Category: Colorado Life

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I am the volunteer pool monitor. My community pays two teenagers to be actual pool monitors, one girl and one boy. They spend their time sitting by the sign-in book, watching movies or texting friends on their phones. They are not life guards. One of them doesn’t even know how to swim. But they are tall, athletic and gorgeous. We pay them to be a visible at the pool. Optics are everything. Next to my job, it’s the easiest job they will ever have.

Most people who have a key to our pool are lovely, responsible people. Every so often, however, we get a group that is challenging.

One Sunday afternoon, P.M.#1 texted me because he was concerned that a group of rowdy young adults were at the pool. P.M. #2 would be there soon, and he wanted an adult back-up because he was going off-duty.

When I got to the pool, I met the group in question. One, very tall woman with bright orange hair was the spokesperson. She was there with her baby, who appeared to be about three months old. 

The baby’s daddy was there, too, circling the deck on a hover-board. There were eight others in their group ~ a mix of adults and children. The adults had lots of tattoos, but no one was wearing an ankle monitor. I took that as a good sign. I told Hover-Board Guy he needed to take his toys outside. He agreed. 

The group became louder and louder, with children acting like adults, and adults acting like children. It became apparent that none of them lived in our community, but I decided to let them stay. They were basically compliant. They were already inside and I didn’t want trouble. 

I texted P.M. #1, who was home by this time, and asked him if he knew these people. He said that, in fact, he did. He said they used to rent a condo in our community and obviously kept their pool key when they left. He had the phone number of the orange hair lady, and was willing to text her if I felt that I needed him to back me up. 

At that point, I looked up and saw that the woman with orange hair wanted to change out of her bikini top into a dry t-shirt. Instead of going into the bathroom, she changed clothes right where she was, in the middle of the pool deck ~ flashing her perky sisters at anyone lucky enough to be watching.

I assumed the group was getting ready to leave and I heard them tell the children, who were whining and crying by this time, “Don’t worry, we’ll be back tomorrow.” That’s when I hit the panic button. I texted P.M. #1 and told him that the group was planning to come back the next day. 

“Do you want to deal with these people, or should I?” I wanted to know.

“I’ll take care of them.”

And he did. I don’t know what he said, but they left, glaring at me. They haven’t been back.

Another challenging group came to the pool this week. I was home eating dinner. There were no pool monitors on duty, because P.M. #1 was at football practice and P.M. #2 had already left for college.. I got a call from a man from Russia, whose name is Rafael. We call him The Mad Russian, because he is always angry about something or other. I don’t know how he got my phone number. I knew it was him as soon as I answered the phone.

“Come. Come to pool right now. You have to come. Teenagers in pool. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in pool.” He was shouting into the phone.

“Are they actually drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in the pool? Or are they at the tables outside the pool?” I was trying to project calmness.

“Come. You come right now. Smoking cigarettes and drinking beer in pool,” he shouted. 

“Ok. Let me put my shoes on.”

But the time I got the pool, everything was quiet. Rafael’s daughter and granddaughter were in the pool, but he was gone. There was no sign of anyone smoking or drinking in the pool.

“Is everything ok?” I asked.

“Yes. When the kids heard my grandpa yelling into the phone, they ran away. They got in their cars and left.” 

The kids might have thought Rafael was calling the police. I doubt that they realized he was calling me ~ a seventy-eight year old grandmother with white hair who doesn’t walk very fast. I sat  by the pool until it was time to close up. They, too, didn’t return.

The pool closes on Labor Day. I will miss it. It’s added a lot of pleasant evenings, and just enough drama to my life to keep it interesting.

I will miss them all!

 

The phone in my office rang at least once a week with offers of complimentary tickets to Denver’s cultural and athletic events. Often the tickets were last-minute offers. I always said, “Yes. Sure. I’d be happy to have the tickets.” 

