Neighbors Lost and Found

This month marks nine years since I first settled into Meeker Park. In a way, not much has changed: Mount Meeker still dominates the landscape, Tahosa and Cabin creeks still meander through the valley (although the 2013 flood did alter their courses somewhat), and all the cabins that were here when I came are still standing (although a couple have been enlarged and a lot of septic systems have been added over the years). But the community has changed. Over the years, people I thought were an integral part of Meeker Park have disappeared.

One of those people was Gary. Shortly after I moved in, I was sitting on the front porch when he bicycled up the driveway with his grandson and introduced himself. Eventually I got to know his wife, Bonnie, also. They were friends of my immediate neighbors to the east—Virginia and Bob, who had moved here some 15 years ago after Bob retired from a life of farming on the plains. I would often see Bob clearing the small ditches that kept the water running to the homes along the road.

Then Bob developed Alzheimer’s and lived out his remaining years in a nursing home in Estes Park.  Several years ago Bonnie developed breast cancer and died soon after. Two years ago, I stopped seeing Gary around and found out that he too had developed Alzheimer’s. His children moved to him to Kansas, his home state, where he died shortly.

Each death felt like a tear in the social fabric of this community. This older generation, many in their 70s and 80s,  formed a network of friends and neighbors that supported each other and welcomed newcomers. They knew the history of the Meeker Park, could tell you who lived in each cabin and how long and  when they left and who replaced them. In some cases they had family roots that went back generations. They knew when the hummingbirds arrived in the spring and when they left in the fall and knew where to find the best patch of columbine in the summer. 

Meanwhile new people have moved in who have chosen not to be part of the community. Two men who live at the end of our road made it politely known that they didn’t wish to interact with the rest of us. A woman who moved into one of the cabins behind me also likes to keep to herself.

I understand, as there are times I use the cabin as a refuge from the rest of the world and retreat into a solitary existence, even if just for a few days. At the same time I mourn the loss of the web of people who know and support each other. Meeker Park can easily and quickly become isolated from the rest of the world through huge snowstorms, like the one in May when Meeker Park got three feet of snow, or like the flood of 2013. After the flood, when destroyed roads and downed phone equipment cut us off from the rest of the world, I got to know some of my neighbors better, as we shared what little information we had and frequently checked in on each other.

One of those neighbors was Mandy, a widow from Kansas who spent her summers here. Last winter, she died of cancer—another piece of the fabric torn. But this week I met the couple who bought her house, the pastor of a local church and his wife who seemed eager to get to know their neighbors. Tom even offered to plow our road in winter.  

And so another piece is added to the our little web, strengthening the community just a bit more.

Comments

[shoney]

Love this blog Kathy---we've been friends for a long time. I remember so vividly the first time we saw your cabin, I could picture it becoming this sacred retreat...and am so happy that's how it turned out.

[Brent]

Wonderful words and photography. I especially like the aspen trees along the creek that have a crisscross pattern. Have a great summer in the mountains!

[Jake Bair]

Wherever you go these days it does seem that the old civilities are dying off with the old people, but I do hope that more like the pastor and his wife arrive in Meeker Park and take up the gauntlet.