When Irish Eyes are Smiling

Although St. Patrick's day isn't until tomorrow, me and the other members of the pipe band marched in Denver's annual parade yesterday, then spent the rest of the day and a good chunk of the night playing for the revellers in the city's Irish pubs. So, as I wait for the hangover to pass, I thought it might be fun to revisit my first St. Patrick's day parade, back in 2004.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

The city of Denver boasts the 4th largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the US, behind New York, Boston and Chicago. In it’s 42nd year, it’s a colorful display of music, marching and of course, free stuff, the parade winds through the LoDo district of downtown and takes between 3-4 hours to complete.

As you might expect there are a number of marching bands, step dancers, decorated floats and Star Wars characters. Well, perhaps you might not expect the last group, I know I didn’t, but they were there all the same, in full regalia complete with swords and light sabers. I’m not entirely clear on the link between St. Patrick and Star Wars, any more than I am about his connection to the Hari Krishners who were also in attendance, but nonetheless, they added a little fun to the proceedings.

Being a participant in the parade means you don’t get to see the parade itself so one of the most entertaining parts of the day was watching the other groups preparing. Everybody was out to have fun so there was a lot of camaraderie and joking around. Well, with the exception of a band of scary looking clowns who, standing off to one side, stared unsmiling at us while we warmed up. I don’t like clowns at the best of times and this gang were freaking me out but luckily, once the parade started, we didn’t see them again.

Of all the bands in the parade, there were none so musically talented, so physically attractive or so...big as the Isle of Mull and St Andrews Pipes and Drums, of which I happen to be a fledgling member. We were out in force this year with no less than eleven snare drums, far more than most bands have on their roster and even marching shoulder to shoulder, more than could comfortably fit across the street.

As a general rule, public performances require the band be turned out impeccably, with every uniform accessory complete, shoes polished and cap ribbons ironed. However, St. Paddy’s day is a little different and to the consternation of Big John, the Pipe Major, a number of rules were being broken. Many of the band members were wearing a little more jewelry than normal for example. Kelly green jewelry for the most part, usually made of plastic and often flashing and/or bearing the name of a beer company. A couple of the drummers were wearing green foam rubber Mohawks and there was one very shaggy, bright green wig. I myself sported a plastic derby hat, but after it blew off my head for the third time, I donated it to a kid in a stroller. Check off my good deed for the year.

The most important factor when participating in a parade is of course, “who are we near?” In most parades, bands are kept a reasonable distance apart, so they don’t interfere with each other’s playing. Sometimes you get lucky and are stationed near a group worth looking at, the parade queen or a troop of cheerleaders for example. However, this time out, for some sadistic reason, the organizers had placed us in front of the Colorado Italian American society. All very nice people I’m sure, but their contribution to the parade was to play songs of a not particularly Irish nature through a low-grade loudspeaker. “Danny Boy” I can sort of tolerate, particularly this day of all days, but “That’s amore” would be bad enough even on a quality sound system. This is why guns are still legal in this country.

Being a rookie, I was stationed next to Megan, the drum sergeant and leader of the corps, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I was playing, at least approximately, the same tune as everyone else. And there were brief periods when I accomplished that although marching and playing simultaneously is a skill I have sadly, yet to master. If someone were to ask me to chew gum too, I’m not entirely sure what would happen. Lets just say I was the only one marching in step, everyone else was somewhat “off”. However, being next to Megan gave me one advantage in that for the most part, I was able to keep in line with her, an all important factor when marching. The rest of our drum line had at times, a distinct “question mark” appearance, a flaw which infuriated Megan, especially in light of the number of drummers with marching band experience.

As if playing a drum, marching AND keeping in line weren’t hard enough, you also had to keep a close eye on where you were putting your feet. Not surprisingly there were a number of horses in the parade and naturally, they were doing as horses do. Several volunteers were equipped with shovels and buckets and they did a sterling job. However, some of the horses must have been eating what I can only imagine was a fiery hot chili because the sheer volume of output was phenomenal. Let’s just say it wasn’t something you’d want on your ghillies, and leave it at that.

