“Jeffy! Would it be OK...

If the kids visiting you for two weeks this summer?”  was the question Robin (my sister-in-law) posed to me in the spring of 2004. 

It didn’t take long for me to answer, “Sure!” 

Before I signed the papers, there were certain conditions which had to be met. “Jeff, promise me you will bring them back alive and you won’t lose them again. (Picky. Picky. Picky. I only misplaced them once!) “OK” I lamely answered, “I promise.” Robin had one more condition, “The kids are sort of chubby. Can you work them enough so they shed a few pounds?” It didn’t take me long to answer, “That!  I can do!”

My nephews Keith and Justin arrived in Colorado from NYC around mid-summer. After picking them up at Denver’s airport, I laid out the game plan. “Guys! We’re going to do a two week lap of the best parts of Colorado. We’ll either be backpacking or day hiking. There will be no days off. We will have fun. Am I crystal clear on this?” 

The Boys knew the drill from their previous trips to Colorado. Get up early, backpack or day hike, move to another venue, eat, drink, sleep, repeat. All was going well. It was the the usual, me verbally abusing the kids and they tag teaming back at UJ. (Uncle Jeff). Most of the time, I’d cut them off with, “Next! On Oprah. Mean Uncles!” 

The one incident I remember was in the Uncompahgre Wilderness. We were sporting full backpacks for a three night trip. The summer monsoons of thunder, lightning and rain Oh My! was our weather pattern. I was on top of an above the tree line pass looking down at two specs of humans way below me. The clouds above were coalescing into something scary and nasty. I had to motivate the youngsters. “Boys! Would you rather be shopping? I’m sure we can find a nice mall nearby. It’ll be easier on you than backpacking.” Their answer was an emphatic duet of “ F—k You! Uncle Jeff!” I laughed but my lines did the trick. They hustled up and we retreated to less exposed areas. 

All memorable journeys must come to an end. After finishing the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Four Pass Loop. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-future-aint-what.html

We headed into Aspen right in time for brunch. I ordered a breakfast burrito and coffee. The Boys asked for burgers and fries. Keith spoke out, “UJ? Would it be OK if me and Justin have a beer?” (It was 11ish am). “Sure! Why not? You guys deserve it. I know you worked hard these past two weeks. You both did great.” 

When the beers arrived, they toasted each other. What did my nephews say when they clinked bottles? “We survived Uncle Jeff! We survived Uncle Jeff!”

The next day I dropped them off at Denver’s airport. 

About half a dozen hours later (I missed those kids already) my phone rang. It was Robin. “Jeff!” Oh oh, I’m in trouble now was my first thought. “Yes?” Robin practically shouted, “The Kids look great! They each lost ten pounds. They look so healthy. They had a great time too. Thanks so much!” My answer was short and sincere, “My pleasure.”

Sixteen years later, those Boys are now Men. They followed the American Dream by getting married, having kids and buying a home. In other words, they did everything I never did. Keith and Justin grew up! 

A few days ago, the stars and planets aligned. Their wives and parents (Brother Mike and Robin) granted them a few hours off to hike with their Uncle Jeff. By 7:30 am we headed up above tree line. Keith hung with me stride for stride. (Am I getting older and slower or is Keith getting fitter and faster?). Justin wore a satisfying smirk as he brought up the rear. Neither had any complaints as we gazed at 100 mile views, puffy clouds and stunning wildflowers. Six miles in we took a lunch stop near a babbling waterfall. We reminisced about our past trips together. “Remember the time...” We got back to my truck just as the clouds began to yield rain. It was perfect timing to complete a perfect day.

Now you might wonder, “Where do Keith and Justin live?” My nephews reside on the Front Range of Colorado.

 Coincidence? I think not. They saw the light years ago.

Thanks Brother Mike and Robin for giving me the best nephews in the world.

Stay safe, sane and healthy out there,

UJ

This wasn’t my first wrestling match...

vs. the Grim Reaper.

