Is “Connoisseur” French for Snob?

I put a hold on this book at the library because of title. From the picture on the cover, it was clear that two of the “jerks” were Horace Tabor and Mattie Silks. I would certainly grant Tabor “jerk” status. Mattie Silks, one of Denver and Georgetown’s madams, I wasn’t quite so sure qualified.

Turns out, the book was largely a disappointment.

Each chapter seems to me to be largely a rehash of things cited elsewhere, and then cobbled together with a bit of extra emphasis on “jerkdom.” The author seems uncomfortable with bringing out the jerky qualities in most of the people in her book, and often her summary paragraphs at the beginning of each biography feel like apologies for being about to make a case for “jerkitude.” In more than one case, I really felt like the author never really managed to make a case for jerk status, instead picked one instance of lukewarm “jerkiness,” and “proved” her thesis with little more than a concluding summary statement calling the person a jerk.

Me, I wanted actual jerks.

One of the “jerks” is Queen Anne B. She had a habit of “stealing” cattle. When cattle from neighbor’s herds wandered on to her property, she’d either re-brand the creature, or, she’d butcher them herself.   This was something that her mother had done before her, and everyone knew was a likely outcome of cattle wandering onto her property.

This is pretty much the extent of her “jerkitude.” I’m almost bored typing just that.

Except, the story goes for 5-6 pages in the book. The biggest jerk in the story (who, I grant, does have his own chapter) is the infamous Tom Horn, who was hired by one the Anne’s neighbors to kill her foreman (who was also her fiancé). Horn ambushed the fiancé and one other man, leaving their house after breakfast, then shot and killed them both.

When the author has an actual jerk at her disposal, she seems to be afraid to really tarnish their reputation.

Take, for example, the case of Colonel Chivington. He was the jerk who led the Sand Creek Massacre, where he and the majority of the soldiers under his command murdered mostly women and children of the Arapaho tribe on the banks of the Sand Creek. This is discussed in the book.

When he was taken to trial for his actions, Silas Soule, who refused to take part in the killings, was the chief witness against Chivington. Soon after, Soule himself was murdered. The assassin, while it never went to trial and proven, was likely hired by Chivington. This part of the story is left out of the book.

It seems to me, if you are writing a book about “jerks,” you’d include all of the misdeeds that qualify them. Granted, Chivington was never convicted in association with this crime. Yet, every account I’ve read of this story indicates that this was more than mere speculation. Everyone knew who’d hired the assassin. This part of the story speaks volumes about this jerk, and it’s not even there. One of the few real jerks in the whole book, and one of the most obvious stories of the extent of his jerk-ness is not mentioned? Did she forget to read the title of her own book?

She missed the Bloody Espinozas, whose reign of terror was well known, and who butchered multiple victims throughout the southern part of the state.  She missed, well, I’m not entirely sure at this moment, but, I’m certain there are multitudes of bigger jerks she missed.

I feel like this book was a lost opportunity, and I feel like I wish I’d gotten to write it.

I’ve written many times that one of my constant companions is this flu of ideas and thoughts that fill my head, all the time.  My brain is sometimes so noisy with thoughts that I can’t escape them, and it’s hard to follow one thread of thought for enough time to see it to a conclusion.

I know, first world problems, right? Boo-hoo hoo, look at me whiny about not getting a minute away from my own mind. Really, in the scheme of things, yes, it’s a minor problem, and I shouldn’t complain. And, I’m not. Instead, I am setting the stage.

Because, this particular tale I wish to share with you is most remarkable when you are cognizant of how my brain spends weeks with thoughts flooding through, and providing very little in the way of rest.

I had been having a particularly long period of “brain flu,” and I had just learned an alternate route from work during the evening commute, which takes me parallel to the always busy I-70.

The last leg of the trip turns me facing north/northwest, to hook up again with I-70 to go  the last few miles home. This particular day, I turned, and went under the railroad tracks, and as I started to emerge from under the bridge, and as I crested the hill, there it was, huge, and perfectly framed by the narrow passage under the tracks.

For the first time in weeks, my mind was silent. The mountain looked like it was just a few miles away, rather than the 70+ miles away I knew it to be. I stared at it, as if I’d never seen that beautiful peak properly before in my entire life.