I knew I could find students who would agree to go anywhere if I had free tickets. We went to baseball and basketball games. To musicals, plays and concerts. To the Denver Zoo, the Museum of Nature and Science, and the Denver Botanic Gardens. Every outing was an adventure.

One of our best trips happened on a Friday night, January, 1993. I had four tickets to see “How the West Was FUN!” ~ a program of songs and skits about the Old West, at the Northglenn Community Center. I decided to take two of my favorite brothers, Arturo and Denis, and their friend, Charlie, who lived in the same apartment building. I picked those three boys because their parents didn’t care where I took them, or what time I brought them home. They were always grateful that I took them anywhere.

It was dark outside when I drove north on I-25 on my way to Northglenn. Denver was still lit up for Christmas and the National Western Stock Show. As we drove past Bronco’s Stadium, Charlie asked, “Ms. Jones, where are we?” I explained that we were driving to Northglenn to see a play called,  “How the West Was Fun.” 

Charlie had never been to a play and he certainly had not been to Northglenn. I didn’t try explaining geography to a third-grader, whose whole world was one square mile. Instead, I just said, “You’ll love it. It’s a funny play and there’s a lot of music in it.” The tickets were free. That’s all I knew or cared about.

Eight-year-old Denis, whose mother was very bright but more than a little unstable, was excited. “Can we sit in the front row?” he asked, as he charged down the aisle in front of me. 

Charlie and Arturo were right behind him. I sat in the second row, where I could tap them on the shoulder if necessary. I shouldn’t have worried.

The boys were mesmerized by the action on stage. For ninety minutes, they forgot their grown-up fears and lives of chronic neglect. They sat perfectly still and hummed along with the music. 

Denis couldn’t stop laughing. His favorite part of the show was the barroom scene, in which four men danced the can-can in drag. He turned around in his seat to share the joke with me. “They are supposed to be dance-hall girls, but they are really dance hall BOYS!” he roared. It was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

On the way home, we passed Bronco’s stadium and the lights of Denver once more. Charlie was quiet as he looked out the window.

“Ms. Jones, I get it. I know where we are! Glendale is in the middle of Denver. And Denver is in the middle of Colorado.” Suddenly geography made sense.

It was after 9:00 by the time we were back in Glendale. The boys were too excited to go home. They wanted to talk. They had a lot of fun, but they still had a lot on their minds.

The boys talked about the agony of wetting the bed and/or sharing a bed with someone who does. They all knew that urine burns are worse when you’ve eaten a lot of peppers. 

Denis and Arturo told about the time their mother’s boyfriend’s gun accidentally discharged on Halloween, sending a bullet into the wall and scaring them more than “Chucky” ~ the scariest movie they’d ever seen. 

They argued about whether Michael Jackson had a wife and whether Michael Jordon should be allowed to “just quit” basketball. They agreed that pollution is a terrible problem and that they were, in fact, too hungry for french fries and too thirsty for soft drinks to go home. So we stopped at McDonalds and kept talking.

A few weeks later Denis wanted to know when my son, Garth, was coming home. I told him that Garth might stay in Jamaica for another year and my other son, Jason, was thinking of moving to Greeley. I commented that I might go into severe withdrawal with no children to raise. Denis looked at me and smiled. “That’s not necessarily true,” he said.  “You still have us.”

by Glendale students, 1994.

I WISH: For Peace. For Wonderful Peace!

I WISH: People would be kind to one another.

My mother would get well

My father wouldn’t be in jail.

My brother would come home.

My family could be together.

I WISH: There would be no crime.

There would be no stealing.

Nobody would litter.

Nobody would cuss.

We could all be friends.

I WISH: I had a kitten.

I had a beagle.

I had a lion.

I had a bike.

I had a Japanese Barbie.

I WISH: My bike had new brakes.

My mom’s car had new tires.

My dad’s back would get better.

My sister would go to school.

My mom would have her baby.

I WISH: I lived in a castle.

I would be queen of the world.

I would be happy for the rest of my life.

Horses could fly.