Nine years ago, I was slammed by a sedan while riding my bicycle. Three Docs gently told me, I should have been killed.I continued to be alive and got my active life back. 

I showed them! 

Now I think back upon all the other previous times, I’ve come close to entering Death’s Door.

Here’s a few graphic examples: 

Around 1976, I was working my first Forest Fire. At sunset a crew of Smokejumpers dropped in on us. At 0-dark thirty I was digging line next to an expert firefighter. A silently burning snag timbered between the two of us. Maybe three feet away.  In a moment another Smokejumper ran over to check on his compadre. After ascertaining he was OK. My neighbor Smokejumper said, “That’s the way, Murphy bought it a few years ago!” Holy Shit! I didn’t know people could die digging fire line! Who knew?

In the 80’s, I scored a career on the Fort Collins fire department. A two story house was in flames. The seat of the fire was on the first floor. My crew was assigned to drag a third hose line to the second floor and check for extension. There was zilch visibility due to the smoke. We moved by feel. The firefighter behind me roughly tapped me on the shoulder. He leaned his helmet into mine. “Hear that? The truck company is opening up the roof. Let’s wait so we can see better after they vent the place.” I stopped. When the smoke cleared. I was a mere 12 inches away from taking the Express Train from the second floor to the still burning first floor. The fire had burned a hole in the ceiling. 

It was 1992, I was returning from a 70 plus mile attitude adjustment bicycle ride. I was just two miles away from a much needed meal when a classic 1960’s Ford Mustang turned left in front of me. I went from 20 mph to zero. I didn’t even have time to hit my breaks. My helmeted head smashed a side panel causing a four inch dent in real steel. I was bruised but not broken or dead. That $50 helmet saved me.

In November of 2001, I journeyed to Utah’s canyon country in search of solitude in an attempt to make sense of the senseless murders of the 9/11 terrorist attack. I was returning to Fort Collins without answers, but carrying less stress. On the eastbound descent off Eisenhower Tunnel  I hit a patch of black ice. My Ford Explorer slid perpendicular across three lanes of traffic. An 80,000 pound semi-truck took evasive actions and missed me by a long stride. An impact I would have never woken up from. I wish I could have thanked that Mario Andretti of truck drivers.

My life was then pretty tame until the above mentioned wallop by the sedan in 2011.

But! The close calls didn’t end on US Highway 2 in Montana. 

In 2016, I was checking out a petroglyph on a cliffy edge in appropriately named Death Valley National Park. The slab of rock I was balanced upon tilted downhill with me still attached. I was going over backwards. My first thought was, “So this is how it ends...”  Miraculously, my foot snagged an exposed tree root before I began to really plummet. The incident screwed up my knee, but I still had a pulse. 

Presently we are all facing a new Merchant of Death. Covid-19 strikes without the screeching of breaks, or the soft thud of flesh impacting medal and nothing is burning except the feverish victims. Something as innocent as dabbing your eyes prior to hand washing can cause a cascading affect of sickness/possibly death.  As in all things Merican, our response has been individualistic coexisting with a “believe what you wanna believe” mentality. There’s reasons our infection rates are spiking and Europe has shut its borders to US citizens. Face it. We’ll be dealing with Covid for more than awhile. The virus doesn’t care If our Administration wants to wish it away with a “Move along! There’s nothing to see here” attitude. Our lives will be imperiled until an effective vaccine is discovered. 

For me, it seems like it’s always something when it comes to dodging the Great Inevitable. 

As usual, I urge you to stay safe, sane and healthy. 

Best wishes to my readers for making it to the other side of Covid.

Lastly Bicycle Helmets save lives (or else you wouldn’t be reading this.)

Cheers,

Jeff

“People who need people are the...

(In the time of Covid) are the (un)luckiest people in the World.” 

My sincere apologies to Barbara Streisand.

