Lyfting Me Up

Over the past ten years of writing this blog, I have proudly spoken of the gift it was to grow up in Pueblo, Colorado. If you grew up in the Steel City, Pew-Town, or the home of the Colorado State Hospital, you soon realized that we were often the butt end of jokes from north of us. Yes, it created a bit of an underdog, country-cousin attitude.

One of the things Pueblo had—and still has—is the Colorado State Fair. Despite attempts over the years to steal it from Pueblo, our governors saw better. So this year we ventured to “The Fair” for an afternoon of walking through memories and creating new ones.

Puebloans are like the swallows of San Juan Capistrano. We return to the Fair to reconnect, remember, and remind ourselves that at our core, we are blue-collar, farming-and-ranching types who grew up in a most special place.

Somewhere in the archives of my family’s 8mm movie trove, there are pictures of a three-year-old Mark in red cowboy boots, western shirt, and a mighty fine hat. Also in that collection are old rodeo scenes, rides on the Ferris wheel, and pig races.

The Fair is always at the end of August through Labor Day. As I hit young adulthood, the kickoff was the biggest party of the year, thrown at the Rosemount Mansion. It was called the “Stomp-On.” A twenty-something knew that on that single night you would run into many, many people you grew up with. I loved parties, and it was the one I would drive from Oklahoma, where I was living at the time, to “kick up my heels.”

I have so many memories of the Fair.

I remember Donnie G. getting into the ring with a Golden Gloves boxer from New York City and representing all the testosterone-laden males from Pueblo’s five high schools. Donnie knocked him out.

Pueblo rules.

The summer before I headed to college, I got a job as part of the night cleanup crew at the Coors Beer Garden. The two guys I worked with had done it before. We could completely finish the work by 3 a.m. Then we would turn on the pizza oven, open the beer taps, and have our own little party.

Eventually we would go to sleep on the bench couches surrounding the whole area. Right around 8 a.m., a Colorado State Patrol officer would gently tap me on the shoulder and say, “Good morning, son. Time to go home until tonight.”

I made $200 for those ten days and headed off to college with money in my pocket.

I also remember my dad entering his asparagus fern, which he had nurtured for several years in our sunroom, in a juried houseplant competition. He won a blue ribbon—and Best of Show. We got to see it there in all its glory, and then admire it every time we came home for family stuff.

During the years we lived in the San Luis Valley, we would always bring the family over for a day at the Fair. As we strolled around with the masses, we would run into all kinds of folks we had known over the years.

When I hit my early sixties, I began to notice that I knew fewer and fewer of the people.

Yesterday, I ran into no one.

And it was even Senior Day.

I was thinking, too, of all the entertainment I have experienced there: front row for Garth Brooks and Carlos Santana, The Beach Boys, Charley Pride, Ethel Waters, Chicago, Night Ranger, Bobby Vee, Kenny G, Phish, and Roy Rogers and Dale Evans all come to mind.

Oh yes—and Gene Autry.

Yesterday was one more stroll around an event that brings out just about every kind of human with whom we occupy this home.

As we walked back to our car, our route took us through the midway. And there it was.

The Tilt-a-Whirl.

9NEWS had recently done a special on that now 100-year-old classic ride. My mom was a huge fan. Even in her sixties, she asked me to ride it with her.

The little girl from Iowa shined through her beautiful silver hair.

We laughed until we cried.

Yesterday, standing there looking at the Tilt-a-Whirl, I felt it all again.

Grief and gratitude.

At the Fair.

Onward and Upward,

Mark