Stacey Gustafson’s new book is out!

Stacey Gustafson has a new book out! Her delightful vignettes of real life in a really loud family will have you chuckling as you remember your own first “training bra,” the embarrassment you felt when your “rewrapping” habit backfired, and the wonder you felt as you finally opened those mysterious boxes after moving them too many times. Organized by category with quick reads in each section, these stories will let you know you’re not the only one who has struggled through humorously troublesome predicaments (read “Toilet Phobia”)!

Here’s the link to her blog. You can find her book there, or on Amazon.com!

http://staceygustafson.com/

Hunting with my Hubby

Hunting wily elk
Wilderness protects them all
Caught my man instead

Steaming sweat streamed down my spine. My 20-pound pack was plastered to my back. I had overdressed, once again, for the last day of hunting season. Or perhaps Mike was moving just a tad too fast up the endless incline, eager for success on that last day. No, I had certainly overdressed.

Although Mike hunted squirrels in his boyhood days, the only hunting I had ever done was for bargains at department stores. I had never dreamed of a day I’d be hunting elk, or any other animal, but there I was in the wilds of Colorado, excited for the shot that would guarantee us fresh meat for months. Mike had the cow tag. He would shoot, and I would do the field dressing. For days and sleepless nights, I practiced in my head what I had learned on YouTube. I knew I’d be a pro.

Like Hansel and Gretel, the elk in the area left trails and trails of moist offerings for us to follow. Mike found them all, and I did my best not to complain when one trail led to another, and another, even though I suspected we were being led on a wild poo chase.

We spent one thirteen-hour day the first weekend of the season, and although I often found myself either sweating bullets or shivering in my boots, I frequently felt just right. Those moments steeled me for subsequent excursions.

We fell into a speechless rhythm. I stopped whenever he stopped, about every eight steps. We did this for hours, and by early afternoon, even my eye muscles ached from the constant, stealthy surveillance.

Countless times I watched Mike stop, pick up a twig and stick it intophoto 1
a pile of elk poop. I soon learned that the shiny ones were the freshest. There was no doubt in my mind that elk had been there before us.

“Does this look familiar?” he asked me later in the day, quizzing me to test my orientation proficiency. I lied and said yes, though the poo piles were all starting to smell the same to me. I did notice a familiar
photo 3twig sticking out of one pile and realized we had made a huge circle.

In addition to coordinating our movement, we also coordinated our pee breaks. Peeing in the woods is the best. After the squat, the sweet release, a clench or two and a wiggle-waggle, I’m ready for the next expanse of forest.

Frequently, busy squirrels chattered at us to move along, though we had no interest in their tiny little nuts. We did our best to be as stealthy as our prey, but Mike had a creaky boot that I’m certain alerted the nut gatherers. Then, of course, the blast of an occasional fart would stop us both in our tracks. We would look at one another in mock surprise and mouth the word, “bugling?” It was always funny, and we found ourselves suppressing juvenile giggles every time it happened.

At one point as we were creeping through a particularly mucky draw, our boots pulling—“Shhgluck!”—from the mud, I had flashbacks to my Army reconnaissance training.

“Feels like we’re in Nam,” I whispered to Mike. He just rolled his eyes.

At one point that long day as we climbed up from yet another draw, we were treated by the flash of two glorious elk cows about 30 yards away. Fortunately for them, they saw us before we recognized them, and before Mike could raise his rifle, they disappeared even faster than they had appeared, and with barely a sound.

Mike continued to zigzag us through the forest in a way I never could. I’ll admit it…I don’t know the first thing about using a GPS in the forest, and would never attempt an adventure like this without him.

Later in the afternoon I began to get cranky and we stopped for a long break. Between hours of trudging in stiff boots and snacks of nothing but raisins and nuts, both my plantar fasciitis and my TMJ flared up. I considered myself lucky never to have had IBS. Because I have celiac, however, the smell of the non-gluten-free beef jerky Mike was eating made my mouth water.

“Let’s go up the trail a bit and find a good vantage point,” he said after we finished our snack. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he continued, trying to keep up my spirits. I could taste the jerky lingering in his whisper, and started to drool a little.

“You could get lucky right here,” I whispered back, a little more than half-joking.

“Yeah, and right as we’re doing it, a whole herd would walk by,” Mike said quietly, and it was all we could do to muffle our giggles. He sure did want to score an elk that day. I settled for a jerky-kiss, and we continued moving until the sun went down on that long day.