There’s no way to sugarcoat it. Covid sucks. We are all being negatively impacted by this submicroscopic scourge. Even a guy like me whose been social distancing for well over a decade is bothered by it. One might say I was doing SD before it was cool. BUT! The folks I feel the sorriest for are the ones I nicknamed “The Mayors.” 

What’s a Mayor personality? They are the people who will sprint across a room to meet and greet a stranger. The intro would go something like this. “HI! I’m ..., Damn fine to meet ya!” For them, being a stranger is only a temporary condition. They are our gregarious, more the merrier, outgoing and optimistic acquaintances. Mayors have obese social calendars. From sunup to bedtime they are engaged with others, oftentimes in group settings. Their Minimum Daily Requirement for Socializing is off the charts. They get twitchy if left alone for fifteen minutes. For Mayors , social distancing and minimizing their exposure to others is Pure Hell. 

It’s a lifestyle I’m aware is out there, yet it’s  foreign to me. Where’s the silent, down time? When do they decompress? And most of all, when do they read! 

We all know Mayors. 

I’ve been doing Welfare Checks on my Mayor buddies. “Are you OK? Do you need to talk about your feelings? I’m here for you. I’m retired, I have plenty of time to listen. I can provide you with tips on filling in the quiet times.” 

Alas. I can only offer help and suggestions. We are all dealing with Covid on our own personal levels. This is what I know. Merica’s approach to Covid has been random and haphazard at best. We are now living in the New Age of Entitlement and Anarchy. (Established November 8th, 2016). Do whatever you want, whenever you want. An Individual rights and liberties trumps all other choices. Screw society. 

So...I don’t get caught up in the daily diatribe over masks. I do wear one in public places. Personally I’m looking down the road to the creation of an effective vaccine. Until then, I’ll continue doing what I just did. I’ll go camping.

On the Wednesday before the July 4th weekend, I headed up, up a rocky road to a Colorado Pass. About 400 feet below the actual pass, I found what I was looking for. A flat spot with no neighbors. I popped the top of my camper. I unfolded a camp chair. (This is the International sign of “Campsite taken. Please move along” It works in most states except Texas. https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/03/big-bend-epiphany.html )

After my chores were done, I hefted a day pack and went out to explore a few trails. It was all quite lovely and mostly empty of people. I returned to a warm Solar Shower for my daily ablution. I began to read. Toward sunset, the mountains began to blush. I opened a cold IPA. Deer and marmots (without masks) were the only other mammals around. I felt happy. I slept  like a just fed baby. It was so good, I decided to do the exact same thing the following day. This is how I’ll get through Covid-19. 

Does this mean, I’ve gone totally Robinson Crusoe? Of course not. Like I said in a previous post. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/06/seeking-serenity-in-uncertain.html

A few pleasant, fun, funny and entertaining folks are always welcome in my camp. More than likely, I’ll play Uber Jewish Mother to you. This invitation extends to the Mayors I know too. (Just so you don’t bring a Zip Codes worth of people with you).

Have a sane, safe and healthy July 4th,

Jeff

The “Enforcer” was a nickname...

we lovingly bestowed upon my Father.

Sid Sambur was a small man with big opinions on what constituted right vs. wrong.  He had no qualms about tossing out the Yellow BS flag if he noticed wrongdoings. When it came to “putting people in their place.,” he wasn’t equipped with a pause button. He would not submit  to being taken advantage of or being belittled.

There’s multitudes of Sambur stories of my father’s Clint Eastwood persona. Here’s one example: 

In the early 70’s, I was still living at home in the Bronx. It was toward dusk when I headed out with a buddy on a short bicycle ride. Unfortunately, I flatted out. We began pushing our bikes back to our somewhat safer neighborhood. As the darkness descended, we pushed faster. Too late. We found ourselves in a cul de sac of teenage White thugs displaying sharp knives. Their message was simple and direct. “Drop the bikes, you Jew Bastards and run.” This wasn’t the time to attempt negotiations. We dropped the bikes and ran.