All people on earth had magic.

I WISH: here was no violence in the world.

People weren’t prejudiced.

The government would let the people rule.

I would get my black-belt soon, so I could take care of my family.

I could eat as much as I wanted and never get fat.

I WISH FOR PEACE. FOR WONDERFUL PEACE.

One day, right after Thanksgiving, I had a phone call from a mother of students at High Plains Elementary School, an affluent school in the same district where I worked as a social worker. She wanted her children to learn “the spirit of Christmas.” I don’t remember this mother’s name. I call her Angel.

Angel explained that her children, and her children’s friends, wanted to buy presents for kids who might not get many presents that year. Did I know any children who might like an extra Christmas present? 

“Yes,” I answered. “I know a lot of children who would be delighted to receive an extra gift.”

“How many students?”

“Well, at least a hundred in elementary school alone.”

Forty percent of the students where I worked were eligible for free lunch. Almost all of them lived in Glendale. A lot of them were refugees from countries all over world ~ places like Russia, Bosnia, Ethiopia, China, Mexico, and Somalia. Very few of them expected Santa Claus to visit the apartments where they lived.

I told Angel we could use as many gifts as they wanted to donate and the High Plains Christmas Connection was born. Angel called other families in the neighborhood. She appealed to the PTO. She put up a Christmas tree in the school lobby. She hung stars on the tree, listing the age and gender of Glendale students needing a gift. Families were eager to adopt children they considered “less fortunate.” Their generosity was overwhelming. 

Angel started dropping off gifts in my office at the beginning of December. The first year, High Plains students donated more than one hundred gifts. Barbies and basketballs. Remote control cars, skateboards, and big trucks. Teddy bears and dolls of every skin color. The Glendale Police and Fire Departments signed on and donated bicycles, helmets and locks ~ gifts my students could only dream of. 

Five years later, there were more than five hundred gifts waiting for me after Thanksgiving. Every corner of my office was filled with gifts that needed to be sorted, wrapped, and delivered. By that time, the project had grown to include new hats, scarves and gloves for every family member and gift cards for teenagers. The Glendale Target store donated eight beautifully decorated Christmas trees for families who otherwise wouldn’t have one. 

We set up a Christmas station in an empty classroom., We brought in tables from the cafeteria and started wrapping and labelling gifts. The City of Glendale provided miles of wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. Teachers and tutors wrapped gifts when they were available. Parents from the neighborhood came to help. And of course, my friends from Glendale, Julie and Marcie, wrapped gifts for weeks. 

The weekend before Christmas, Julie, Marcie and I dropped off presents at each child’s apartment. With the help of a few, wonderful volunteers, we went from door to door, wishing families Merry Christmas. It was a weekend full of the Christmas spirit.

Angel, wherever you are, thank you for giving all of us the gift of Christmas joy.

Glendale, where I worked for eight years, is one square mile of poverty in the middle of a very affluent business community. As the Glendale social worker, I was often given free tickets to plays and events that families would otherwise never be able to afford.

In December, 1992, thanks to money from the PTO, I took five, first-grade girls to see Disney On Ice. It was pure magic.

I wanted to pick up Tanya first. I was not exactly in the Christmas spirit and I was certain Tanya wouldn’t be ready when I got to her apartment. Her mother had no phone, so all of our communication had been by notes pinned to the front of Tanya’s dress. Tanya had head lice in remission. She missed school at least twice a week because no one could ever find her shoes in time for her to catch the bus. Not a good omen!

As I rang the buzzer, Tanya came running out to meet me dressed like a little princess in cowboy boots. She wore a long, burgundy dress with a plunging neckline and a tiny gold necklace. Her hair was clean and curled. Her mother had put lipstick and eye-shadow on her. She looked beautiful, if a little precocious.

