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The Denver Post titled this "Imagination Thrives in Walden" Sunday, February 13, 2000
I’ve watched my grandson Jess grow up in Denver and he has had many advantages I didn’t have. He’s been to the circus, to every current movie, to plays and rock concerts. He’s seen Michael Jackson and the Pope. He’s had his own computer and television, and had Nintendo when he was eight. He fenced competitively in a tournament at the Olympic Center in Colorado Springs. He’s been to parties at the Governor’s mansion and has shaken the Governor’s hand a few times. He’s been to the Stock Show more times than I can count, to Rockies games, to Broncos games. He’s eaten in some fine restaurants. Yes, he’s definitely had some cultural advantages that I never had. But I had Walden. Only someone who grew up in a small town can know what that means. It makes me sad sometimes that my grandson will never know. Walden was complete freedom for a kid. It was endless summer days when the only limit on play was your imagination. You could get up in the morning, say, "See you later, Mom," and be gone all day, playing with your friends, and your mom knew you were relatively safe. There were no bad guys when I was a kid, except for the ones in the movies we went to see at the Park Theater every Saturday night. Walden meant being able to roam all over the countryside, playing explorer or good cowboys against bad ones or pirates or going on military expeditions where we’d sneak across the hillside to spy on the late shift workers at the lumber mill, whispering fiercely, "Hit the dirt!" if one of them happened to look our way. It meant sled riding or ice skating in the winter, snow forts and snowball fights, hot cocoa and toast with honey. Walden meant playing paper dolls at the kitchen table while Mom baked a pie or bread, filling the kitchen with wonderful smells. Few things equal a slice of freshly baked bread with butter and jam on it. Walden meant no television, just radio and books and family games. My oldest sister would make fudge, my number two sister would make popcorn, and we four girls would gather around the table to play games, often with Mom and Dad, or in the living room to listen to George and Gracie or music from Del Rio, Texas on the radio. It meant going into the timber with Dad on weekends to watch and help as he shoed the horses he skidded logs with, then driving through the mountains looking for ghost towns to explore, or the excitement of Saturday night, when we’d all get cleaned up and go downtown (four blocks from our house) and see the movie. It meant having the usher—my sister—threaten to make me sit in back with Mom and Dad if that boy didn’t take his arm from around my shoulders (and carrying out the threat!). It meant going to church on Sunday with my whole family, and everyone we knew would be there. Walden hasn’t changed much since I was a kid, and not everyone is happy about that. A few new houses, a few new stores, a few of the old ones out of business. There are no more Saturday night movies at the Park Theater because you can finally get decent reception on TV, and video movies are available to all. Walden’s demise is predicted every ten years or so, and its rejuvenation is heralded on alternating ten years. Many of the young people leave for jobs in the cities; some of the older people leave, too, when the oil wells shut down or the mines close or the timber mill closes. But the town remains and somehow manages to keep going. And most of the ones who left come back—sooner or later—for the Pioneer Reunion, which is held every year at the end of June. And I’ll bet they are as glad as I am that Walden stays the same. My grandson has had many of the experiences I used to watch in movies or read about, and yearn for. But he didn’t have Walden. I’m sorry he didn’t. # # #
Copyright © 2004
Helen Williams
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