Thursday's postcard, and big stories in an upside-down world

October 5, 2023

Bison on the range at the Rocky Mountain Arsenal wildlife preserve east of Denver

A search for time, and the right line

I’m old enough to remember Pan American World Airways, once the largest U.S. based airline, featuring routes to Latin America. I remember the first time I boarded a Pan Am jet, a Boeing 707, in the mid-sixties, walking with my large family (six children) from a modest art-deco terminal to the portable staircase with the blue & white Pan Am global logo. We dressed like we were going to church. On-board I was greeted and ceremoniously handed metal wings by the uniformed co-pilot. The meal service from Panama to Miami was filet mignon with tropical fruit salad.

Traveling by air is not quite so elegant now.

Heading home from Denver on Tuesday I was misdirected to the wrong baggage check station (reserved for elite travelers, it turned out) and then to the wrong TSA line (reserved for “pre-checked” passengers) on the opposite side of the large terminal. Once in the right line, the x-ray imaging station for the tray conveying my carry-on bag, shoes, belt, and what remained of my dignity stopped working. I had to switch lines with my tray and was adjusting my pants, still in my socks, when an alarm went off. I was suddenly announced as a “random” by the TSA staff. This meant I got the extra amenity of having my hands checked for gunpowder and bomb-making residue. (I was exonerated, even though I had to represent myself.)

So, yes, I kinda miss the old days.

That said, if I’d known Tuesday’s ordeal was in store I’d still have made the trip . My son, Devin, now in his mid-twenties, lives in Denver as does my mother’s brother, my uncle Barrie Hartman, and my cousin Todd and his family. The Colorado Hartmans are steeped in journalism, so our visits are a healthy blend of laughter and, for me at least, continuing education. Sadly, Barrie contracted Covid last week, so he was in quarantine, which left Todd to school me over dinner at an outdoor biergarten Monday evening. Such is life, though I’m pleased to report Barrie is sounding much better and in good spirits as of a few hours ago.

The entrance to the “Garden of the Gods,” with Pike’s Peak in the background

On Sunday, Devin and I had driven south, along the spine of the Front Range, to see a remarkable geologic site I hadn’t visited before. Owned by the City of Colorado Springs, it is called the “Garden of the Gods,” a 480-acre park just east of Pike’s Peak. Here, over the past 70 million years or so, powerful upwellings followed by millions of years of erosion have exposed a freakishly complex collision and its beautifully surreal aftermath.

My connection to all this runs in both directions, to my ailing uncle who has mentored and encouraged me for a half century, to my children who (mostly gently) nudge and cajole me to take better care of myself. As I was struggling in the maze of the second TSA line, at the airport, a young girl—I’m guessing three or four years old—wearing goofy, heart-shaped glasses broke loose from her father and went under the nylon lane divider without having to even dip her head. She was singing and clapping as she passed, her father smiling but also trying to reach her before she wandered away. My eyes met his for a moment. His love for his daughter was radiant, and his pursuit brought a knowing smile and laugh to my lips, with memories of chasing my ebullient daughter when she was that age.

In a world where we’re all suspects, now, it warmed me with hope.

Two tones of uplifted Lyons sandstone (250-300 million years old) near the southern entrance

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—tjc