Christmas. It’s not for everyone.

When I was five years young Bobby Aquino was my best friend. The Italian Catholic Aquino’s were also our next-door neighbors. After Thanksgiving, a pine tree would materialize in their living room.Soon thereafter ornamental baubles and glitter would sprout from its green branches. As the days went by I noticed more and more mysteriously wrapped boxes under the tree. 

I’ve always been a wonderer. So I asked Bobby.

“What’s up with the tree and all those boxes under it?” 

“Christmas is coming. Don’t you have a tree? Don’t you get Christmas presents?”

“Ahhh No...”

So I began a campaign of kvetching (Yiddish for nagging) to my father Sid. 

“Where’s my Christmas presents? Why don’t we have a tree in the house?”

Sid ignored me at first. BUT! I’m a persistent whiner. Eventually Sid had enough. He wanted peace restored in the Sambur household. He thrust a package into my skinny arms.

“Jeffy! We are Jewish! We don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not our Holiday. This is a Hanukkah gift. Its a Jewish holiday. Understand? Now come. We will light the menorah. Your mother will fry up some potato latkes for us to eat. Later on, I’ll teach you how to play dreidel.” 

Years went by. I grew up. Somehow I managed to score a career as Northern Colorado’s only Jewish firefighter. Come Christmas time, things got awkward. 

“Jeff! What will you be doing on Christmas?”

 “I’ll try to score a shift of overtime. If not I’ll work a time trade for another day off in the summer.”

“Don’t you want to be off on Christmas?” 

“No, not really. It’s not a Jewish Holiday. It doesn’t have the same meaning to me as it does to you.” 

Sometimes I had to elaborate on this trivial factoid.

“You know there’s an Old Testament and a New Testament. Right? Well for the Jews, our story ends with the Old Testament.” 

To a few of my fellow firefighters, this was a revelation.

Maybe by now, some of you might be thinking I’m a devout Jew. I’m not. I stroll into a Temple about as often as I do a Church or Mosque. In other words, nearly never. The few times in my life I experienced anything close to religion, I was alone on a mountaintop, in a canyon or another wilderness type setting in between. 

This doesn’t mean I never got into the Holiday spirit. I did. I invented an offshoot of Seinfeld’s Festivus. I named the secular holiday Kwanhanumas. Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Christmas. It was an instant Fort Collins, CO hit. We’d meet in a neighborhood bar the week following Thanksgiving. The invitation encouraged the participants to bring holiday knick knacks, whether it be a menorah, dreidel, Christmas tree ornament or stockings. Unfortunately, we never had anyone show up bearing Kwanzaa swag. Conversations were quite animated. There was no gift giving. There was no guilt giving either, unless the miscreant wasn’t buying a round of drinks or appetizers.  No one ever tried to convert anyone else. We told stories. We laughed a lot. At the end of our celebration of humanity, we hugged. 

Isn’t that what religion should be all about?

I now have a dream of resurrecting Kwanhanumas in my new hometown of Durango, CO. Until then, I’ll probably continue to lay low during the Holiday Season.

I hope all of my readers (including all those Russian, Polish and Ukrainian Trolls) had a joyous, safe and healthy Holiday Season regardless of how you celebrated it.

Happy 2020,

Jeff

Last photos: This is how I spent Christmas Eve. I did a fly by with Fluttering Wandering Butterflies. Two landed on me. I’ll accept that as a good omen for 2020. 

What would a John Muir...

Think?

I’ve been in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California for over a week. I wanted to spend a lot more time there in what Mr. Muir precisely called “The Range of Light.” As usual, his assessment is jaggedly correct. The Sierra Range is different. The area emits it’s own wavelength of light. It’s so unique, it could be the fourth primary color.  Even the cedars, ponderosa, and sugar pines exude a just shtupped glow. At times, the glare is so bright, it almost has me reaching for sunscreen. I love the Sierra Nevada of Eastern California.

I chose a great time to be here. The summer is on the wane. The National Park Service of Yosemite were shuttering the high country campgrounds and visitor centers. The somewhat burnt out employees seemed almost gleeful about the closure. One told me, “If you think it’s still crowded, you should have been here in August. It was nuts!” 

His job was heading west into Yosemite Valley. “There’s no off-season there anymore,” he sadly stated. 

I found the trails to be somewhat empty IF you got an early start. As usual upon my return the parking lots were full. I’d spot many unprepared visitors going in as I was coming out. I suppose it’s their way of seeing what this hiking stuff is all about. Most were carrying I-Phones though. 