Tanya, in her burgundy dress and matching lipstick, was truly the spirit of Christmas. Her joy was contagious. I parked my car and led the five girls inside to find our seats. The girls giggled and held hands as we climbed to the top of McNichols basketball arena, which had been converted into a full-court ice rink. When Deanna, Tanya’s friend from the next apartment, lost her piece of candy behind her seat, Tanya immediately offered her candy to Deanna. 

The show was “Disney’s Fantasy on Ice” and featured all the characters the girls already knew ~ Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Snow White and Cinderella.  Their eyes never left the stage. 

Later, when Deanna, who has one leg two inches shorter than the other, panicked going downstairs. Tanya spontaneously took Deanna’s hand and led her down the steep steps. It was a lovely moment, right out of Charles Dickens. 

After that success, I could hardly wait to take nine fifth-grade girls to see The Nutcracker, with two other chaperones. The tickets were donated by the women who worked at Shotgun Willies, the strip club located in the heart of Glendale.

The Nutcracker was the biggest holiday event of the season, a real ballet in a beautiful downtown theater. The other chaperones and I talked to the girls about The Nutcracker for three weeks. We listened to the music and read the story. We talked about ballet, and getting dressed up, and being on our best behavior. 

It was a cold December night when arrived at the theater. The girls were gorgeous, with fancy dresses and just a touch of glitter in their hair and makeup on their faces. The girls were awestruck when they saw the downtown Christmas lights and the glamour inside the huge theater. Their eyes glowed at the sight of  sparkling chandeliers that led us to our seats in the balcony. We took our seats and waited for the ballet to begin.

The first act went by all too quickly. The music was lovely. When the curtain fell at intermission, I was eager to hear the reactions of the girls. The magic was lost, however, when Monique stood up in her red velvet dress, made a face and loudly proclaimed, “Somebody farted!”

As a piano teacher, I was determined to find a way to get my students to practice. I pleaded to their better natures. I bribed them with candy bars. And then… Eureka! I had the answer. Recitals! My students didn’t like to practice, but they did like to perform. 

Students recitals were a tradition back when I was taking lessons from Sister Aimee. We hated recitals but Sister Aimee was determined. Our music had to be memorized. It had to be difficult. Often, it had to be boring. 

Because Sister Aimee produced the annual Christmas pageant, an over-the-top extravaganza of angels and shepherds, we were spared the ritual of a Christmas recital. But nothing could deter Sister Aimee from having us perform in May. 

My memories of being in a recital included stomach pains and anxiety attacks. Students threatening to throw up or worse. A third grade classmate actually wet her pants onstage ~ a fact that she probably hasn’t lived down to this day.

That’s not the kind of piano recital I wanted. No, I just wanted the kind that would motivate my students to actually open their books and practice their lesson. That meant having recitals not once, but four times a year. Every eight weeks my students were on stage. There was always a reception afterward, with cookies and punch, and the opportunity to bask in their parents’ proud faces.

I kept the tradition of having an end-of-the-year recital in May. Girls were happy to dress up in fancy dresses. The boys reluctantly wore something besides jeans. I let the students choose their favorite songs. I often accompanied them and together we dazzled the audience.

Of course there was a Christmas recital, with beautiful familiar Christmas songs. And again, girls in fancy dresses and boys in shirts with collars. Wonderful, sing-along music and proud parental faces. 

That left two more recitals to schedule, one in the fall and one in the spring. I had to be creative with the spring recital. One year we had a Teddy Bear’s Picnic. Students brought their favorite stuffed animal to sit on the bench with them. One year we had a Celebration of Spring ~ with songs about flowers and kites. 

The best recital of all, however, was the first recital of the year. The Halloween Recital. Just think about it. We all came in costumes. Teacher included. Ghosts and vampires, clowns and ninjas trooped into the piano store, up to the large performance stage at the top of the stairs. Parents smiled as they were seated, ready with their cameras. Students were giddy with excitement. Best of all, no one threw up or wet their pants.

I taught piano lessons for seven years. I had a lot of students and I was more or less successful. By the end of that time, however, I realized I was ready for something else.