When I got home, I was more than shaken. (Those were the longest knives I’ve ever seen!) Dad heard me come in and asked, “What happened to you? Where’s your bike?” Between sobs, I related the events to him. “Jeffy! Get in the car. We’re going to the Police Station.” 

Dad drove to the PD as if our jalopy had lights and sirens. Sid Sambur didn’t gently make entry into the Station. He erupted volcano-like through the front door. I followed along  on the trail of  pumice and ash. “I want to speak to someone about a bicycle theft. Those hoodlums pulled knives and called my son a Jew Bastard. I want to file a report.” 

The Cops response to Sid’s explosion was shall we say, underwhelming. Only a bicycle theft? Just knives instead of a Saturday Night Special? Being called an Anti-Semitic slur? Yawn! thought New York City’s Finest. 

The Detectives were lethargic at best. Sid got louder and angrier. There was finger pointing too. Finally one blue collar guy had enough and began filling out the paperwork. After I gave my statement, we were ushered out the door. My Dad was still voicing his strong opinions.

I never did get my bicycle back, but I did see another dimension to my Father. 

Sid Sambur is no longer with us. May he finally get a good night’s sleep and Rest In Peace. 

I believe he passed on his “when you see something, say something” gene to Jeffy his youngest son. 

If Sid were alive today, he’d be nauseatingly appalled (like me) at our current state of affairs. He too would see the stark similarities between Germany In the 1930’s and America in the present.

 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/02/adolf-hitler-was-most.html 

The difference is my Father would verbally speak out. I use an I Pad to get my point across. I fear the repercussions of getting punched in the face or worse by voicing my opinions. Like I mentioned in my last post, there’s a lot of pissed off people out there.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/06/seeking-serenity-in-uncertain.html

So...on this Fathers Day, I’d like to Thank Sid Sambur for bequeathing me with my “Don’t follow the crowd” gene. That “Lord of the Flies” mob mentality is oftentimes wrong. 

Last photo: Me toasting to the memory of Sid. He was the ultimate survivor. 

Cheers to all the great Dads who made a difference.

Seeking Serenity in uncertain...

angry and awkward times. 

Do you know what the most worthless item of 2020 is?

A day timer!

Our lives are now in a constant holding pattern. The new norm is cancellations.

Like so many others my spring and summertime plans have been nuked and ravaged by Covid.

April camping and hiking in Canyonlands National Park? That didn’t happen. The Earth Day tree planting gig? Negative. The five night backpack trio into the Grand Canyon? Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!  The Friends of the Library Book Sale? Fahgettaboudit. The entertaining, informative and inspiring Green Drinks Happy Hours. Gone to Zoom.A Rockies baseball game fundraiser for Joe? What’s baseball? (No ballgame but donations are still being accepted. Proceeds go to the American Cancer Society) https://www.joescanlanmemorial.com/ 

Since mid-March my calendar contains nothing but emphatic slashes. There’s been no letup. All the cool volunteering gigs, the Brew Festivals, the groovy concerts in Buckley Park and the Steamboat Springs Crane Festival have been cancelled. Yet! The Four Corners Motorcycle Rally is still scheduled for Labor Day Weekend. Go figure. Varoom! Varoom! 

On the bright side. I haven’t been furloughed or fired, contracted the virus or failed to pay my bills.  I live in Durango, CO. I’m at an epicenter of natural beauty. My nice young neighbors do Welfare Checks on the new old guy in the ‘hood. My situation could be worse. 

But I know things aren’t right in the World. There’s more than a few pissed off and edgy people out there.

Two examples: On a Memorial Weekend hike, I came upon a single parent and her two kids. They had backpacked down to a scenic campsite adjacent to a creek. It was mid morning, sunny and almost sweltering. They had a napalm sized campfire blazing away. I smiled before saying, “Good Morning! Maybe you aren’t aware of this but there’s a Forest wide fire ban in effect. We haven’t seen rain in a long time. It’s awfully dry.”

Mom sort of glared at me before telling me to mind my own business. I backpedaled away after she informed me my Mother dresses me funny. Sheesh! Of course, I phoned the authorities. 

