Mount Elden, Flagstaff, Arizona, Photo by Steven Cross
Seven-time Tour de France cycling champion Lance Armstrong and I have three things in common:
We both own dwellings in Aspen, Colorado. We are not neighbors and his house is far bigger than my condo. But, hey, who’s counting square footage?
Our favorite Aspen restaurant is Cache Cache. I had dinner there, with friends, two nights prior to Armstrong’s Saturday night, June 11, visit. My dinner was delicious, conversation delightful, and, evening quite peaceful. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a dust-up on Saturday night when Armstrong found himself dining in the same restaurant as former teammate Tyler Hamilton. You might recall that Hamilton had recently appeared on CBS‘ Sixty Minutes and accused Armstrong of using banned performance-enhancing substances during cycling competitions. Ouch. Cache Cache is small, no major potted plants to hide behind, and Lance was probably still a bit miffed. There were words.
Lance Armstrong and I are arguably the only two people on this planet who still believe he “didn’t dope”! I’m a leap-of-faith woman and I still trust the guy. Everyone who knows this also has a few things to say to me about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Little credit, please.
Tour de France Champion, 1999-2005, Lance Armstrong
Americans need to have heroes, both real and fictional, in our lives, and Armstrong has been one of mine. He won the Tour de France, a three-week cycling event typically covering 2,000 miles, seven times. Toss some serious health issues with the pressures of international competition into the mix and, in my book, he’s in “What–a-Guy” territory.
I just finished a fascinating book by University of Richmond professors Scott Allison and George Goethals, entitled “Heroes: What They Do and Why We Need Them”. The conversation in this book not only focuses on the heroes themselves but, more importantly, on those of us who need to have them. Generally, that’s Everyone. The truth is, it’s more important to me that Armstrong wear a White Hat than a Yellow Jersey. At my age, I’m afraid my Fallen Idols List is overwhelming my Heroes one.
According to the authors, the “Great Eight Traits of Heroes” are:
1.Intelligence
2.Strength
3. Selflessness
4. Caring
5. Resilience
6. Charismatic
7.Reliability
8.Inspiration
Honestly, Readers, who could possibly measure up? Lassie? The Lone Ranger and Tonto? Secretariat? No one human, for sure.
Based on my opinion and absolutely no science, I see this hero-business as very American. And, I am growing wary of it. Sometimes, it almost smells sinister as we hold these Heroes to impossibly-elevated standards only to gleam some satisfaction when they fail or fall. Whether a hero through activism, celebrity, politics, spiritualism, business, sports, the arts or war, there is a line every hero may not cross over. What’s so difficult about realizing that if you cheat, lie, dope, fake it, misappropriate, rig, steal, double-deal, deceive, pretend, or plagiarize, you are going to eventually, without a doubt, no question about it, get caught.
We may never be willing to expect less of our would-be heroes. After all, they are still enjoying the largesse, notoriety, rewards, and bounty of their lifestyles and talents. But, perhaps it’s time to expect less of ourselves, release the impossible, covet less, grow contentment, and savor the moment.
For the past two years I’ve adopted the “Good E’Nuf Doctrine”, giving my Type A/Peddle-to-Perfection behavioral pattern a much-needed furlough.
This all began on a gorgeous Arizona day when I planned to hike up Mount Elden, a 2395’ climb in elevation to its peak, 9299′ above sea level. Armed with food, water, sunscreen, good weather, and time, I was a happy woman. Until, I wasn’t. A few hours into the hike, having reached the tree line, I could go no farther. I was done. By the time I hiked down to the car, I’d morphed into a funk, carrying all the accompanying emotions of, what I perceived, a failure.
Some days later, a colleague who had witnessed the scene and its aftermath, said, as an afterthought and very calmly, “You know, Mary, sometimes things are “Good E’nuf”. And, that’s okay. You didn’t reach your goal. You didn’t accomplish your task. You didn’t get all you wanted out of it. But, it was “Good E’nuf.”
“Good E’nuf’s” have never been part of my vocabulary!
He’s right, however. Although there are some Peaks I’ll never ascend to again, wherever I can hike will be “Good E’Nuf”.
Americans have often found it difficult to be satisfied, always wanting more, bigger and better. But “less” is what lies ahead and the reality is that “Good E’Nuf’s” may become the norm. I have a plaque that says, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; But remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”
It took some time for me to realize the power of those words.
As for Armstrong, there may be some road hazards ahead. In fact, this week-end singer Sheryl Crowe, Lance’s former girlfriend who dumped him when he wandered elsewhere, will be in Aspen to perform at the Jazz Festival. Perhaps Lance should play it safe, remain at home, and order a Brunelleschi’s Dome Pizza, (970-544-4644). It’s not a gourmet meal but it will be “Good E’Nuf”.
For three weeks I’ve been in Colorado, my beloved state-of-choice for 16 years. In 2004, we sold our Aspen home, shed most of our belongings, and moved to Nevada. I have only returned for a brief few days each year.
