out to struggle on their own—once productive, mostly coal miners and their families, they’re now living in a nearly boarded-up world of no money, no jobs, considered the lower-not-the-middle class. They’re falling into a quagmire of physical, emotional and financial quicksand and no one has offered to pull them out. No one was listening to their pain to make what has been so un-great, great again. So is it no wonder that they look at Trump as the only promise of change they have? What tremendous anger and sorrow and futility and fear they must to have in order for an unfathomable Donald Trump (!) to be considered their Rescuer?

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The Lobster

Lobster

So many of you are feeling what I’m feeling right now. Vulnerable. Lost. Way out of our comfort zones. Stuck in fear. All of this and more. But what always helps me out of this morass is Mother Nature. In the spring of next year I’ll be publishing my newest version of Nature Teachers called Strength from Nature.

Today, I turned to one of my teachers, the Lobster. I hope you gain some growing, changing, new living perspective from this hearty marine crustacean that lives to get un-stuck when it’s at its most naked and fearful time. I bless this wondrous Nature Teacher for helping me find renewed strength to carry on in a world I barely understand right now. I hope it helps you as well…

“Growth means change and change involves risk, stepping from the known to the unknown.”
~George Shinn

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Moment to Moment

Stepping stones

“Remember when old ones died and new were born
And life was changed, disassembled, rearranged
We came together, fell apart
And broke each other’s hearts
Remember when…” -Alan Jackson

One of the favorite songs Pete and I love to play on our guitars is Alan Jackson’s “Remember When”—a beautifully heartfelt watercolor of life and death and all that good, bad and ugly stuff in between we call “life.” The song has always struck a deep chord for me in more ways than that of the instrumental kind. It summarizes what we all go through or are inevitably going to face. And it ends with the most poignant passage of all:

“We won’t be sad, we’ll be glad
For all the life we’ve had
And we’ll remember when…”

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The Wall

“Imagine all the people living life in peace…” Imagine, by John Lennon

My husband and I just returned from a beautiful vacation in Los Cabos, Mexico. It was gifted to us by his company as it was to all the top 2015 sales winners. Though Pete and I are not resort enthusiasts as our idea of a good time is being anywhere in untamed nature that has nothing to do with Piña Coladas and people, we were still grateful for the rare time-out together at the edge of the azure Sea of Cortez.

WallThe colors of oceany blues—teals and lapis and cobalt—played with our senses to the point of veritable hypnosis. The fresh sea scents and gentle sounds of waves wherever you inhaled and slumped into a boneless heap of “what-the-hell” and simply gave into the luxury of decadence and beauty—all of it was truly a gift from the gods. And of course, Pete’s company.
There were so many images that reverberated for me during that Cabo Paradise but what has stayed with me the most to talk about today is the beauty and grace and warmth of the Mexican people themselves. I’ve always loved the Latin culture for its kindness, passion, artistry, their love of family and so much more. I couldn’t help but notice during my time spent unwinding that these people smile from their soul. In fact, so many of them would greet us with a cheerful, “Ola!” or “Welcome!” and then touch their hearts. It moved me.

I loved their music. Their striking beauty. The way the staff would relate to each other—laughing, speaking in animated conversations, working together as peacefully as the surrounding sea. There were no sharp edges to them. They reflected the cadence of their land. And I knew that life wasn’t easy for most of them. It wasn’t that long ago that I, too, was a server working along beside these splendid people who made the work—and the inequities of catering to the privileged—so much easier. In Cabo, we discovered that the average salary of most of the workers came to a little over $4.00 an hour. And yet many of them expressed gratitude to be working at the resort even though it was, for many of them far away from their own homes. Continue reading The Wall

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