At a recent Covid related demonstration in Durango, an organizer described mask wearing people as “cowards.” The reason? They were submitting to the local Health Department’s suggestion of looking like the Frito Bandito in public places. OY! This could only lead to the Govment taking away our firearms! Where will all this tyranny end! 

At least Durango’s demonstrators weren’t hoisting AR-15’s. 

“Liberate Michigan! Liberate Wisconsin! Liberate Virginia!” Instigated the Commander of Controversy. 

His Followers followed.

All this was going on prior to the murder of George Floyd. Riots and looting broke out in major cities. Mayors mandated curfews. The mayhem was followed by the  theatrics and absurdity of President Lying Scumbag performing a photo op while clutching a Bible. (There’s never a lightning bolt when you need one.) 

Do African Americans have a reason to gripe? You bet they do. 

When the first British slave ship (Isabella in 1684) discharged 150 African slaves in Philadelphia, the die was cast. Bigotry and racism would become a cornerstone of America’s History. Slavery (AKA that Peculiar Institution) would hound our Country from 1776 to our present times. 

The dream of “all men are created equal” was penned by Thomas Jefferson.  Our Founding Father was a philosophical slave owner who was blind to his own hypocrisy. That was just the beginning of our Nation’s embrace of White Supremacy. Google the Three/Fifths Compromise (1787), the Dred Scott Decision (1857), Sharecropping (slavery light), Jim Crow laws, the rise of the  KKK (1865), Plessy vs.Ferguson(1896), 3,446 lynchings and finally ponder why it took until 1947 for Jackie Robinson to swing a bat in the Major Leagues.

A historian could fill volumes with more examples. (Me too.)

So far in the post, I’ve covered “uncertain” and “angry.”

Here’s the awkward part. 

Covid 19 hasn’t been cured. There Is no vaccine. The virus is still lurking around. People will continue to get infected. Many will die.

It’s a crappy time to be sociable. Attempting to make new friends and acquaintances when you’re seen as a possible virus vector is awkward. (Socially distanced hugs and handshakes are pretty unsatisfying). All my plans to get involved with my new community have been derailed.

For these reasons and the many others I mentioned in this older blog.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/04/im-not-sociologist-nor.html

I’ll revert to my old sociable hermit mode and seek out nearby silent, serene and spectacular places. There’s more than a summer’s worth of exploring nearby. Hopefully the marmot terrorists will leave my truck and camper alone.

 https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/05/im-not-mechanically-inclined.html

Does this mean I don’t wish to see anyone? Not at all. Friendly, good natured people with entertaining or interesting stories are always welcome in my camp. Bonus if they bring IPAs, desserts or cold veggie pizza.

Hope to see some of you this summer and fall. 

Stay sane, safe and healthy out there,

Jeff

I’m not mechanically inclined...

The rare times I check under my vehicle’s hoods, all I see are incomprehensible gizmos, gadgets and doohickeys. Well that’s not 100% correct. I can point out the engine and the battery. Oh yeah, and the window washer reservoir too. That’s about it. The rest I chalk up to mechanized magic.

It’s not that I’m stupid or lazy, I’ve never been interested in learning the ins and outs of carburetors, fuel pumps and alternators. I don’t even know the difference between volts, watts and amperes. It’s not a concern of mine. BUT I can tell you Mexico abolished slavery in 1824, the Antiquities Act (granting presidents the right to set aside National Monuments) occurred in 1906, that the National Park Service was established in 1916 and LBJ signed the Wilderness Act into law in 1964.

Great info for trivia contests, but not helpful when things break down. 

Somehow, I’ve survived.

So...recently on a shake down camp out with my new toy, I was forced into dealing with mechanical issues. 

A) I changed a flat tire for the first time since Reagan was President. It only took me two hours.  (The Penske Racing pit crew hasn’t called to offer me a job). Actually I was pretty proud of myself since I wasn’t crushed under the axle while yanking the tire off. AND! All my fingers are still attached.