In other areas, the roads were chockablock with “leaf peepers” photographing the yellows, oranges and reds of the going dormant aspen trees. The colors added to the  brightness of the scene. Fishermen and women were out in full force dipping their lines to land the last lunker of the season. The sun arrived late and disappeared early amid the canyon walls. The nights were long. I read a lot.

Mr Muir left behind a legacy of famous quotes. They aren’t as entertaining as Yogi Berra’s, but worthy just the same.

Here’s a few: 

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.”

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into trees.”

People are taking Mr. Muir’s suggestions to task. When Mr Muir passed away in 1914, there were less than 100 million Americans. Now there’s 326 million. Mr. Muir hiked on game trails and old Native American routes. There were probably a few miners trails as well. Now the paths are often two-lane highway widths. There’s evidence of erosion. The campgrounds are devoid of underbrush. It’s all been trampled. The land is not healing from the onslaught of all these Nature Lovers. We are hurting the very place we all love. 

This would bring a tear to John’s eyes. Like me, he was a sensitive guy.

Enjoy the photos. The Sierra is a special place on Earth. My guess is that one day, we will require a permit just to drive into Yosemite National Park.

From Bishop, California 

Jeff

I have acute Chionophobia...

From the source of all knowledge. AKA Google.

The fear of snow, or chionophobia, is often linked to other phobias. Those with fears of cold or severe weather. 

It’s safe to say I’m no fan of winter. Never was nor will I ever be.

I have my reasons. Mostly they are the close encounters of death/injuries I’ve experienced due to the icy white stuff. For me, winter has never been about making snow angels. The cold season is about avoiding snow demons.

Here’s a few frigid examples:

The first and last time I went downhill skiing was back in 1978. After a few runs on the “Bunny Slopes”, my friends  deemed me worthy of the “Black Diamond” slopes at Aspen Highlands ski area. I wasn’t ready. The mountainside was a sea of humpback whale-sized moguls. I made a lame attempt to retreat to easier grades. Alas, a ski went one way, my knee went the other way and POP! No more intact anterior cruciate ligament. My left knee has never been the same since. 

Years later, I tried cross country skiing. On one particular bad day a storm rolled in unexpectedly when me and a buddy were sliding around on Montgomery Pass in Colorado. The  snow began to fly horizontally. The visibility went opaque. The trail became obscure. The temperatures were spiraling down in an un-summer like way. We somehow managed to grope our way down through diminishing conditions and impending night to the parking lot. I kissed my jalopy. That was the last time I went cross country skiing. 

Then there was  the time I was returning from Moab, UT back to Fort Collins, CO. It was mid-November and I was heading east on I-70. My Ford Explorer hit a malevolent patch of black ice. I slid south to north across three lanes of traffic. Miraculously a 80,000 pound gross vehicle weight semi-truck took evasive action and narrowly missed me and my Ford by three feet. I doubt if I would have survived a direct hit. I had to pull off the Interstate to regain my composure after that one. It was about the last time I ventured into the mountains during winter driving conditions. 

Here’s one more Owwie. Recently, I hit the concrete after slipping on clear ice in Durango.  I mangled my elbow. This occurred over two weeks ago. I can now barely raise my right arm above my head. It takes a few double IPAs and handfuls of aspirins to dull the pain. 

Lastly Jews weren’t bred for winter. Moses and his Hebrew minions didn’t wander around the steppes of Siberia for forty years eating cold manna. They were tough and hung out in a cloudless Middle Eastern desert without the benefits of sunscreen or skin moisturizers. Jews aren’t called the “Frozen Chosen.” Which brings up the old joke. “What’s a Jewish woman’s favorite wine? Answer. “I wanna go to Miami!” 

My mental and physical injuries weren’t always centered around me. During my career as a firefighter/EMT I attended to many senior citizens who had run-ins with Jack Frost. We’d find Edna or Elmer lying supine on the cold ground. Kind citizens or caring family members would heap piles of comforting blankets upon the Old Timers. We were always extra gentle with these elderly patients. Eventually we would pull the blankets aside to access their injury. If we saw a shortened leg awkwardly rotated outward, we all sighed a silent “Oh Shit!” A probable broken hip. For these unfortunate folks the next blanket placed upon them might go up and over their heads. A fractured hip from an icy slip is a death sentence for many elderly.

https://medicalxpress.com/news/2018-06-hip-fractures-elderly-death-sentence.html

Falls weren’t the only problems seniors faced. There’s influenza, carbon monoxide poisoning and just dialing 911 because they felt isolated and alone. On wintery call outs where we didn’t require all hands on deck, I’d grab a snow shovel and clear their steps, sidewalks and doorways. It was my preventative maintenance program to keep these Oldsters out of the morgue. I knew one day I too would grow old.

