How The West Was FUN!

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.”