On occasion I post a comment to the on-line edition of The Daily Sentinel. When I do, it usually leads to a discussion with a conservative. Often that conservative is “American Patriot,” a local Tea Party leader. In a recent conversation, he explained to me that I didn’t belong here and that I should move to Boulder. He went on to explain how things were just fine here in Happy Valley before people like me got here; that the people usually “got it right;” that people with calluses on their hands could think, blah, blah, blah.
Yesterday I happened into a diner for breakfast, and sat at the counter, since I didn’t have an entourage. (I’m often alone, single women over a certain age often are.) Shortly after I sat down, a man sat on the stool next to mine. We started a conversation that sounded a bit like a friendlier version of “move to Boulder.”
Without knowing anything about me, other than I was clean and not young, he started telling me about what this community was like before people from outside came here. He complained about fish ladders because it ruined good fishing holes. He explained how his family raised him on the proceeds of their apple orchards, including how imperfect fruit ended up as cider or applesauce, thanks to a local food processor—now gone. He explained how a lot of the local orchards don’t make money because they don’t do the things they are supposed to do in order to maintain their trees. He remembered a lot of farmers growing sugar beets, and how they were processed right here. Another ghost company. He told of working for coal mines that supplied the power plant in Cameo that, in turn, supplied Grand Junction with power. He was proud of his sons who shoe horses, explaining that horses in the east have their shoes glued, not nailed, in place.
That conversation lasted one full breakfast. Why? Because I understood enough to make appropriate comments along the way. You see, my story isn’t all that different. I grew up in a mining town. My grandfather worked for 50 years in the hoist room, where men and ore were lifted from the mine. My other grandfather was a rancher and farmer. He worked the sugar beet factory when the crop came in. He introduced the Black Angus breed of cattle to South Dakota. He wrestled all comers for money during the Great Depression. He raised eleven children as a share cropper. Both of my grandfathers had calluses on their hands, and neither of them was stupid.
My father was in the Army during WWII. After serving in Alaska, he went home to work for the mine. Because he did not want to work underground, he worked as a safety inspector. Because he dressed well, some kids in the neighborhood believed he was a spy. But we were poor. My mother’s brother would bring us milk in bottles the dairy couldn’t sell because the seal was improper. My dad hunted and fished to supplement the family food budget—we ate deer and pheasant and duck and trout. My mother had a garden, and canned vegetables and fruits, doing her part to put food on the table. Every fall I got one new school outfit from my parents and another from my grandparents. I was constantly told by parents and grandparents that I had to do well in school if I wanted a good life.
Eventually my father moved the family to metro Denver so that he could earn more money working in maintenance at a bank. He went to night school to learn how to be a stationary engineer, changing careers when he already had four kids to feed and clothe.
So, “American Patriot,” let me tell you something. Just because I wasn’t born in Happy Valley does not mean that I know nothing about what it is to make a living by working the land, or working in dangerous mines, or being at the bottom of the socio-economic scale.
I’ll tell you something else. Even though I am the first person on either side of my family to go to college, I didn’t get my political leanings from college professors. I had grandparents and parents who were registered Democrats. They knew that Democrats fight harder for the little guy—the worker. The little guys in Grand Junction need to be a little less provincial. The GOP, and their pandering to multi-national corporations, does nothing to bring back the Happy Valley you remember.
One final thought, Progressive is not an insult. You prefer being backwards?
Yesterday I happened into a diner for breakfast, and sat at the counter, since I didn’t have an entourage. (I’m often alone, single women over a certain age often are.) Shortly after I sat down, a man sat on the stool next to mine. We started a conversation that sounded a bit like a friendlier version of “move to Boulder.”
Without knowing anything about me, other than I was clean and not young, he started telling me about what this community was like before people from outside came here. He complained about fish ladders because it ruined good fishing holes. He explained how his family raised him on the proceeds of their apple orchards, including how imperfect fruit ended up as cider or applesauce, thanks to a local food processor—now gone. He explained how a lot of the local orchards don’t make money because they don’t do the things they are supposed to do in order to maintain their trees. He remembered a lot of farmers growing sugar beets, and how they were processed right here. Another ghost company. He told of working for coal mines that supplied the power plant in Cameo that, in turn, supplied Grand Junction with power. He was proud of his sons who shoe horses, explaining that horses in the east have their shoes glued, not nailed, in place.
That conversation lasted one full breakfast. Why? Because I understood enough to make appropriate comments along the way. You see, my story isn’t all that different. I grew up in a mining town. My grandfather worked for 50 years in the hoist room, where men and ore were lifted from the mine. My other grandfather was a rancher and farmer. He worked the sugar beet factory when the crop came in. He introduced the Black Angus breed of cattle to South Dakota. He wrestled all comers for money during the Great Depression. He raised eleven children as a share cropper. Both of my grandfathers had calluses on their hands, and neither of them was stupid.
My father was in the Army during WWII. After serving in Alaska, he went home to work for the mine. Because he did not want to work underground, he worked as a safety inspector. Because he dressed well, some kids in the neighborhood believed he was a spy. But we were poor. My mother’s brother would bring us milk in bottles the dairy couldn’t sell because the seal was improper. My dad hunted and fished to supplement the family food budget—we ate deer and pheasant and duck and trout. My mother had a garden, and canned vegetables and fruits, doing her part to put food on the table. Every fall I got one new school outfit from my parents and another from my grandparents. I was constantly told by parents and grandparents that I had to do well in school if I wanted a good life.
Eventually my father moved the family to metro Denver so that he could earn more money working in maintenance at a bank. He went to night school to learn how to be a stationary engineer, changing careers when he already had four kids to feed and clothe.
So, “American Patriot,” let me tell you something. Just because I wasn’t born in Happy Valley does not mean that I know nothing about what it is to make a living by working the land, or working in dangerous mines, or being at the bottom of the socio-economic scale.
I’ll tell you something else. Even though I am the first person on either side of my family to go to college, I didn’t get my political leanings from college professors. I had grandparents and parents who were registered Democrats. They knew that Democrats fight harder for the little guy—the worker. The little guys in Grand Junction need to be a little less provincial. The GOP, and their pandering to multi-national corporations, does nothing to bring back the Happy Valley you remember.
One final thought, Progressive is not an insult. You prefer being backwards?
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