“Let’s head back now,” he said, disappointed, though not defeated. I had no idea where “back” was, but continued to follow my guy, still in stealth mode, into the darkness, just as we had started the day.

One evening later in the week while standing motionless, I noticed a clearing on the forestphoto 5 floor outlined by fallen trees. The sight transported me to the woods behind my childhood home where my best friend, sister and I would set up pretend rooms with branches and stones. The woods were really only a few undeveloped lots, but to us, the wilderness seemed immense. We loved to bounce on a tree bent low to the ground, but never ventured too far beyond it because of the monster we were told lived there.

An enormous crow circling above us brought me back to the present. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice, and Mike and I shook our heads at the noisy ruckus. Growing chilly yet not moving at all lest we herald our presence, I realized about the only noiseless thing I could do was kegel exercises. Since those made me shiver, though, I decided to try balancing on one foot, being careful not to crunch twigs when I switched between the two.

In subsequent days we stood on high lookouts during sunsets and rises.photo 4
I watched as spider webs shimmered with bits of sunlight, looking like stray strands of tinsel on discarded Christmas trees.

Despite only one other sighting of elk late one evening after legal hunting hours, we continued to hike with hope each time we went back out to hunt. Huddled against a stone-cold boulder during our last night out, our stomachs growling and shivers setting in deep, we both still thought we might get lucky on our last descent from the forest. Alas, we were mistaken.

“I think we’re elkless,” Mike said near the end of that last day in the wild.

“It was an awesome week,” I whispered. And it was true. We hadn’t had so much quiet time together in years. When we were out there, we had no TV, no politics, no talk of Ebola. No elk? No problem. Much hunting happened, though at the end of the week, the only kill was a pesky gnat I successfully snatched from its orbit around my drippy nose one afternoon.

“And don’t forget,” I continued, “my hunting season starts next weekend!”

After spending days trudging through the woods with my husband on our first ever hunting expedition, I concluded that trying to find an elk in a jillion acres of national forest is even harder than trying to find a pair of reading glasses in your house. You know there are lots of them around, but they’re never where someone claims to have spotted them recently.

We may have ended the week elkless, but the experience brought me closer to the man who grew up raised by wolves in the wilderness of northern California—a story I tell everyone I meet about him. But that’s a story for another day.

photo 2

Today the Storm…

Writing challenge: from the poem “Lear” by William Carlos Williams, take the line: “Today the storm, inescapable, has taken the scene and we return our hearts to it…” and write for 15 minutes. Here’s where I went with it!

Today the storm, inescapable, has taken the scene and we return our hearts to it. This is life in Leadville, and we who chose to stay must expose our hearts to its hardships. There can be no more feigned surprise, or “Woe is me!” when the too-early snowflakes caress our mountaintops, no more trite questions about what happened to summer.

The hearts of Leadville are strong and beat with a pulse that would frighten warm-weather souls, souls who cherish comfort over endurance.

We endure, or we suffer, or we leave, or better, we grow to love, for that which seems inescapable truly is not. We return our hearts to the storm and are better for it.

 

 

Prenatal Diet for the Modern Woman

Although I am neither a doctor nor do I play one on TV, I was happy nonetheless to set my newly pregnant friend straight the other day when it comes to her prenatal diet.

“My nurse told me to eat at least two eggs per day to strengthen the amniotic sac,” she told me over a breakfast of two eggs and a pancake.

“The whole egg, including the shell and membrane, right?” I asked, wanting to ensure she understood her instructions. After all, everyone knows the egg’s membrane is the key ingredient for strengthening the sac, and eating the entirety of two eggs per day will produce an amniotic sac 50% stronger than eating no eggs at all.1 As a bonus, the calcium derived from the shell benefits both the baby and the mother, whose gums will also be toughened by chewing the crunchy white substance.

“No, just the insides,” she said, and I knew it was time to intervene.

Although I’m frequently irked by know-it-alls who feel they must one-up any story you might tell—like the 32-year-old male peer who knows exactly what you’re experiencing as you sweat through menopause—I felt it was my obligation to share the diet recommended to me by my own nurses years ago.

Studies have shown that consuming the following diet will improve your chances of delivering a healthy, full-term baby naturally, one (or more!) capable of breaking through their strong sacs just as they emerge into your world.2 It is my hope that pregnant women everywhere will learn from the advice I now provide freely.