Nothing is unique about my packing up our belongings and heading further West. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, one in ten U.S. residents, more than 31 million people, traded places in 2009. I’m thinking that’s probably enough Hertz rental trucks to circle the Equator!
While most of us move for housing, family and employment reasons, I needed, because of my husband’s health issues, to trade snow for sun, altitude for sea level. Our move, like many, was out-of-necessity, not choice.
Although Thomas Wolfe says you can’t go home again, I say you can. Luckily, I still have a small condo, for rental purposes, in Aspen. For the past three weeks, I’ve been the Renter. Returning home, and Aspen will always be that, has caused a myriad of emotions to wind their way to my surface. Honestly, it’s been more a gusher of feelings. Finally, after some sleepless nights, I gave in, declared a truce and said, bring it on.
Not surprisingly, the gorgeous, breathtaking Rocky Mountains are still a major presence here and, as always, I rejoice in their beauty every waking moment. Give me a mountain to climb and I’m a happy woman.
The old eating joints have stubbornly dug in their heels and remain competitive in this tough restaurant arena. My traditional first lunch was a juicy burger at Little Annie’s, an evening meal, the deliciously messy rib stack at The Hickory House. I met my friend, Jane, for a margarita during Friday Afternoon Club at the Cantina. Make that, two margaritas and nachos. I loved my premier meal at BB’s Kitchen, a contemporary place just opened by Bruce Berger, a friend from Manhattan,. He’s 70 years old, just handed his real estate interests off to his son, and loves to cook. So, why not open a restaurant in Aspen? Yeah……….
For shock value, and I thought I was prepared, I drove, for the first time since leaving in 2004, down Silver King Drive. Perhaps, just maybe, it was a mistake to re-visit my old neighborhood. Our house, thrown together in 1971 by ski bums, who worked only when they couldn’t ski or hunt, was a small German chalet, 3400 square feet of space, anchored permanently, so I thought, into Red Butte Mountain. After purchasing the property in 1988, and learning the house was framed rather haphazardly, we made some necessary structural changes. Wild and wooly Aspen in the ‘70s. Apparently, those laborers drank and smoked pot on-the-job as well as off. If walls could talk.
What I discovered, at our old site, left me speechless, not something that happens often. Almost never. The chalet is gone, replaced by two adjoining townhouses, extending to the property lines (above). Plowed under, cut down, and irradicated forever, are my potato plot, rhubarb clump, raspberry patch, wildflower garden and 50 Colorado blue spruces. C’est dommage! And, Readers, you won’t believe the asking price, $5.5 million……….EACH. The economic journalist who lives in my head, understands this concept. To be honest, I just laughed, thinking, there goes the neighborhood!
What forever will bind me to this tiny enclave tucked into the Rockies are the people who call it home. I’ve woven the social fabric of my life through 25-years of interaction with the community of folks gathered here. Most of us didn’t begin in Aspen, we chose it. Coming as strangers, we’ve determinedly folded into our communities of friendship. Glitz and glitter for some. Grits and granola for others.
Friendships need fuel. Nurturing. Updates. Generosity. And, Kindness. For the past 7 years, thanks to modern-day innovations, I’ve clung to these bonds quite effortlessly. To the question, “Can you hear me now?”, I’d answer a resounding, “Always.” Bash the “social media” all you wish, but through e-mails, Skype, Facebook, iPhones and Blackberries, to name a few, my Colorado ties have remained tightly bound together.
We lose only what we choose not to feed and fortify.
In late April, writer Alex Witchel wrote a compelling piece, “The Return of Ellen Barkin” for The New York Times Magazine. ( http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/24/magazine/mag-24barkin-t.html ) Presently, Barkin, an actress, is best remembered as the former fourth wife of multi-billionaire Ronald O. Perelman, chairman of Revlon. The six-year marriage, which ended in divorce in 2006, was stormy. The divorce, more turbulent.
Before we suffer tears or hand-wringing over Barkin’s plight, let me add that she’s landed on her feet. The shoes on those feet were probably Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahniks’. Besides the $20 million-or-more settlement, Barkin’s not blabbing, she decided to bid her baubles ‘adieu” at a Christie’s auction.
Now, here’s the Wow factor? In just six years, Perleman had gifted her with more than 100 trinkets, which she cashed in for another $20 million. By my calculations, she received about 16 precious pieces of glitz and glitter every year. That’s something-very-special, every three weeks. Who has time to do that much shopping? Let me be frank, Ellen and I run in different social circles.
On her own terms, Barkin, who is 57, is certainly no slouch. By Witchel’s count, pre-Perleman, she’d already made 44 feature films and 7 television movies. Since the divorce, she’s added another 2 films, a television pilot and, in April, opened on Broadway in “Normal Heart” for which she’s been nominated for a Tony Award.
While all this is interesting, and, who doesn’t like a little gossip, what facinated me was her answer to Witchel’s inquiry , ‘So these days, when she [Barkin] wakes up at 3 a.m. worrying about something, what is it?’
