The view from the porch of The Riverside looks south upon a hill that was sight to the first ski jump in Colorado, built in 1920 by a transplanted Norwegian named Carl Howelson. (Howelson went on to build his next, and more famous, ski jump in Steamboat Springs in 1921, where The US Olympic Ski Jump Team trains on a hill that bears his name.) The lodge pole pines are all dead now from the pine beetle infestation (Bush!), but it still is worth a long and enjoyable sunset gaze when compared to the relatively flat, suburban (yet not unbeautiful) view of oaks, hickories and two-story plat homes that we left behind in Shawnee, KS. But most prominent from the front porch of The Riverside is our across-the-street neighbor’s house, aka Grandpa’s. Grandpa lives in a 1960’s ranch house on a half acre lot, the prominent feature being two magnificent 100+-year old Spruce Trees that overshadow and literally hide the house from the west, especially during the winter. However they do not, from our unfettered southern vantage point, hide the yard, which contains a disabled 1986 Chevy K5 Blazer, couches and chairs that not too long ago displayed “Free” signs that this time didn’t get a bite from the locals, several old buckboard wagon wheels, tires (not new), trash cans, yard furniture, an old chest of drawers, and the general demeanor of a trash heap. As bad as some may think it looks now, it is much less cluttered than before we bought the hotel from Abe. Grandpa and Abe hated each other – this probably stemming from Abe’s constant haranguing about all the junk in the yard. I’m certain this only pushed Grandpa to call family, friends and neighbors in a quest to help him assemble the largest collection of useless and visually offensive odds and ends in Grand County. The town has no restrictions against using your property as a dump site, so what the heck? Especially if it went towards as noble a cause as pissing off Abe.
Some hotel guests have suggested that we go to the town council about the blight and demand that Grandpa clean it up. Some have even suggested that we buy Grandpa out, raze the house and clean the place up. What do we put there? A lemon-aide stand? An amusement park? A High-end mountain furniture / Native American art store? Quite frankly, Grandpa’s house, yard and associated visual effluvium typify this town more than anything else that would come to reside in its stead. Grandpa’s yard daily reminds us, and all of our visitors who get why they enjoy coming here in the first place, that we’ve truly left the grind behind. Much as you’d like to, you can’t get rid of your unwanted stuff in Boulder or Cherry Creek by putting it in your front yard with an attached “Free” sign, hoping that someone will value this thing more than you, pull up with a truck and have it out of your life for the price of a cardboard sign and a Magic Marker.
Grandpa, whose given name is Larry - but NOBODY, not even his wife, calls him Larry- moved to HSS in 1970 after retiring from the US Army. He is the embodiment of the stereotypical, old Colorado miner – small, wiry, stooped-over and long-bearded; a pack mule and a pick axe would complete the picture to perfection.
(When you meet Grandpa, Gabby Hayes not only comes to mind, Grandpa would be sued for identity theft were Gabby still around.) Grandpa was a demolitions expert in the Army, and used that skill to work for the nearby Henderson Mine company, blowing holes in the Rocky Mountains in search of molybdenum; the gold and silver that brought fortune seekers to this brutal environment in the 1860’s is long gone, and the mountains now yield a much less glamorous metal. Grandpa also had a brief career in the restaurant business, managing a group of small diners and hash houses around Grand County. This experience gives him the right to question and criticize the food that we put out of The Riverside kitchen. He brings us samples of concoctions that he’s cooked up – 3-Ingredient Chicken, Fried Bacon Poppers, Grandpa’s Famous Beans, etc – some appealing and edible, some not so much. When the ingredients are discernable, I’ll sample his fare; when they’re not, (as in 3-Ingredient Chicken), I’ll politely take his offering and tell him I’ll try it later. Truth be known, Grandpa probably looks at some of our more eclectic degustations (Pan-Seared Swai with Arugula Pesto and Balsamic Reduction) and politely pulls the same “I’ll try it later” stunt with me as I with him.