For Resilient Amniotic Sac and Strong Bones (both yours and baby’s):

As mentioned above, eat at least two entire eggs daily. By now, the rationale should be clear. The easiest way to accomplish this is to boil the egg (hard or soft, but hard is less messy) and consume out-of-hand. Some suggest using a blender (add butter and water for a creamier consistency), though I have not personally tried that method.

For Your Baby’s Speed, Agility, and Robust Blood:

Although this should be obvious to every pregnant woman, I’ll still mention it. Drink one small glass (juice glass) of cheetah blood. This may be added to the egg mixture in the blender should you choose to try that method. The best advice for finding this ingredient—as with all others in this plan—is to acquire the freshest available, and this might mean going directly to the source. By hunting and killing the cheetah yourself, the result for your baby will be a 99% spike in both situational awareness and the instinct for self-preservation when compared with babies whose mothers did not hunt for their prenatal ingredients.3

For Keen Eyesight:

Sip the aforementioned mixture (or just the cheetah blood) through an eagle feather quill. You may want to keep several of these on hand as they tend to clog easily, but remember—you’re doing this for your baby.

For Strong Nails and Hair:

This will be the easiest advice to follow! Put away your clippers and files and use your teeth for what they were intended: chewing your own nails and the ends of your hair. By reintroducing these substances into your own digestive system (don’t forget to include your toe nails—you may use clippers for those), you will ensure that your baby’s nails and hair will be far stronger than if you fail to incorporate this dietary advice. Don’t be shy about asking family members to donate their clippings as well. The more the better for this ingredient. Do not use nail polish or hair styling products throughout your pregnancy as this new habit may invite unwanted chemicals into your baby’s system.

For Overall Strength and Healthy Internal Organs:

Once you’ve drained all the blood from the cheetah (freeze 4-oz portions to last throughout your pregnancy…two full-sized cheetahs are all you’ll need), package the internal organs separately. Although it is preferable to eat these fresh from the kill, we recognize the inconvenience this might create, so after enjoying a warm bite of liver on-site, remember to chop and freeze these ingredients in bite-sized chunks. Consume one every other day throughout your pregnancy, either immediately after thawing (raw is preferable), or lightly sautéed in coconut oil.

For Smooth Skin and Dexterity in Water Sports:

Use fish oil, coconut oil, and extra-virgin olive oil liberally! These should be the only oils you ingest throughout your pregnancy. Cook with them, mix them into your morning egg mixture, and bathe with them for the added osmotic effect which benefits your baby immediately.4 Another suggestion is to enjoy one freshly clubbed sandwich of baby seal each month, though I hear the current legal system might thwart your efforts here.

For Intelligence:

I include this obvious piece of advice because I would be remiss not to mention it, and every mother-to-be should relish this delicacy at least once during her pregnancy (one is all you need, though you may find you want more). Within the first trimester, consume one owl brain. Although it is preferable to do this while the bird is still alive, any way you can introduce this ingredient into your diet early in your pregnancy will almost always ensure that your child’s intelligence will be above average.

For Sense of Humor (perhaps the most important attribute you can give your baby):

The obvious answer here would be incorrect. It has been demonstrated5 that consuming any part of a hyena results in offspring who incline toward passive-aggressive behavior. Instead, just one Aha Ha (of the Australian wasp species) per day is all you’ll need to ensure your baby will be the life of any party, be it democratic, republican, or independent! Purchase these little treasures freeze-dried in bulk, and don’t be surprised if you find yourself chuckling a little more each day as well.

Although I realize everyone has their own opinions about what constitutes a healthy prenatal diet, I hope those who may try my suggestions will let me know how it works for you and your new babies. Certainly you will want to remember to add sugar and spice and everything nice if you plan to have a girl, and frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails if you’d rather a boy (get to know your local French restaurant for the former and animal shelter for the latter).

As with all medical advice, talk with your doctor before making any major dietary changes.6

Congratulations on your new pregnancy, and happy hunting!

*******

1 50% stronger amniotic sac based on 100% conjecture.

2 Studies include my own personal experience. Other than eating a well-balanced diet including all food groups, I followed none of the suggestions in this column and delivered two healthy, full-term babies naturally.