“I don’t worry about my children, which is a good thing,” she said. I guess I worry about wierd existential things, like how do we spend our final act? I think, You’re 56 [now, 57] years old, what did you do? You raised two good kids. What am I going to do that is as meaningful as that?”
She continued, “I don’t know the answer yet. I guess I’m up thinking, Am I too old to start to absorb new things?”
Here’s when I start to realize that Barkin and I may have something in common. No one has ever asked me, but I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with a worry or two also. For my final act, what I call the fourth quarter, I know I want to be cast in the starring role. Although I’ll never win a Tony, it’s my life and I want to be in control of it. For a woman flying solo, that requires courage, good health, financial stability, and luck.
In the last two lines of “The Summer Day”, a wonderful poem by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Mary Oliver, she asks,
“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
Does our one wild and precious life have to be any less meaningful or productive or fruitful or imaginative now than when we were younger and engaged in the rigors of family and social lives, careers, and other timely pursuits? While lifestyle adjustments may seem overwhelming and health issues, challenging, can’t we still wring the most out of each day?
Someone who has done that very well is my former Aspen neighbor and long-time friend, Austine. Her life, as I observed it for 18 years, was meaningful, productive and fruitful. Austine, always active in the community, was happily on-the-run. Unfortunately, her husband, also a doctor, suffered from Alzheimer’s, and died four years ago. She was his caregiver the last nine years of his life. Recently I asked her about her new life as a single woman, a widow.
“So how do I cope with being alone?”, she wrote, in an e-mail. “The truth is I love being alone in my own home. I cook only if there is a quorum (2 or more). I realized just how much time it takes to cook, what with planning, shopping, preparation, eating, cleaning up, and I decided it wasn’t worth the time and effort.
I play lots of bridge, take walks, and read. I don’t seek out new friends but am open to them. I have traveled a good bit with a long-time friend from New York. I am in that sweet spot right now after not being able to go because I couldn’t leave my husband alone and before the physical decline sets in [for me]. I am making progress on my Bucket List. I don’t enjoy traveling or going to restaurants alone, so I don’t. I have not yet had to ask “Why do I bother?”. If I have a block of time, I have only to refer to My List, never mind those back-burner projects. I am able to spend time with my daughters and grandchildren now.
I do miss being part of a couple. I get twingey when I see a couple in a restaurant at a table for two, sharing a meal, looking as though they belong together. I miss my husband’s mind, human contact.
Am I happy? I am not unhappy. I am content. I am not sure what the next chapter is, but I am up for it.”
This is, it seems to me, what flying solo is all about, a time to imagine our possibilities, welcome our choices, and celebrate our differences. Like Austine, I’m a home-hugger, my safe place to hunker down, especially when times are rotten. Unlike her, I add cooking to the many hobbies and pastimes we both enjoy. Traveling alone? I like it. Another real treat, for me, is a nice restaurant for lunch. If need be, I’ll dine alone. And, while, like Austine, I’ve never met “bored”, I do admit to sometimes wondering, “Why do I bother?” I also rejoice in my family but miss the couple-dom, especially the male/female repartee. As a former business journalist at a time when the majority of my subjects, sources and sidekicks, were men, I like mixing it up with smart men. Because I’m in a different place emotionally, remaining a caretaker, I’m still peddling towards contentment, still trying to find my path.
“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences.”
I’ve gone rogue this week, definitely am off message. Mustard Bâtons is not the recipe scheduled for today. Forgive me French Friday Foodies, never again, pinkie swear. But, I just arrived for a month’s stay in my Aspen condo, drove through a snowstorm in Utah to get here, and found my kitchen presently ill-equipped for cooking. Dorie’s Bâtons are 5-ingredient hor d’oeuvres with a sublime kick and an easy preparation. Variations, galore. Freeze like champs. I’ll pair Sancerre with these delightful strips of goodness, throw my long-time Aspen friends in the mix and revel in my own “Rocky Mountain High”. Merci, Ms. Greenspan.
“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
Mark Twain
This quote was shared with me today by Luky Seymour, a tiny albeit plucky Colorado friend of the past twenty-five years. Luky, one of those Rocky Mountain sprites whose generosity of spirit and unparalleled kindness touches so many, has lifted me up and landed me gently, more times than I can count.)
I’ve gone rogue this week, definitely am off message. Mustard Bâtons is not the recipe scheduled for today. Forgive me French Friday Foodies, never again, pinkie swear. But, I just arrived for a month’s stay in my Aspen condo, drove through a snowstorm in Utah to get here, and found my kitchen presently ill-equipped for cooking. Dorie’s Bâtons are 5-ingredient hor d’oeuvres with a sublime kick and an easy preparation. Variations, galore. Freeze like champs. I’ll pair Sancerre with these delightful strips of goodness, throw my long-time Aspen friends in the mix and revel in my own “Rocky Mountain High”. Merci, Ms. Greenspan.