In the summer, Grandpa sits outside of his house, facing north and The Riverside, and sips scotch and beer for most of the day. (In the winter, which started in mid-October this year, Grandpa literally hibernates. He doesn’t come out of the house for anything, ever. I haven't seen him since October. Not once. I'm not kidding.) When we’re out front working, (sweeping, tending flowers, cleaning windows), he’s always thoughtful enough to take the time to yell profane chides alluding to the fact that he’s sitting in the shade sipping scotch and we’re working our asses off. My occasional sit downs with Grandpa always involve a recitation from him on the sorry state of the world in general, the utter worthlessness of most of the residents of Hot Sulphur Springs in particular, and the joys of being able to sit on your ass and sip scotch all day. We all know and have seen lots of people who’ve worked hard all their lives and are now enjoying their “golden years” to varying degrees, but I’ve never known one to rub the deliciousness of total retirement in your face like Grandpa does. I admire him for that, as so many of those other retirees are still trying to figure things out, still trying to succeed at something or put one more dollar away – out of either greed or need. Bluntly put, Grandpa doesn’t give a shit. He has two modes of existence – sitting outside sipping scotch in the summer, and sitting inside sipping scotch in the winter – and his level of contentedness is rarely approached by others, and certainly not yet by me. My guess regarding the real motivating factor behind Grandpa’s demeanor is that if you had spent your career down in a hole playing with seriously dangerous explosives, and were able to walk away with a pension and all of your digits intact, you’d leave well enough alone, sit on your ass and sip scotch all day; and you'd do it in Hot Sulphur Springs.
Some hotel guests have suggested that we go to the town council about the blight and demand that Grandpa clean it up. Some have even suggested that we buy Grandpa out, raze the house and clean the place up. What do we put there? A lemon-aide stand? An amusement park? A High-end mountain furniture / Native American art store? Quite frankly, Grandpa’s house, yard and associated visual effluvium typify this town more than anything else that would come to reside in its stead. Grandpa’s yard daily reminds us, and all of our visitors who get why they enjoy coming here in the first place, that we’ve truly left the grind behind. Much as you’d like to, you can’t get rid of your unwanted stuff in Boulder or Cherry Creek by putting it in your front yard with an attached “Free” sign, hoping that someone will value this thing more than you, pull up with a truck and have it out of your life for the price of a cardboard sign and a Magic Marker.
Grandpa, whose given name is Larry - but NOBODY, not even his wife, calls him Larry- moved to HSS in 1970 after retiring from the US Army. He is the embodiment of the stereotypical, old Colorado miner – small, wiry, stooped-over and long-bearded; a pack mule and a pick axe would complete the picture to perfection.
(When you meet Grandpa, Gabby Hayes not only comes to mind, Grandpa would be sued for identity theft were Gabby still around.) Grandpa was a demolitions expert in the Army, and used that skill to work for the nearby Henderson Mine company, blowing holes in the Rocky Mountains in search of molybdenum; the gold and silver that brought fortune seekers to this brutal environment in the 1860’s is long gone, and the mountains now yield a much less glamorous metal. Grandpa also had a brief career in the restaurant business, managing a group of small diners and hash houses around Grand County. This experience gives him the right to question and criticize the food that we put out of The Riverside kitchen. He brings us samples of concoctions that he’s cooked up – 3-Ingredient Chicken, Fried Bacon Poppers, Grandpa’s Famous Beans, etc – some appealing and edible, some not so much. When the ingredients are discernable, I’ll sample his fare; when they’re not, (as in 3-Ingredient Chicken), I’ll politely take his offering and tell him I’ll try it later. Truth be known, Grandpa probably looks at some of our more eclectic degustations (Pan-Seared Swai with Arugula Pesto and Balsamic Reduction) and politely pulls the same “I’ll try it later” stunt with me as I with him.
In the summer, Grandpa sits outside of his house, facing north and The Riverside, and sips scotch and beer for most of the day. (In the winter, which started in mid-October this year, Grandpa literally hibernates. He doesn’t come out of the house for anything, ever. I haven't seen him since October. Not once. I'm not kidding.) When we’re out front working, (sweeping, tending flowers, cleaning windows), he’s always thoughtful enough to take the time to yell profane chides alluding to the fact that he’s sitting in the shade sipping scotch and we’re working our asses off. My occasional sit downs with Grandpa always involve a recitation from him on the sorry state of the world in general, the utter worthlessness of most of the residents of Hot Sulphur Springs in particular, and the joys of being able to sit on your ass and sip scotch all day. We all know and have seen lots of people who’ve worked hard all their lives and are now enjoying their “golden years” to varying degrees, but I’ve never known one to rub the deliciousness of total retirement in your face like Grandpa does. I admire him for that, as so many of those other retirees are still trying to figure things out, still trying to succeed at something or put one more dollar away – out of either greed or need. Bluntly put, Grandpa doesn’t give a shit. He has two modes of existence – sitting outside sipping scotch in the summer, and sitting inside sipping scotch in the winter – and his level of contentedness is rarely approached by others, and certainly not yet by me. My guess regarding the real motivating factor behind Grandpa’s demeanor is that if you had spent your career down in a hole playing with seriously dangerous explosives, and were able to walk away with a pension and all of your digits intact, you’d leave well enough alone, sit on your ass and sip scotch all day; and you'd do it in Hot Sulphur Springs.
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