3 There have been no studies yet to confirm this statistic, but doesn’t it just make sense?

4 Other than the word “liberally” and the part about osmosis, this might actually be sound advice.

5 No, it hasn’t.

 6 Every piece of advice in this column should be followed in addition to a well-balanced diet including all food groups, and taken with a grain of salt: preferably, Himalayan pink.

Seven Days to Sanity: Regaining my life after killing my Facebook page

Just like that, whatever that is, I’m walking away from Facebook. Although I’m not sure what pushed me over the edge—probably a comment from my proper 85-year-old New England mother who told me I looked like a “floozy” in some of my photos—I’ve made the decision to delete my personal page.

Facebook was made for people like me, people who can’t walk away from a controversy without adding their nickel’s worth, who eat the entire bag of chocolate chips without making a single cookie, who like people to like them. People who can’t not click on the latest adorable kitten video or clip of a five-year-old belting out the National Anthem like nobody’s business.

I’m no longer comfortable being one of those people.

My youngest son was the first person I knew to walk away from Facebook. I didn’t even know it was legal. “Too stressful,” he said, simply, and now I understand.

I love my friends and family and I’ve become accustomed to knowing their every thought every day. I’m accustomed to hitting the “Like” button—like a caged rat anticipating a treat—every time I read a status or see a new profile photo. It has become too much.

I’ve stopped buying bags of chocolate chips. I will stop my addiction to wanting everyone to know what I think and what my dog is doing every day.

I wonder if Mark Zuckerberg will call asking what he can do to bring me back. I hear he’s friends with everyone in his brilliant world. Whatever will he do without me and my 611 friends visiting hourly? How will he survive without the possibility that I might click on one of the endless ads for Zappos shoes or Games I May Like, without my taking a quiz to determine which GOT character I’m most like (Khaleesi, I would hope), without letting the world know I’ve just spilled red wine on my white cotton shirt (frowny-face emoticon)?

Here goes. My seven-day cleanse.

Day 1. The freedom I felt last night after making the delete decision was tainted by withdrawal pangs today. After requesting the download of my account, something my son suggested I should do, I told Facebook I would like to delete my page. It wanted to know why, so instead of being honest and checking the “I spend too much time on Facebook” circle, I checked the “I have another Facebook page” option. It’s true. I kept my Leadville Laurel page dedicated to writing pursuits, so I suppose I’m not really going cold-turkey on this venture, but I still feel anxious. It will let me know when my download is complete. Until then, I have a personal presence out there.

Day 2. It is done. Had to catch myself several times today after receiving the zip file of my Facebook download from the machine. Once I saved it to my computer, I was tempted to unzip and look at the contents, but I stopped myself. I don’t want to go backward. Even came pretty close to deleting my page before getting the download. I’ll blame (credit?) my older son’s recent purge of our garage with my desire to set it all free. Like the stacks of photo albums hidden in a closet under our stairs, this zip file now lurks for some future disposition. As I have for the albums, I will ignore this electronic validation of my past. I’ll also credit my son with pulling out a cookbook and saying, “Let’s try this tonight.” I do believe today was the first day I shopped with a list. Dinner was spectacular.

Day 3. Actually focused on my writing. Took a walk with the pooch and picked up two bags of trash and heaps of inspiration along the way. After picking up a book, I had to overcome a twinge of guilt when I realized it was still light outside. Until today, reading was a luxury to be enjoyed 15 minutes before the book crashed onto my sleeping face. I feel giddy! Oh so giddy! I have no idea whose birthday it is (happy new year, everyone!), what recipe someone has tried, or the latest president-bashing meme circulating the ionosphere. I feel unburdened. This is good.

Day 4. Watched an entire documentary (“Jiro Dreams of Sushi”) without checking my iPhone once. That used to be a habit, too. “What are you doing?” my husband would ask, catching me in the dirty act of seeing if anyone “liked” or commented on my latest personal status. So much ego! Earlier I completed a letter to the editor about our local rogue dog issue. Now that I will be posting more blogs on my Leadville Laurel page, I mustn’t fall into the same pattern of compulsive checking. I’ll allow myself 15 minutes first thing in the morning after walking the pooch and then log off until the next morning. Nothing I post requires immediate action or response. I’ve just fooled myself into thinking it has in the past.

