I was living in Boulder in 1999 when the shootings at Columbine took place. I remember watching the events unfold on the small television set behind the bar at the restaurant I worked at. It was lunch shift, as I recall, which makes sense being the middle of the school day. The TV set was rarely on. We only turned it on in the evening, and even then, usually only for sporting events (the Rockies were new to the MLB, and this period also marked John Elway and the Broncos peak). But that day we had cause to turn it on. CNN. Even the, red banners on the bottom and top of the screen. Breaking News l. Now, seemingly, a ubiquitous feature. With the clanking of silverware and dishes from the dining room and enchiladas rushing out of the kitchen.
That was 22 years ago, and it's hard to believe so little has been done to address the scourge of gun violence in the country. The fact many see it as an intrinsic part of the American fabric, perhaps in homage to the gunslinging pioneers who tamed the West and now linked inexorably to individual freedom continues to baffle me. A gun is a tool and has utility applied to the commensurate problem set. I would argue assault or massacre is not the problem set a civilian needs a tool for. Skeet shooting? Yes. Deer hunting? Of course. It is more nuanced than that, but that is all I have time and space for here.
I lived in Boulder from 1997 to 2001. I loved living there, and it still has a very special place in my heart. I used to think leaving Boulder was one of my only true regrets in life, but I got over that a long time ago. Most likely, it wouldn't retain the same specialness if I'd stayed longer. It would have become diluted over time. And, assuredly, I wouldn't have met Elise or be where I am today had I stayed.
At the time, it was still the eccentric, progressive hamlet tucked up against the Flatirons when the rest of the state was endless miles of amber waves of grain populated by deep, deep red cattle ranchers. Meteorologists, psychics, philosophers, rock climbers, computer scientists, vagabonds, chefs and bakers, triathletes, crystalogists, folk singers, drum circles, spiritual healers, poets, and distance runners are called it home. They may still.
I visited in 2009 when I was desperately searching for a new job and found the town changed. There was a lot of money there then. Houses were bigger. Traffic was worse. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed if I left. Hopefully, the soul of the city was still there, tucked away somewhere.
It's easy to let these outbursts of violence become routine, to let them blend into the muted background of our lives. But, every once in awhile, one volley of gunfire hits particularly close. This was one. Sadly, there may be another.
The first job I had in Boulder was at a sandwich shop. That lasted a week. The place was a dump, and I immediately clashed with the manager on the best way to clean the sandwich press. I spent the next six months working at Rocky Mountain Joe's Cafe on the iconic Pearl Street Mall. I wasn't a morning person then, and the early starts were brutal. But I did learn how to work an espresso machine, if nothing else.
That was when I joined the staff of a new restaurant opening next to the movie theater, Blue Plate Kitchen. I was already of fan of the company's two other concepts, Zolo (where I would go to work after Blue Plate closed) and Jax Fish House, an oyster bar at the front door of the Rockies. They were trying a new concept which is now commonplace. Instead of a sit-down restaurant, you order at a counter and your food is brought to you after your seated. It was a little before its time, and we never could figure out how to manage the rushes that came before and after movies started and let out.
And at some point, I went to business school at the University of Colorado. Most of this period I was listless, working hard, but not entirely sure towards what. I wasn't writing much. I hiked by myself. It's kind of funny to think about now that hiking mountains was a thing before there was social media to document it. Hiking for the sake of it and not to share. If anything, I played guitar there more than at any other time in my life, hours in the basement of our townhouse until the beds of my fingers were sore from the steel strings. It's also where I started really running. I would just run up the trails from Chautauqua into the Green Mountains without ever worrying about how long I was gone or what time I had to he home or if anyone was waiting for me. Its sounds peaceful and it was. Lonely, too.
I've always wanted to take Elise there. I'd still like to some day. I think she would like it.
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