Anyone who lives near mountains knows that they sometime look like they are much closer than they really are, and that that perspective changes daily.

Here’s a picture I took from just past the spot, and it wasn’t as big the day I took the picture. I don’t remember seeing the crane at all, and can’t even tell you if it was there.

What I do remember, is thinking, over and over again: “That’s Long’s Peak. Right there. That’s Long’s Peak. It has to be. It’s Long’s Peak, but how? I’ve *never* noticed it there before. How did I miss it? That’s Long’s Peak!”

I starred at it, rampant disbelief echoing around my head which was pretty much empty of other thoughts, so, it had lots of room to run.  That glorious sight allowed me to hear silence. It gave me peace, and then, there were a few appreciative tears, I’m not ashamed to admit it.

It was like a wake-up call to pay attention to what was all around me. To be present in the moment, and allow myself to breathe and take in the wonder and magic of existence. It shouted, “Look, you idiot! You live *HERE* in COLORADO and it’s BEAUTIFUL! It’s amazing every. Single. Day. And, you’re not appreciating it.

That moment was like a breath of fresh air, and there was healing it. It’s one of those moments that remind me of those words of the Psalmist, who said “I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from where comes my help.”

Yeah, I know, I’m a big softy, and this wasn’t remotely funny.  But, I was needing this reminder again this weekend.  And, by sheer coincidence, I have been meaning to use this as a blog post for ages, and had nothing better to write about today. So sue me. (On second thought, please don’t. Thanks.)

November 29th is the anniversary of the Sand Creek massacre, and you may be wondering why I bother to keep such horrible things in my memory.

I could say it’s because I am a horrible person, and my brain gravitates to terribly sad events to hold in its memory.

I could also make a claim that such an event should be remembered as a lesson of man’s cruelty to his fellow humans, but that sounds patronizing and insincere.

I could tell you the gosh honest truth — that I was reading a book of Cololrado ghost stories, and for the first time, absorbed the date of the attack, in large part, because it sunk in that it’s the day before my birthday.

Yes, that means I’m over 150 years old.

When I first heard the story of this dark spot in Colorado history,  I was in grade school, and it was covered in the 4th grade state history curriculum.  We learned that soldiers attacked and killed defenseless old men, women and children in the small village of peaceful Arapaho and Cheyenne living on the banks of the Sand Creek.

The massacre was led by Colonel John Chivington in 1864.  It was a national scandal.

What I didn’t learn in school was that not all the soldiers present joined in the attack.  Two officers, Captain Silas Soule and Lieutenant Joseph Cramer refused to follow Chivington’s orders, and told their men to hold their fire. Later, the two men provided testimony of the terrible mutilation of the bodies. Despite their testimony, no charges were ever brought against Chivington.

A few weeks after giving testimony in this case, Soule was murdered downtown by Charles Squires. Most people “knew” that the trigger man, a soldier loyal to Chivington, was probably hired or acting on orders by Chivington. Lt. Cannon tracked Squires, and brought him back to Denver to stand trial. Squires escaped jail, and Cannon was poisoned. Squires was never again captured or tried.

Silas Soule, a fascinating character in not only Colorado history but in US history, was from a famous family of abolitionists, who were good friends with John Brown. He was active in the border wars leading to the Civil War.  His death came shortly after he’d been wed.

Originally, Soule was buried in Mt. Prospect cemetery, and a huge monument graced his burial spot. When that area became blighted, and bulldozed to make way for Cheeseman Park, Soule’s body was relocate to Riverside Cemetery. Today, only a military marker marks his resting place. It’s among the most often visited graves in the cemetery.

I went to the spot this weekend to get a picture, and was successful on that score, but, I failed to be able to get it posted in time to include her. I’ll try and add it at some point.

Usually, every year in late November, there is a healing walk, sponsored by the Cheyenne and Arapaho, that stops by the grave of Soule. They stop to honor the man who had refused to attack defenseless civilians, and who eventually, lost his life for taking this stand.

When I was learning Colorado history in grade school, my teacher told me us the legend of the quaking aspens. She said it was a Ute story. The story goes something like this.

One day, the creatures of the forest learned that the Great Spirit was coming to visit them. The animals and plants did their best to make the forest ready for this great honor. All except the aspens. They were haughty, and did not fear the Great Spirit.