Day 5. My posture has improved now that I’m not stooping surreptitiously each time I pass my computer screen hoping to see a little red bubble indicating contact with the outside world. I only keep my email open now and rarely notice messages in bold black. Perhaps I’ll apply the same rule to email. Check it right after my 15 minutes of indulgence on my professional page. There! Just shut it down. As a writer I have the luxury of making myself unavailable, something most people do not. Et voilà! I’m a writer again! I had convinced myself my personal status update posts were “writing.” They were not.

Day 6. A friend warned me about pink cloud syndrome and wished me luck against relapse. Facebook probably knows about it as well. It gives you 14 days to change your mind once you hit the “Delete Page” button—two weeks to decide if you can truly make the break. I’m not counting the days. With newfound time and energy, I attacked the attic. After several hours of sorting and some occasional dawdling down memory lane (sometimes you have to go backward to move forward), I have a new pile for the dump. Don’t think I’ll need those 32-year-old electrical engineering notes anymore. Pretty sure I’ll sleep better tonight knowing the burden above me has lightened.

Day 7. Beautiful sleep last night followed by another day of accomplishment. The time I have regained in the absence of neurotic personal status updates makes me feel liberated. Freed. Like I’ve lost 5 pounds without even trying. Zuckerberg never did call and I finally stopped checking my phone for missed messages. I have no expectation he’ll call on Day 14. He probably never really was my friend anyway.

Suicide.

I didn’t write anything immediately when I heard of Robin Williams’ suicide, probably because my initial emotion was anger, not sorrow. Living with the memory of finding a friend’s dead body and the devastating aftermath for his family and friends has forever altered my brain, and I find myself confused by the idea of demonstrating an appropriate response to the premature ending of a life.

I could say I understand how someone might find suicide the only solution to their misery, but I would be exaggerating. Yes, I have been places I never want to go again. I never again want to experience the selfish, angst-ridden teen years when I believed that if I died, then they’d be sorry, but after crying myself to sleep I’d get over it. Or the time I was certain I had failed at everything . . . being a good wife, mother, person . . . that I seriously tried to will my heart to stop one night, but then got scared I might succeed. Or the time I went out to the lake during an impossibly windy day and curled up in a blanket for hours under a creaking tree hoping it would fall on me and end my self-pity, but then I got really hungry. Or most recently, wanting to run away every day this past winter, hating where I lived and everything I was doing, until discovering I had a thyroid imbalance, something fixed with a little pill, my unreasonable depression not my fault.

So I’ve never truly been where those who have succeeded at suicide have been. “Succeeded at suicide” is not a phrase I want in my eulogy.

Like my friend, Williams seemed to have everything going for him. But it’s not fair for us to play the But … game. But he was an actor. He was, and his performances were unforgettable. But he was a husband. He was, several times. But he was a father. He was, and I am sad for his children. But he was a role model. He was, and I fear for those who may interpret his final action as justification for their own. But he was Patch Adams, Mrs. Doubtfire, Popeye, Mork, Aladdin . . . he was countless things to countless people.

But he was successful. He was, though in whose eyes?

There were many indicators that my friend’s self-murder was premeditated, and when I return to the days preceding the event, I wonder about the signs. Those left behind always wonder what they might have missed, might have done differently. I wonder about those living with loved ones who endure chronic depression, and if at some point, even they envision an end to it. I don’t dwell on this thought.

Some call suicide a selfish act, but I know better. Selfishness keeps you alive. Perhaps, like my friend so long ago (but he was a husband, a doctor, successful, handsome), he could never really be himself, despite having “everything” available to him. He could not be selfish. He could not save himself. And for that, I can finally feel sorrow.

Abacus

“Red and orange, green and blue, shiny yellow, purple too, all the colors that you know, live up in the rainbow!” This tune from from my kindergarten class plays in my head when I see the enticing object in the corner of the coffee shop.

A child’s abacus sits atop an antique safe, sandwiched among other old-fashioned items. It’s on my “To Do” list. Learn how to do math using an abacus, that is, the centuries-old computer still used in some Eastern cultures.

abacus

I anticipate the pure tactile joy of playing with the colorful wooden beads. I’ve always loved the classic toys and still have many in the attic for the hopeful day a new little one will call me “Nana.” There’s the goal, then! Learn the basics of abacus calculation before my grand-babies are old enough to toddle over to me with the colorful little tool I will surely buy for them before they’re ready to use it!

We bought many toys for our boys before they were ready for them, anxious, ourselves, to play with them, to capture something from our youths, or something we never had.

