Rico

It’s a tiny spit of a town along Colorado’s Highway 145, a rare civilized stop between Telluride and Cortez.  In hard mileage the distance is modest, but Rico is a far cry from the beautiful-people atmosphere of the former and the over-franchised latter.  There isn’t much there…a mercantile, a bar, and a couple shops selling a few things tourists like to buy.  The structures are reminiscent of an old mining town, like Telluride, but with only spare modifications and upkeep.  No meticulously kept lawns.  No establishments selling upscale clothing or artisan olive oils.  My family and I passed through Rico on a Sunday in late spring, itching to get out of the van for some space, fresh air and food.  We pulled over in front of the bar, intrigued by this quiet, rusty, yes rusty, little burg, but skeptical about the prospects of a satisfying meal at the dusty, tired-appearing bar.

The place wasn’t much, as we expected.   However, it was dim but not dark, had creaky but sturdy floors and sported a couple foul-worded plaques up behind the bar.  Not the place to have a kids’ menu.  But it did and we stayed.  We seated ourselves and a waitress came with menus and a friendly smile, ever the classic-appearing, Colorado range-raised girl:  she wore a long, brown braid, no makeup and a faded tee shirt and matching jeans.  She was just beyond sun-kissed, with faint lines framing her sincere smile and eyes and she gave off a sweet, trustworthy vibe.  After she left to tend to the singular figure sitting bar side, our kids jumped from their seats, eager to run and explore their new surroundings.  I followed, not out of worry (the kind waitress calmed my concerns about this being a seedy establishment) but out of curiosity for what we may discover in this place that we may have judged too soon.  There was an arthritic-appearing pool table vegetating in a darkened corner.  It sported chips and scratches along its once lacquered wood frame but my kids took no notice as they ran pool balls over the worn, threadbare top.   I imagined the table brand new:  sweat rings from frothy longnecks beading up on the flawless finish while off-duty laborers enjoyed the fruits of a day’s work done well. There was a foosball table, too, with its teams of red and blue worse for wear, missing legs and an occasional facial feature.  I wondered if the bar’s patrons ever saw the table factory-fresh, or if the setup was found at a yard sale or rescued from a curb, excitedly brought in to occupy the large space beside the pool table.  I watched and loved how my kids spun the motley bunch of soccer figures around and around, cheering if by chance the scuffed “soccer ball” slid into a goal.

Our fun was interrupted when a loud, piercing noise came from the kitchen.  I saw my husband’s face briefly tense up and then slowly relax as he recognized that adrenaline-igniting racket:  a pager. We glanced knowingly at each other:  no one who carries one of those black-box parasites ever acclimates to the sound, even if it is not their own.  Louder clattering and rushing exploded from the kitchen area and the top of the cook’s blonde head became a lightening-fast blur slicing from corner to corner of the kitchen.  Minutes later he rang the pickup bell in a singular, sharp note and, appearing from the doorway, tossed his apron behind him.

“Hey, the kitchen is closed until I get back.” He called over his shoulder on his way out the door.  The waitress’s (and our) eyes followed him out and then hers traced back to us as she moved past to bring our meals.  The cook, she explained is just one of a handful of volunteer firefighters for the area and he was called to a blaze.  Such is life in a very small town, people pitching in, wearing many hats and getting it all done.

We tuck into our meal but I am unsettled.  Something in the depths of my identity told me I’d been in this place before but I knew consciously I never had.  It wasn’t quite like deja vu but the tugging on my memory was there, like when one of my kids taps me incessantly on my shoulder to get my attention.  I was bothered in a good way but felt a sense of urgency, knowing that if I couldn’t figure it out here, in the middle of this bar, I wouldn’t be able to place it later.  And then, like so many past memories and emotions, the sight and scent of food brought it to me:  I had taken meals here before:  in a dim but not dark, worn but clean cafe in my hometown of Waukee, Iowa.  How many times in that slightly shabby place I had eaten the best chicken parmigiana of my life and my parents’, the steak de burgo.  Comfort food among hungry family.  Just as me, my husband and three children were experiencing at this very moment.  Home cooking but with slighty wilted salad.  Which was fine.  I’m guessing hard-working construction workers and firefighters, like farmers after a day in the fields, go for soul-warming food rather than lightweight veggies. I felt home.  Not at home.  Home.

The kids needed some playtime.  So after our meal we decided to explore out behind the bar, which had a sunny patio, predictably weather-worn round tables and faded red-and-white striped umbrellas advertising booze.  The patio lead to an open space of arid scrub and little shade, topographical signs of the high plains of Colorado.  As we made our way past the bathrooms to the back door, something caught my eye:  a newspaper atop an upright piano.  It wasn’t today’s Denver Post, clearly, by its orange and aged hue but it was otherwise in pristine condition.  No wrinkles, tears or smudges.  I was amazed, given its place on a corner of a rickety piano seemingly held together by layers of dust.  As I examined the photo on the front,  a snapshot of a large gathering,  I also noticed the date:  October 18, 1997.  And then the headline:

COLORADO SAYS GOODBYE

Singer remembered with music, humor

John Denver’s funeral in Aurora, Colorado.  A humbling surge passed through me.  Here at my fingertips was what had to be a rare find:  original documentation celebrating the life of the Centennial state’s unofficial poet laureate.  The words became a magnet and drew me in as I read that this talented man’s ashes were to be spread over the Rocky Mountains.  And I thought.  John Denver would be home, truly home, his body one with the place he loved most.  This newspaper was home, its weathered pages for the last 16 years forming an unassuming shrine on a dusty piano in an unassuming bar in Rico, Colorado.  I, in this small, out-of-the-way place, was also home.  All of us home.

In the soul of Colorado.