“I’m going to be ninety years old, someday, still sitting on this piano bench trying to get these students to practice their lesson,” I thought one rainy day. I looked outside, just as lightning hit a tree in my backyard, knocking out my power, and ending lessons for that day.

The next day, I met a friend for lunch. 

“What’s new?” I asked her.

“I’m doing the craziest thing,” she announced.

“What?”

“I’m moving to Mexico.”

“Really?” A lightbulb went off in my head. “I’m coming with you,” I declared. 

I moved to Mexico. Some say I did it on a whim. Maybe the lightning strike was a sign that I needed to shake up my life. Or maybe, I had just run out of Halloween costumes.

For the last few weeks, I’ve written about the Glendale Boys’ support group. What about the Glendale girls? 

As they reached middle school, the girls were just as at-risk as the boys. They, too, needed a support group. The reading teacher, who had known the girls in elementary school, saw the need, stepped in and ran a weekly meeting for them at the community center. This time, I was just an observer.

The Girls Group was,  obviously, different from the Boys Group. For one thing, it was more peaceful. Instead of arguing and fighting, the girls talked, played music and danced. Instead of grabbing whatever we brought to eat, the girls cooked. They were definitely more well-behaved on field trips. 

The goals for both groups were the same: Stay in school and out of trouble. Both groups challenged themselves to do things they thought were impossible. Both groups made a commitment not to have children before they were ready. I hope they kept that promise. I hope they are all doing well.

My favorite Girls Group activity was a game they created called Talk Show. It was modeled after their favorite after-school activity ~ watching Oprah on TV.

At the end of every Girls Group meeting, the leader would say, “We have thirty minutes left. What should we do?”

“Let’s play Talk Show!’ they would shout. Hands went up, eager to volunteer.

April, a beautiful, articulate girl, who had a lot of experience watching talk shows because she often skipped school would almost always be Oprah. Lady was always one of the experts because, as everyone agreed, Lady was an expert on almost everything. 

Liz, a shy girl without many friends, preferred to be a guest. The remaining girls volunteered to be additional guests or experts, depending on how many girls were available. And the show was ready to start.

Chairs were set up in the meeting room. Experts lined up in front, guests seated in back. Oprah would emerge from the hallway, holding her hairbrush like a microphone. The audience would stand, clapping and cheering enthusiastically.

One Talk Show episode still makes me laugh:

Oprah looks over the audience and announces: “Today’s show is about How To Tell If A Boy Really Likes You.” Everyone cheers.

Oprah: “Let’s get started. Liz, do you think it is hard to know if a boy likes you?”

Liz pretends to cry. She sniffles and blows her nose before starting to talk. “I just think nobody would ever like me because I am so shy. If a boy liked me, I’m sure I wouldn’t know it.”

Oprah: “We have to trust our instincts.” The leader and I look at each other, wondering if these girls have any idea what Oprah is talking about. Then she adds “And be true to yourself.” 

Oprah says it is time for a commercial so she can confer with Lady, who has written a book that will be a best seller soon. 

When the action resumes, Lady holds up an old dictionary with the corners torn off. “It’s all right here in this book I just wrote. My book is called, Boys Say And Do The Dumbest Things. Especially When They Like You.” 

By this time, the girls are laughing so hard they can hardly breathe. Oprah tells the hairbrush it is time for another commercial so the audience can pull themselves back together.

“The main thing to remember,” says Lady when the group has her attention again, “is that boys don’t usually have a clue about what to say. So if they say anything at all, it is probably because they like you.”

Then Oprah says, “Lady, I never thought of it like that before. This is really a Light-Bulb. An Ah-Ha Moment for us.” The girls dutifully nod their heads and then roll their eyes.

“You know, I love surprising people and making them happy,” Oprah continues. “So I want everyone to know that you are getting a free copy of Lady’s book to take home with you today.”

The audience claps wildly and files out the door. They can’t wait for next week.