For these reasons and so many others, (IE: long shadows, short days) I fear the harsh season. 

Am I happy about this? Absolutely not. Being a snow and cold weenie makes life complicated. It’s expensive too. (I’m now paying rent in Durango as well as in Snobsdale, AZ.) i never wanted to leave Durango, just winter. 

I don’t want to slip and break my hip! 

Cheers from Snobsdale where nobody knows your name,

Jeff

PS. You know another thing I don’t like about winter? There are no flowers or baseball.

“I have to get a picture...

of this.” 

Is what Mayor Melissa Youssef giggled as she aimed her I-Phone at the Standing Room Only crowd packing  Durango’s City Council Chamber and hallway on November 19th. 

What local issue could be so important as to interrupt a Tuesday Happy Hour? 

Anti-Plastic Bag Passion that’s what. A local group named Durango Beyond Plastic was coordinating an effort to ban single use plastic bags in my new home town. This “environmental conservation organization” (from Facebook), arrived with over 1,200 petition signatures (mine included) and over 150 (my estimate) supporters. 

I slipped into the Chamber and sat below the elected officials. I felt like Jimmy Stewart in “Mister Smith Goes to Washington” minus his distinct drawl.

Here’s what this blogger noticed: 

The civic minded crowd was overwhelmingly Caucasian with a smattering of Hispanics and Native Americans. The age range ran from babies in diapers to oldsters possibly in “Depends.” 

The speakers were informative and well spoken. One High School aged coed claimed she didn’t want to bear a child in a World of Climate Change and continuing environmental degradation. I was saddened by this comment.

Other than that sobering statement, the atmosphere was festive. The pro-ban plastic bag activists waved their reusable bags whenever a positive comment was made. This was often. I noticed a few smirks on the esteemed city council members too.

The one thing that really caught my wandering-always-looking-for-a-story eye was a sign over the entryway. It simply read “Civility First! Take the Pledge!” Later that evening, I went online and did just that. 

From the Durango Government website:

“What are the traits of the Civility First Durango Pledge Program?

Respect Fairness Compassion Consideration Kindness Responsibility Sincerity Acceptance.”

A few days later I was presented with the chance to act upon these words of wisdom.

I was working my second gig at the “Friends of the Library” used bookstore. Its not a strenuous job. I get to read, people watch and occasionally sell a book. I was half way through my shift, when I observed a senior citizen going through the aisles of books. Her clothes were a bit frayed. Her white hair was mussed. She walked with a limp. Eventually she approached my desk with five books. I tallied up the total price of the books. Then things got awkward. She pulled out her purse. She bit her lower lip. She looked inside her purse and sighed. 

“I don’t have enough money for all the books.” 

I looked up, “Well, today is your lucky day. You are going home with all these good books.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out the money to make up the difference.

She sincerely thanked me. “Now I’ll have enough left over to buy a hamburger at McDonald’s.” 

A Win, Win situation for all. I like that. That’s a mighty fine pledge to make in a mighty fine town.

Next week I’ll be temporarily leaving Durango to head to the warmer climes of Snobsdale, AZ. 

I don’t want to leave Durango, just winter.

BTW: As of this posting, the fate of the plastic bag ban has been undecided by the city council. 

Do the world a favor, tote a reusable shopping bag into a store. I promise, shlepping a bag from your vehicle won’t be the biggest stressor of your day.

Cheers,

Jeff 

“Don’t look back...

Something might be gaining on you.”

Satchel Paige

Yes. We are all growing older.

Except! This past year, I experienced a decade’s worth of aging.

The feeling of maturing came in two phases. The first was watching friends and family go out on injury leave  The majority were cancer related. Most notably were Mike (AKA the best brother in the world) and 40 year buddy Kevin D. Fortunately both seem to have responded well to treatment. 

Then there were a few who didn’t make the cut for the roster of the living. The list included one of my favorite people on the planet. (AKA Joe “Trauma” S.)  That one really hurt and still does. 

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

The second phase was personal. 

It was just two days after I turned 64, arthritis took up permanent residence  in my left knee. If you thought I walked funny before, you ought to see me hobble now. 