Ritual

7:10 a.m. and I’ve slept through the night, the first time in months. This amazes and delights me. I hit the pillow at 10 last night feeling drugged. Maybe popcorn, white rice, M&Ms and Campari over ice make the perfect pre-sleep meal.

My dream lingers. I’m at my cousin’s funeral and there’s a young boy there talking incessantly, oblivious to his somber surroundings. I’m really irritated at this child, but there’s nothing I can do without making the situation worse.

I allowed myself the indulgence of waking without an alarm because my walking buddy isn’t available this morning. Typically we’re on the road at 7 and home by 8. I shake off the dream-webs and stretch my legs over the edge of the bed. Ranger stretches as well, yawns noisily and licks my toes.

After peeing like a rhino, I wash my face, slather on SPF 15 and fill in my gray-blonde eyebrows with brown eye shadow. “Don’t leave home without your eye-browns” is Mom’s beauty tip this year, as if anyone will notice my “eye-browns” under my visor and behind my mirrored glasses. I know it helps to frame my eyes, and I might as well do it now since I probably won’t shower today. It’s part of my morning ritual.

I throw on my walking clothes and let Ranger out the back door. I was too tired to take him for his routine evening stroll last night and I feel bad. He, too, pees like a rhino in the back yard and wants to come back in immediately. He’s my shadow.

I make the bed, though no one would notice that either. Admiral McRaven delivered a speech to UT graduates this year in which he told them to make their bed every morning. If you can’t do a little task like that each day, how can you expect to accomplish anything greater? It’s a simple concept, and I do like walking into a neat room.

Mike has already been working for an hour. I sip hot coffee with him and we chat about the upcoming day. I throw together rice and eggs and cheese before his first meeting, and since he can’t eat it all—he rarely eats breakfast—I finish it with a second cup of coffee. “Laurel never has a 2nd cup.” I think we should watch Airplane tonight to offset the sadness in the world.

By 8:30 Ranger and I are out the door and noticing the 90-minute-later temperature difference. I generally wear a light jacket and am comfortable until we get home, but this morning, I remove it almost immediately. Last week of July and it finally feels like summer in Leadville.

photo 3 (3)We hustle up the hill and Ranger is happy when I stop to take photos of whatever catches my eye: wispy grasses, sun pouring through bridge beams, clover patches buzzing with bees. Inappropriate Army cadences come to mind: “Roll me over in the clover do it again, do it again.”

Turning at the bridge to head back home, I check out the Mt. Massive skyline. It’s beautiful. It’s always beautiful, but by 9 a.m. the brightness of the day washes away the crispness of the earlier contrast between mountains and the just-rising sun.

“Beautiful dog!” someone yells from an ATV. I get that a lot.

Back home by 9:30, my beautiful dog pants in the shade out back while I tidy up in photo 4 (4)preparation for my writing group to arrive. I do a speed-vac of the downstairs, enough to pick up the dusty clumps of dog hair gathered in corners and around chair legs, and pour M&Ms and peanuts into bowls.

My group, two high school girls today, meets me on the deck and we write and chat and challenge one another for two hours. They don’t know it, but I’m honored by their presence each week. It’s something they don’t have to do. Much like my morning walk, it has become a ritual I relish.

Thunder clouds roll in early today and by 4 p.m. the ground is soaking up the drenching rain. The couch is calling me. Time for a nap.

BURN

Burn

Disappointment kills
Any hope I might have for
Our future success

Watching my husband
Work selflessly for others
Just to be shut down

Unsupported by
Frightened politicians who
Bow to ignorance

Things don’t burn, they say,
In fires at elevation
Above ten thousand

Are they serious?
Are they really serious?
Tell me it’s a dream

With silly people
Who selfishly get their way
At others’ expense

That tomorrow morn
I’ll wake to find my nightmare
Gladly unfounded

But I know the truth
Things will never change in town
When witlessness reigns

When those who can, won’t,
When, “We don’t want this to turn
Into Breckenridge”

Becomes our slogan
Though leveling town would not
Be enough to start

Transforming hovels
Into proudly-owned houses
With junk-free front yards

How will we move forth
When so few see our town is
Struggling to survive?

When so many look
Only through their front window,
Only at themselves?

Motivation drains
From those who try to improve
Where it’s not wanted

Resources wasted
Ignorant voices spew lies
Sad reality?

Fire mitigation
Project doused, so don’t call me
When flames lick your door