And I'm back in the game!

Through the help of a talented programmer, I was able to reestablish internet connections last week. To make a long story short, when he was unable to figure out exactly what was the matter and had exhausted all of his tricks, he simply did the macro version of a restart: saving my documents and the Vista operating system, he wiped my hard drive and then reloaded the saved material.

Problem solved—mystery remains. So it all feels a bit tenuous. I’m still not sure what program I reload might sow the seeds of the next breakdown. But I reckon, since you're reading this, you're all too familiar with the vagaries and varieties of computer meltdowns, so I’ll skip the whining.

All too soon the end of summer looms. By late September the RV park will close for the season. These months in the mountains have raced by. Small chores that I was putting off suddenly command attention. Visits and trips that I’d intended now morph into regrets. I’m not sure if my sorrow is more for having to leave these Colorado mountains or for my failure to meet my summer's goals.

Or it could just be my meds.

Know excuses!

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: Uncle Genie is still having trouble with his ethernet drivers and we have been unable to maintain our publishing schedule. At present, we are attempting to re-grade (what you do when you can't afford to upgrade) the drivers and hope to have a dependable net connection again very soon.

Truth be told, it's amateur night in our computer systems management department so any permanent repairts will be blind luck.

Rush Job

My persistent dilemma in writing about the San Luis Valley or the canyons of the Rio Grande and its South Fork, or the mountains of the San Juans and the Sangre de Cristos, is that in proclaiming the sublime beauty, one then has a hand in its despoiling.  Indeed, there is little point in the telling if it is not to implicitly suggest to others that the area is worth a look-see—or more.

Fortunately, I don't think that poses an actual problem with my blog, counting as it does only two followers, and very casual followers at that. But still, the quiddity remains.

The mystery of the July 3rd fireworks display in South Fork has been solved. Apparently, South Fork and Creede, the quaint old mining town 23 miles up-rio, agreed to alternate nights for their fireworks shows so that area residents and the many tourists staying with us could enjoy both. I guess next year folks in Creede can feel odd.

Had some trouble getting on line today. My best guess is that one or another of various program updates I downloaded gummed up my external router, the wireless antenna I depend on when the RV park gets crowded. Not sure which of my desperate remedies fixed it, but all of a sudden it started working again, so I jumped on the opportunity to post. Bit of a rush job as I'm going sans graphics. Oh well, you get what you pay for.

An old fashioned Third of July in South Fork

For some reason that I have yet to discover, the Independence Day fireworks display in South Fork burst forth on the third this year! I will get to the bottom of this, but my main plan for the weekend was neatly scuttled.

When I'm in town for the Fourth I like to enjoy the show from the Rockaway Cafe, the steakhouse I cooked at for several years. It's the tradition there that the crew from both the front and back of the house--dining room and kitchen--take a break and watch the fireworks together from the receiving dock out back. The display doesn't start until half past 9 and usually the dining room is slowing down by then. Wait staff will tell any lingering guests where they'll be and even invite them to come along if they don't mind the proximity of the dumpster. (Even so, some waiter or hostess will continue to make quick circuits of the front to make sure no one is neglected.) Those that want can grab a cold one from the beer fridge on the way through the kitchen; it's refreshment that's especially appreciated after the usual holiday crush of diners and a nonstop cycle of orders, prepping, cooking, service and clean-up.

The fireworks are launched from a bluff north of the Rio, up near the golf club, readily visible from the Rockaway and most of the town in general. It's only a half hour show, paid for by donations, but it's better-than-average for a small mountain town. And it's something I look forward to every year.

But not this year. This year they launched on the third. I still feel disoriented.

A scenic mountain ode

Let’s assume, without further mention of The Lone Ranger, that you are familiar with The William Tell Overture. Besides the finale alluded to above, this instrumental tone poem, the introductory theme to Rossini’s William Tell opera, also contains a section entitled Ranz des Vaches. That “call to the dairy cows” features an English horn and flute duet familiar to most of us as the signature music suggesting daybreak in dozens of animated cartoons. (Still doesn’t strike a chord? Try this sample.)

That would have been my theme music for yesterday. Yesterday was perfect. An impeccably comfortable temperature enhanced by a relative humidity that subtly caressed the skin. A flawlessly right-on mix of sunshine and passing clouds. Precisely modulated breezes. Even a concise and to-the-point thunder shower at late morning—just enough to infuse the air with that ambrosial mountain fragrance that you can all but taste on the back of your tongue.

I was lucky enough to have friends drag me out into that glory. First a former work associate surprised me with a visit that we enjoyed out at my picnic table. Later I was required to drive over to Del Norte for a wienie and burger cook-out with other former colleagues. What a pleasure it was to be out and about, especially with friends.

It was a Rocky Mountain summer day just begging to be savored. Nothing was out of place. Colors were brilliant, the air practically sparkled and even the acoustics—well, every mountain seemed poised to echo whatever song you chose to sing.

This is my song.

Of gourds and fishes

Yesterday, while frying up some trout (compliments of a neighbor) for dinner, I was reminded of the small town in northeast Oregon where I lived for some years. There, it seemed, almost everbody had a vegetable garden. Back then I was a gardener, too, though probably more persistent than avid.

That first spring, while I was prepping and laying out my garden, my retired neighbor came over and leaned on the fence. Typical of small towns, neighbors were friendly, happy to advise or help on whatever project one might be about. I had built up five four-by-four foot raised plots and I was telling him what I intended to plant in each. My neighbor asked, "No zucchini, then?"

"No," I said, "Why, do you think I should plant some?"

"No, no," he chortled. "I was just asking."

I said, "I've got room. I could throw in three or four vines."

"I wouldn't," he said.

"Why not?" Now I was curious.

At that point his wife stuck her head out the back door to advise him that lunch was ready. As he turned to go he was chuckling and he said over his shoulder to me, "You'll see, you'll see."

And I did see.

By late summer, town was awash in zucchini. It seems most gardeners planted it and the climate and soil were ideal. Proliferate doesn't begin to describe it. As it turned out, my neighbor always had zucchini in his garden and during August and September we were the recipients of several full grocery bags of the tubular green squash. At work there were bags and boxes of zucchini free for the taking and the local restaurants took to featuring zucchini dishes as daily specials.

The neighbor told me that there was usually so much zucchini that people didn't know what to do with it. In fact, every September their church sponsored a potluck where all the dishes had to include zucchini, partly for fun, partly to see if anyone had found a new way to prepare it.  So much was to be had that the word around town was that, if you were at Safeway's produce counter buying zucchini, it meant you didn't have any friends.

As I turned the fish in my skillet to finish cooking, I realized it was much the same way around South Fork RV parks: if you have to catch your own trout, it means you don't have any friends.