After patting myself on the back, I shouldered my backpack for a bit of exploring in La Plata Canyon. 

B) Upon my return to my new home, I spotted a marmot peeking out from beneath the front wheel well. Now I know engines are rated by horsepower, there’s no mention of marmot power. Of course, I yelled at it. “Hey! Get outta there!” Apparently it didn’t understand Bronx accented English. The BIGLY rodent retreated into the hinterland of the Toyota’s engine compartment. I discovered how to unlatch the hood and peered inside. Yes, there was a chubby fur ball wedged between a few thingamajigs. I found a stick and poked it with the dull end. It didn’t budge. I prodded it again while yelling, “Come on! Move!” That time it fell out of the compartment and waddled away. I figured I better check to see if there was any damage. I cranked the key and “Whew!” the truck started. Oh what a feeling! Toyota!

The rest of the camp out was somewhat uneventful. 

But what is eventful is the quiet, peace and beauty of La Plata Canyon. I live 15 minutes away from where the La Plata River crosses Highway 160. We are practically neighbors.

Last photo: That’s me in my palatial dining room. 

Stay safe, sane and healthy. 

Jeff

Memories of Mother’s Day...

I get a bit verklempt (Yiddish for overcome with emotion) on Mom’s Day. Clara Sambur passed 48 years ago, but for me it still seems like an eye blink ago. My memories of her are vivid and unforgettable. Yes. I still miss her.

Another crystal clear Mother’s Day recollection was attending Colorado Rockies baseball games with Joe Scanlan. Stage 4 Cancer seized Joe in the spring of  2019. Now I’m left with fond memories of the many games we caught on those special second Sundays in May. A great baseball/friendship tradition lost forever.

I knew Joe for over three decades. I can honestly say there was never an unkind word spoken between us. Plus! There was all that laughter. I’d feed him lines and away he’d go. Joe could have been a top notch stand up comedian. A Rodney Dangerfield II. 

 Sure, I miss him.

In June 2019, the Scanlan family hosted a memorial for Joe in Denver’s Washington Park. Heres the tribute I wrote about Joe.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/06/parting-is-nothing-but.html

From that sad day, the idea of a fundraiser was born. Somehow something positive would come out of losing Joe. With the BIGLY help of Joe’s niece Nikki an American Cancer Society memorial donation website was created. The event was centered around a Sunday Rockies game. Well, Covid-19 screwed that up like everything else. Now we are left with just the donation part, in which thus far, the response has been anemic. (A sincere Thank You to those 43 generous donors). 

Through the years,  I’ve been involved in many fundraisers. The best analogy I can come up with is this. Fundraising is similar to ingesting  a vile tasting medicine in which one hopes for a good outcome. No one enjoys asking people for money, but it feels satisfying to see the Bucks rolling in for a a good cause, (Like the American Cancer Society. If you are reading this, you or someone you know has dealt with cancer). 

On a personal note: Since I understand the ugliness of fundraising, I have great empathy toward those who are brave/stupid enough to put themselves through this grief. So upon receiving an email or a Facebook plea, this is what happens.

.

Oh look! John or Jane Doe are seeking greenbacks for a worthy cause. I’ll donate some dinero and score a monetary mitzvah. Maybe some Good Karma even. There! That didn’t take long. Now I’ll go back to drinking my IPA. I hope John and Jane Doe achieve their goals. 

This is what I’m proposing. If you could find it within yourself to toss anything (For emphasis: ANYTHING) toward the Joe Scanlan Memorial 

https://www.joescanlanmemorial.com/

I’ll donate to your passion as well. BUT! There are limits. I won’t  drop moola in the laps of politicians or religious organizations. Pretty much anything else works for me. I’ll even donate to Save the Monarch Butterflies. 

RIP Mom and Joe. The world needs more people like you. 

Any donation would be greatly appreciated. 

Let’s make dough for Joe!