Turn onto Daniels Gate Drive.
Pull out of the driveway and make your way down the street, like you have again and again for the past 10 years. Deep breath–it’s a lovely day for a drive.
O beautiful for spacious skies,
My earliest childhood memory is of the herd of slow-rising hot air balloons over the Rocky Mountains. Every morning, my twin sister, Ava, and I would stand beneath the westward-facing window of our playroom and gaze towards the horizon as the balloons rose above the skyline. My eyes eagerly traced the balloons, each one shaped like a tear that was gently wiped away and painted in hopes that a smile would reappear. The balloons hung like a string of colorful lights, plastered against the blue sky. They covered it in a way that looked like wildflowers whose petals were covered in spots, stars, and stripes, bobbing peacefully in the wind. Perhaps my memory is obscured by the magic of childhood, as they were simply bags filled with hot air, but to my sister and me, they were drops of joy that rose blissfully above the clouds.
Exit through the gate and take the second exit.
I drive around the round-about, try to avoid the potholes, and take a look at that bronze buffalo gatekeeper; a steadfast protector whose face signals the comings and goings of every resident. To me, his face is familiar; every glinting line etched into my mind.
Continue down Daniels Gate Drive, then turn left onto Monarch Blvd.
This is the spot where I over analyzed the left turn and almost came face-to-face with a fast-moving Subaru. John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” was playing over the speaker system, my sister’s hand out the window.
For amber waves of grain,
Amber, as defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, is “a hard yellowish to brownish translucent fossil resin that takes a fine polish and is used chiefly in making ornamental objects.” There was a day, many summers ago, when my sisters and I were exploring the open space of wilderness surrounding our new home. We traversed the rocky terrain and became extremely intimate with the prickly cacti beneath our feet. For some reason, we desperately felt the need to explore, like the cowboys of Colorado’s past. We craved adventure, to push back branches, uncover rocks, and dig in the dirt. We dubbed ourselves as gold miners, like the ones who established the towns that ultimately become Denver, Idaho Springs, and Telluride all those years ago. Those miners must have, too, understood the childish need within us to find and uncover the items that we do not understand. Otherwise, the years of fruitless labor in Colorado’s rivers and among its rocks could have felt pointless. That is, until the gold was finally found.
That was when I spotted something glinting in the dirt. Gold! I eagerly removed it from the earth, dusted off any remaining residue, and admired my treasure; it was a piece of polished amber. Holding it up to the sunlight, it almost looked like gold. I still have this relic somewhere at home, collecting dust once again. I think I put it on my bookshelf.
Continue down Monarch Blvd.
The speed limit goes from 30 to 45 on this road, but the change must be subtle. There is a police car patiently awaiting anyone who is overzealous in their attempt to hasten their trip to school.
For purple mountain majesties,
Every once in a while I remember to look up. Straight ahead are the mountains that I have had the privilege of living beneath every day for the past eighteen years. I begin to round the bend, and those mountains come into full view as the early morning sun hits their peaks. The morning contains a light purple hue while the inevitable blue begins to creep over the sky. The crescent moon from the previous night hangs precariously above the rugged etching of the mountains, a pale, stark comparison to the deeper shades further behind. It is said that purple is the color of royalty, and after spending the past eighteen years in the shadow of purple mountain majesties, it is clear that there is truth to this, but perhaps not in the way one would expect. Royalty can be seen one of two ways: pretentious, unattainable, and distant, or, powerful, revered, and constant. Her Majesty the mountains makes her power known through her declarations of storms and snow. She rules by the elements, using the ice, her loyal subject, as a warning to those who do not pay her heed. She demands respect befitting the ruler of a 285 million year-old dynasty, and one cannot help but feel small in her presence. She has wisdom from her younger, more tumultuous years; visible scars from the rushing rivers that cut into and carved her rugged edges, the wind that shaped the breathtaking landscape, and the shifting plates that exalted the one, true ruler of the West. When I look at the mountains, I see a piece of history. I see a protector who kept the tornadoes and wildfires at bay, a wise and steadfast ruler who brings in the changing of the seasons. Now, as the next season of my life is ushered in, Her Majesty will stay behind, ruling from a distance only made possible through memory.
Speed Limit: 45.
That sign has always felt more like a suggestion.
Go past this light, then turn left onto McArthur Ranch Rd.
