August has come and gone, and Labor Day is upon us. While twilight eves of summer give way to autumn’s cooler dawn, I offer another example of doors in Colorado’s foothills – this time featuring gateways.
This particular gate awaits me at an intersection of paths where this dirt trail lopes south and my paved bike path curves northward to eventually circle Arvada Reservoir. This gate is my stopping point to catch my breath, sip my water and examine the plants.
Open gate; is the trail open?
Although I enjoy riding the dirt trail parallel to a dry ditch, the path is sometimes closed two miles south. The following sign is permanent, but the gate might be open as shown above or closed and locked, as it appears below. I haven’t figured out the logic between open and closed gate, nor does the sign give an accurate status for the trail which has, in fact, been open to ride much further than two miles despite this permanent sign!
Phantom by William Matthews
If Alice Munro’s short stories are lazy river reading, Annie Proulx’s tales mimic her Wyoming rivers – indolent rivulets trickling through thirsty summer creek beds; rivulets that turn with a flash of lightning into raging swollen walls of water.
Stories bubbling and churning downstream with sharp twists that uproot everyone caught in their unforgiving path.
For as long as I can remember in my adult life, I have enjoyed columnists in my daily newspaper (before the internet silenced the presses). During the years I lived in Boulder, the Daily Camera carried syndicated columnist Ellen Goodman who wrote for the Boston Globe. On more than one occasion, I found myself taking time to handwrite Ellen’s entire column into my ‘Good Writings’ book.
Oh c’mon. You didn’t really think I was done with the potty talk, did you? If you didn’t want to hear more you shouldn’t have shared so many light-hearted latrine stories!
Restroom on Clear Creek Trail
Dear John ,
You are ‘privy’ to wearing one of my favorite doors. I don’t give you nearly enough accolades for the times I’ve been delighted to see your door.
If we were having coffee today, July 31st, we’d all be asking the same question:
“WHERE IN THE HECK DID JUNE AND JULY GO?”
Having no better answer than when we asked it last year, we’d sigh and change the subject.
Although I was somewhat disappointed in the first two Annies I read for my Annie Project, the stars aligned with my final three selections. (Future posts for Annie Proulx and Edward Abbey.)