The hits kept on coming. Here’s a few examples:

The semi-automatic “Rat-Tat-Tat” heartbeats that alarm clocks me into full wake up mode. A few thought provoking minutes later, my heart rate resumes its usual 58 beats/minute.

The “almost pass out” head rushes I score while tipping my noggin back to take a sip of water.

The fact that I’m shrinking (I only had 64 inches of height to begin with) but my ears and nose appear to be lengthening. I won’t mention the hairs emanating from them.

My bum makes contact with Mother Earth more often than before. In other words, I fall a lot while hiking. 

The lame injury I sustained from the simple act of flipping a blanket over me. (tweaked back). Better yet. Spraining my wrist while turning a book’s page.  Strenuous stuff.

The numerous episodes of epistaxis without the trauma of being punched in the nose. 

My skin is thinning. A brush up against a twig will cause major hemorrhaging. Lately a hike is not complete without a blood letting

The higher than average times I lose my train of thought while speaking to others.  Occasionally my listeners will tell me, “That’s OK Jeff,  the cars were probably empty any how.” 

So maybe a few of you are thinking. Jeffy! What are you doing about all these Owwies and afflictions? 

My answer? Absolutely nothing. I don’t want to know the “Why?” I chalk it up to attempting to be an endurance athlete with the DNA of a merchant. I wasn’t bred for an active/outdoor life. 

However, I reckon as long as I possess the physical and mental Mojo to lace up my trail runners, slip on a pair of my signature baggy black shorts and get “Out There!” I can’t be too hurt or impaired. 

So that’s what I do. 

Who says ignorance isn’t bliss? 

I’m 65 and I still go over the speed limit occasionally.

Stay in motion. The other option sucks.

Cheers,

Drinking IPAs won’t hurt you either.

Jeff

Just like Bronco Football at...

Mile High only different.

Since I moved to Durango in August 2019, I’ve done my best to dip both feet into the concept of  “Local Community.” 

Surprisingly, I found there’s a BIGLY amount of events occurring in this small town of 19,000 inhabitants. 

In order not to miss a beat, I decided to use a hands on approach to finding out what’s going on. To do this, I’m religious when it comes to reading the Telegraph weekly newspaper, scanning the colorful posters found in brewpubs and grocery stores and checking the”Durango Events” website. With these informative sources I’ll choose one from Column A, two from Column B etc.

I’ll  pass on events that scream out “Jeffy! This is NOT for you! Stay Away!” IE: The Labor Day Weekend Four Corners Motorcycle Rally. (I hid that long weekend.) 

In late August, I noticed a poster announcing the Fort Lewis College Football Schedule. Well, I like watching football. So I went online to get a ticket. Hmm. No online ticket sales. From the website “all tickets are sold at the gate.” I thought, that’s odd..

On game day, I made my way up to the breezy Mesa where Fort Lewis College resides. I looked about for a STADIUM. You know, multi-level stands, banks of flood lights and lots of crowd noise. The usual stuff. Nothing was tackling me. 

I turned right when I spotted a Fort Lewis Police Officer driving his rounds.

“Excuse me! Where’s the football stadium?” 

He gave me a 180 degree wave. 

“It’s over there. If you go past Talon Lane you went too far.”

No wonder I couldn’t find it. The Skyhawk’s playing field sits below a sixteen foot berm. There’s plenty of free parking available in nearby lots. The ticket office consists of a fold-up table under an EZ Up canopy.  The cost of a senior ticket is a paltry $5. There’s no bands or scantily clad cheerleaders. The football players run by a gauntlet of appreciative fans. There’s elk poop on the upside of the grassy berm. The Steamworks Brewery beer garden sits practically in the end zone.

I started to grin and take photos.

Skyhawk Football is emblematic of Durango, CO. It’s approachable. It’s laid back. It’s  uncrowded. It’s small town community fun.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/10/i-wasnt-born-in-small-town.html

For the record, the Skyhawks lost yesterday to Colorado State University-Pueblo 21-13. The Local Heroes had more penalties than completed passes. Oh well. Can’t win them all. Which brings up this point. The Skyhawks have won more games this season than that other team in Denver. (Minus the $101 cost of a ticket and the $15-$20 offsite parking fee too.)

I know which team I’d rather see. 

So far, I’ve attended two games. The season finale is on November 16th. I’ll be there. Come join me. I’ll spring for a half time brew.

Who knows? If enough fans attend maybe we can do the Wave?

Go Skyhawks!

Jeff

Last photo: No long lines to use the facilities either.