Now is the time to pick up that game of I-Spy that my sisters and I have been playing ever since I can remember. As far as I am concerned, I am winning, although my sisters may disagree. This game of I-Spy is a competitive one, and it all began in the shade of a cliff that rises to the right of my route. Beneath it are the vast green hills, home to the herds of elk and buffalo that roam under the summer sun. These hills extend towards the looming mountain range, calling my sisters and I in the direction of what we consider to be our home away from home. Suddenly, as my car rounds the bend, a massive elk comes into view and rears its head. Spotted! Some would say that the game of I-Spy is childish for an 18 year old to play, but I say that it is an exercise of observation. Living in the moment has been a consistent struggle for me, as I am constantly thinking about the future; I am always looking for the next thing, the next opportunity, the next right-step. I-Spy taught me how to stay in the moment. It taught me patience and anticipation while still taking note of every detail that whizzes past. The goal of the game is to actively spot the things that are right in front of you–not what you saw two minutes ago, and not what you hope or fear to see in two months. It is a game of appreciation for the present, a reminder to take a breath and look around. Otherwise, you might miss it. I often forget this.
Go past the next two lights, then cross the intersection and continue onto Fairview Pkwy.
Crossroads are a strange thing to stand before; they are the precipice between forging ahead or turning back. It is almost like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to lift you up and carry you over the rim. Once you take that step, there is no going back. This is how I imagine what leaving home would look like if it were painted onto a canvas. A looming cliff etched upwards with your entire future sprawled out in front of you, stretching beyond the horizon. You can’t go back, but what you can do is look behind you and observe every step you took to get there, every character shaping moment played out beneath the Colorado sun. I hold fast to my memories, because they are the only safety net that I will have when I finally take my leap into adulthood. I hold fast to my dreams because they are the only wings I have to keep me from falling, from failing. There is no way of knowing what will happen or who I will become once I pick a path and journey on, but I do know that I am scared. Perhaps, I am even terrified. I do, however, find comfort in knowing that I will take with me the lessons, the people, and the places that have gotten me to the point where I can stand before my crossroads. The path into adulthood is uncertain, but either way, adolescence lies behind me.
Above the fruited plain!
My skin feels warm against the cool water splashing onto the strawberries. Freckles appeared slowly on my face as the day went on, as my Grammy and I had spent most of the day in the hot sun picking strawberries. We chose the berries with the starkest contrast against the green bushes and purple mountains, and I soon learned why as I sliced the damp fruit. Its juice ran down my fingers when I snuck a piece and savored its sweet flavor. Grabbing the cutting board, I slide the strawberries into a boiling pot. The honeyed smell of the berries cooking on the stove permeates the kitchen as my Grammy pours and stirs bags of sugar into the simmering syrup. She slowly reduces the heat while I continue to stir the pink elixir. After about five minutes, the sauce begins to solidify and becomes more akin to gelatin. We pour the substance into our patiently awaiting mason jars and close them up tight–sealed and preserved until our stomachs crave a piece of toast and strawberry jam. I find the preservation of strawberries to be similar to the preservation of a memory. Making it is fun, but enjoying it after is the reward. A memory is the preservation of the process of becoming a person; it is a reminder that life is the culmination of experiences that we look back on with the purpose of enjoyment and introspection. Simply put, a good memory is like an early morning breakfast of strawberry jam toast and a hot cup of tea on my Grammy’s porch.
Turn right onto Grace Blvd.
This is the road right next to my high school. I peer through my driver seat window at the brick arts building, trace the outline of the academic building, and rest my eyes for a brief moment on the windows of the library. That room was one of my favorite places to study, as the window faced directly West with a perfect view of the mountains. On a clear day, the view never failed to take my breath away. Those four years went by with the blink of an eye. Where did the time go? It truly feels like my first day as a freshman was only yesterday. I was unaware of who I would meet, what I would accomplish, and where I would end up. I find myself desperately grasping at each memory, clinging to them so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I feel some of them slowly slipping away, while others remain tight within my grip. One detail that remains fresh, and perhaps always will, is the look of the mountains from the library window on a cloudless day. This school, those mountains, were the backdrop of my childhood. They set the stage for my growing pains, my learning curves, my tears and my laughter. Beneath their watchful eyes, I grew from a naive little girl to a young woman who learned to love and observe carefully the world around her. I desperately want to preserve these memories, but not everything can be poured into a jar or put on a shelf. They do, however, fit in my suitcase.
Make a left at the stop sign onto E Wildcat Reserve Pkwy, then turn right onto S University Blvd.
I look over at the passenger seat and my mom sitting beside me. I give her a strong smile as my fingers tap the steering wheel, anxiously awaiting arrival to our destination. Unfortunately, my puffy, red eyes betray the turning of my stomach. I try to look in the mirror above my head for oncoming traffic before merging, only to realize that my sight lines are impaired by the boxes and bags stacked in the back seat.
Merge onto I-25.
America! America!
