A Love Letter to the Ghosts We Called Home
©1997 by K.A. Rigney
I don't allow myself to think of Leadville much -- out of self-preservation more than anything else. I do not think about Salida or Puny Bueny; I don't picture their lush ranches in my mind's eye. I don’t see the fierce Collegiate Range towering in the distance. I won't travel the stage road to Leadville or listen to ghost railroads. To do any of this would be to admit that heaven exists within driving distance of Flagstaff. If I were to admit that, I would curl up and die; so I don’t think about much at all.
Music is my Memory. There is no stronger evoker for me. I usually listen to tapes in the car, so I won’t be surprised by an unscheduled side-trip into the past. I learned long ago that if I "imprinted" a song on a place, I could listen myself there whenever I wanted. Growing up, there was certain music I only listened to in the summer, on the way to Colorado.
Back when I was eight, I spent hours listening to tapes on the long drive from Oklahoma to Buena Vista. In those days before walkmans, I had a cassette recorder from Sears. It was the size of a shoebox and came with a white single-earphone. I’d jam that earpiece into my right ear (I was pretty near deaf in the left one, anyway) and stare out the rear window of my parent’s Lincoln Towncar, writing myself there, already. I listened to music that I purposely made Summer Songs -- The Supremes, the charmin’ chatter of Clyde Mcphatter, Sam Cooke -- all music from another place in time. They were always songs that I was unlikely to "tune" into in The Present. I did this year after year. "Lover Please" and "Falling in Love with Love" became evocative of the journey to a world that meant more to me than even my typewriter, Sam.
There was one glaring exception to the Summer Song Rule, however. I will never forget pulling into Buena Vista that second summer and hearing it on the radio. "Hey, it's Good to Be Back Home Again..." John Denver could sing about Rocky Mountain Highs all he wanted, at that instant we shared a common Truth: we were the invited guests of the ghosts of Lake, Chaffee and Pitkin Counties. I cried quietly in the backseat, because it was good to be "home"; and I cried because I would only be there for two months. I’m sure my parents thought I was having an asthma attack.
Until that moment, I thought I was insane, like my brother. I thought I was the only one the shadows called by name. John Denver’s music became a special, solid link to the secret language of the mountains. Over the years, when life became unbearable, I'd get out that old '45 and go Back Home Again. I'd ride the old stage road, I'd make the trip from Puny to Leadville. And I'd forget the torture that was my Real Life.
Strangely, I never once thought of wanting to meet, see or speak with John Denver. As far as I was concerned, he was his music. He was an emissary of the Mountains at hand. Sure, we spoke the same language; but it was private. He gave me the ultimate summer songs; he gave me a way to travel the roads of memory whenever I wanted. More importantly he loved my mountains as much as I did. And nobody loves those puppies unless they are trying to escape -- bank on it. To paraphrase Forest Gump: gonzo is as gonzo does.
For a long time, I hid my John Denver CDs. I put them on the bottom of the pile, so I couldn’t get to them without really thinking. Traveling isn’t wise in a 9-to-5 world; feeling the remembered bite of Leadville’s air in my lungs hurts my heart. Flagstaff is only 7,000 feet. My God, if I went to Leadville, I might be able to think. No, mostly, I by-passed "Back Home Again" and "Islands" for the erratic pleasure of dreams. In dreams, I walk the quiet night streets of Leadville, listening to the whispered voices: "Come see the Ice Palace, Kayla. We’ve been waiting so long. You don’t belong there. Breathe, Kayla, breathe deep! Songs don’t lie. It’s Good to Be Back Home Again." I usually wake up in a cold sweat and gasping for air, as if I’ve been walking a long way at a very high altitude -- 13,400 feet, to be exact.
There is a mythical quality to the mountains of Colorado. Perhaps that is why, in their infinite wisdom, they made me their Persephone -- giving me summer so I would have the strength to survive another winter of my brother’s schizophrenia. They knew I needed their protection in order to survive. Maybe they introduced me to the ghosts and shadows; maybe I was simply found wandering a backroad in Chaffee County? Or was it the Taber Opera House that taught me to glide upon the wings of time? I don’t know. I do know that I made it. I survived hell and live in the shadow of other mountains. It isn’t the same.
I didn’t think of "Back Home Again" again until today. It came on the radio on the drive home from the orthopedist.
John Denver is dead.
And I’ve made a decision: I won’t get Leadville outta this old heart of mine. Hey, John. When you get the chance, please tell the shadows Kayla says, I’m still listening. And John? One last thing: thank you.