And the time arrived, and the forest and her creatures welcomed the Great Spirit, and in their fear and excitement they shook even as they bowed to honor their guest.

All except the aspens.

So the Great Spirit told the trees, from now on, you will always quake and tremble whenever anyone looks at you.  And quake they do, even to this very day.

There was something about this story that captured my attention. I’m not sure if it was the fact that it was a story from another culture, and when you hear such stories, you get a real sense of the kind of people they are; the things they value and the way they see the world, or if it was more the fact that there were aspens all around me when I was growing up, even on the playground of the school where I heard this story, and I thought about how often the aspens quaked.

Whenever I heard the sound of the aspens, I also thought about the Great Spirit, and I wondered if the story was as much about associating that ubiquitous sound with the Great Spirit as it was about humility.

Over time, I forgot the specific detail of the story’s conclusion, and I remembered the story to have ended with the Great Spirit forcing the aspens to quake whenever the Great Spirit was nearby.

It made me think that maybe the point of the story was really about saying the Great Spirit was everywhere. Whether you could see it or not, the aspens knew it was there, and they shook. It struck me as a beautiful way to be constantly aware of the creator’s presence, which was always all around us, which means that even though my version of the story makes little sense, I like the fact that for nearly 30 years I’ve thought about the presence of the creator nearly every time I’ve heard the sound of the rustling wind shaking the leaves of the aspens. I think any story that makes us pause and think about the world around us, and acknowledge the sacred source of all things is a pretty good story. Even if it’s a story that mostly existed only in my brain. Until now, when I’ve shared it with you.

I don’t know how authentic the original story is. As far as I have been able to tell, it was a story told by William Byers, the founder of the Rocky Mountain News, in 1873.  I’m not even sure if, at this point, its origin matters so much. After all, it’s not his version that stuck with me over all these years.

Working from home has many advantages, but, today I learned of one disadvantage. Denver was struck by a blizzard, and while most everyone got at least a partial snow day, I, who wasn’t going to face the asphalt jungle anyway, had no excuse not to work.

I’m feeling ripped off.

While my friends lounge in PJs and enjoy an unexpected, paid day off at home, I’m sitting sadly at my computer screen trying to figure out how to make the situation work for me.

“Um. Didn’t you hear? Huge blizzard. Yeah. Kitchen Pass was closed, and I couldn’t make it to the office, you can just give me money, right?”

Sure. I could take a weather day, but, there’s no money in it for me. Which means, I had to brave the elements, find an alternate route to the office through Bathroom Flats, and make the best of a snowy day.

As I sat in front of my computer, it was sorta like looking out the window at the kids enjoying recess while I served my detention in the classroom with the teacher. They laughed and played, their red, happy faces positively glowing with exuberant joy.

This is not a particularly powerful motivational tool.

“But, Mrs. Larson! All the other kids are making a snowman! We’ve not had snow in ever so long! I’ve never even gotten to make a snow ball since <i>last</i> winter, and they’re making snow men and snow forts and angels and having a huge snowball fight! Can’t I do my detention <i>tomorrow?</i> I promise I’ll stay in all next week! <i>Please, Mrs. Larson? Please?”</i>

She ignores me.

I stare at the computer. I hit the reload button. Facebook tells me that everyone else is having the Best.Day.Ever.

I decide I should shovel. That’s the ticket! I’ll get my responsibilities as contentious neighbor and homeowner done, and take a break from all the nothing I’ve accomplished, and I’ll get it out of my system! Brilliant!

I shovel. There’s about four inches, and it’s fun to be out in the winter wonderland! I get done way too soon, and go back inside.

It didn’t help.

I’m still staring at the computer. The snow continues to fall. Some of my friends, who went to work, have now been sent home. Although it’s taking them 8 times longer than usual to get home, they are getting paid to sit in traffic. They’ve got a nice weather-related war story to share with the other storm survivors for years to come. I’ve got deadlines and a blank screen, taunting me. They’re going to get to stay home Friday, too. I hate them.

Wait a second. Maybe I don’t hate them. I can <span style=”font-style:italic;”>use</span> this. Harness the pain to some sort of lame blog post! Yeah! That’s the ticket! But what will I do tomorrow?