The Interstate Highway System revolutionized the way that people travel. Ever since President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, the previously inconceivable notion of a united United States was possible. At least, from a transportation perspective. According to the U.S. Department of Transportation, the Interstate Highway System is a collection of major highway routes “designated by one- or two-digit numbers. Routes with odd numbers run north and south, while even numbers run east and west.” The system runs from one end of the country to the other, from top to bottom; every state and every major city is connected by this massive collection of highways. From Colorado to Connecticut, and even to North Carolina, these roads go the distance from east to west, north to south. If you look at a map of the highway system, it looks similar to a complicated web of red lines, criss-crossing the country that they hold together. I like to imagine that memories also look something like this. I picture a complicated web of moments that create the map of who I am, a collection of the events in my life that have shaped who I have become as a result of them. They detail precisely where I have been, particular dates pinned neatly on the map of my mind. They connect my past to my present, and if I pay close attention, they give directions to my future.
Use the right 2 lanes to take exit 194 toward Limon, then merge onto CO-470 E.
God shed His grace on thee,
Father,
Every time I look outside of the car, I see Colorado, but then I direct my attention back to the person inside of the car. You created these people, this place. I am in awe of Your creation. I am astounded by the care and love with which You created Your plan for me. Thank you, Lord, for the family and home that you have blessed me with; I pray that you never let me forget where I came from. From dust I came, and to dust I shall return. Amen.
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
Continue onto CO-470 N.
If I were going to the mountains, I would be going west-bound on CO-470, then merge onto I-70. I wish I was going to the mountains. I am so tempted to turn this car around, strap my skis to the car rack, and hit the slopes, just for a day. My family and I made the two and half hour drive up to the mountains every Friday night for ten years. A full Saturday of skiing was never missed, not even for a birthday party. If the right storm blew in, those two and half hours would sometimes turn to six. Snow would pound the windshield as wind rocked the sides of our car, but those hours stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic are some of my most cherished childhood memories. The pitch black and swirling snow somehow catalyzed conversations with my father about political views and their religious implications, the history of the Earth, and the creation of mankind. The blinking lights and honking horns acted as our makeshift campfire, begging questions like “What were you like as a kid?” and “What is the true definition of happiness?” It required blasting country music and belting out some Morgan Wallen with my sisters as it played on the radio. It obligated listening to podcasts about the Golden State Killer and anecdotes from The Office with my mother. Those conversations, spoken in the midst of wasted time, shaped who I am. Every word spoken, lyric sung, and story listened to built the relationship that I have with my family, and thus, built me. I am the product of those who raised me and everything they taught me. Leaving home is never easy, but someone once said to me that I should thank the Lord every day that it isn’t easy. I do, and the tears that streamed down my face as I hugged my sisters goodbye proved it.
Take exit 28A for Peña Blvd E toward Denver International Airport.
Katharine Lee Bates, an American author and poet, traveled to Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1893 to teach at Colorado College. This university just happens to be nestled among a city overshadowed by Colorado’s tallest mountain, Pikes Peak. At an elevation of 14,115 ft, it climbs beyond the clouds and towers above all that surrounds it. While there, Bates climbed Pikes Peak, and when she summited, the view impacted her so greatly that she wrote the words, “All the wonder of America seemed displayed there, with the sea-like expanse.” This experience inspired her to write a poem that would later become the lyrics to a song called “America the Beautiful,” an American classic. This poem captures the essence of America’s natural beauty and preserves the awe that one feels when witnessing a breathtaking view for the first time in ways that a picture cannot. The words encapsulate the beauty, the history, and the universality of America, all inspired by a beautiful view from a mountain. The song preserves, at least for me, Colorado, like a small insect is preserved inside of a piece of amber or strawberry jam inside of a mason jar. Or, it preserves it like a person, who is immortalized by their own memories. I am that piece of amber, that small jar of jelly; I am the preservation of every event, lesson, and conversation that occurred throughout my childhood. Colorado raised me, but as the next chapter of my life begins, my flight to Winston-Salem takes to the sky and I watch as the Rocky Mountains fade into the distance. I sometimes fear that I will lose Colorado once I leave it, but the preservation of Colorado comes through the people that it cultivates. Although, unlike the amber I found all those years ago, I will not collect dust on a shelf. I will use my memories to me propel towards my future, wherever that may take me,
From sea to shining sea!
You have reached your destination.
***
Works Cited
“Definition of AMBER.”
www.merriam-Webster.com, www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/amber. Accessed 20 Apr. 2023.
Westervelt, Eric . “Greatness Is Not a Given: “America the Beautiful” Asks How We Can Do Better.” NPR.org, 4 Apr. 2019, www.npr.org/2019/04/04/709531017/america-the-beautiful-american-anthem.
Photo by Basil Smith on Unsplash