Being blessed with longer legs than many, I did have the advantage of being able to keep up without a problem. This was a challenge for Alhana, our youngest and cutest band member. Her tenor drum is approximately half her height and just wearing it at practice is a feat of endurance for an eight year old. Lugging the thing around the Denver streets was almost more than she could manage. As she’s our unofficial mascot we all wanted her to do well but I in particular had a vested interest in making sure she stayed on her feet, as I was marching directly behind her. “If she goes down, you can walk over the top of her, but don’t hurt the drum”, was Megan’s direction on the subject. Megan can say that kind of thing, being Alhana’s mother. But she did just fine, even though she tended to drift out of formation and towards the end, required one of the other tenors to “tow’ her along so she could keep up.

I’d been warned the parade would take a couple of hours for us to complete, but in fact, we marched for barely more than an hour. Not too bad, I can handle that. The real test of endurance will come this Wednesday, St. Patrick’s day itself. Beginning in the afternoon, we’re being driven around Denver’s Irish bars, playing until the small hours of the morning. Should be fun. I’ll get back to you.

A Boy and his Dog

Nobody came and put their head in my lap as I put on my shoes this morning. Nobody took it for granted that me lowering my head meant I needed a smelly-breathed dog face in mine, or that I should stop tying my laces and administer a good ear scrunch instead. Because today there's a big hole in the house where Wiley the dog used to be, and it's exactly the same size as the one in my heart.

Many, many years ago when we were still desert dwellers, Dear Wife volunteered for one of the local animal rescue shelters. Occasionally, one of the other volunteers would bring a new arrival over to our house and they'd stay with us for a night or two until space opened up at the shelter. This all worked very well until one time we received a call asking if we could foster a dog for a little longer - two weeks this time as she couldn't be put up for adoption until she'd recovered from being spayed. "It's an Australian Shepherd," they said, "just like your other two."

No problem there; we did indeed have a matching set of Aussies in the house, two medium-sized incredibly well behaved dogs, so the idea of having a third for a while was quite appealing. Until the car door opened and this enormous great beast of a dog fell out. We could see immediately that while she was almost certainly part German Shepherd, quite possibly part Belgian Shepherd, and who knows what else, there was nothing to indicate even a scrap of Australian Shepherd in the mix.

No matter, there's always room for one more dog in the house so we welcomed our new guest and prepared to be a three dog household for a couple of weeks. Of course, you know where this story's going. By the time the two weeks were up, this big hearted, clumsy, noisy and incredibly goofy dog had wormed her way into our lives and there was no way we could give her back.

The first thing to change was her name. Her previous owner had, for reasons beyond my comprehension, named her 'Lady'. I have to wonder if they'd even met her because whatever other qualities she might have, a lady she was not. We decided that her scrawny, half-starved appearance made her a dead ringer for the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote and within days she was answering to her new name of Wiley. Lady - bleh.

With love, a healthy diet and lots of exercise she soon filled out and her short, dry, scruffy coat grew long and silky. Her energy level was incredible and despite spending many long days hiking the local trails while she raced back and forth, I never saw her really tired. Everything about her just exuded life, from her habit of talking in a rurr-rurr-rurr voice when excited, to the noise of her tail thumping against the wall echoing around the house, to her endless curiosity and love for all. The concept that some people might not actually like dogs, never entered into Wiley's head and every human was just another friend to whom she needed to introduce herself.

But the most frustratingly endearing aspect of Wiley's personality was her perpetual belief that she was on the brink of starvation. No matter the quality of the dog food we gave her, or how much she managed to steal, or beg from strangers, poor Wiley's hunger was never satiated.

We learned early on that no food was safe. A dirty plate on the coffee table, bread on the kitchen counter, a bag of powdered sugar one Christmas Eve, a whole bag of premium dog food belonging to our friend Kris, whom we were visiting - all fair game. We had the cleanest kitchen floor in the world because dropped food never hit the ground. Wiley wasn't fussy - if it fit in her mouth it was food and it mattered not one whit how long it had been dead or whether something else had already eaten it. The stuff that passed through that dog's trash compacter intestines without apparent harm was phenomenal.

Although there were many scares. The first came early in the relationship when she dug up Dear Wife's newly planted roses to get at the bone meal mixed into the soil. What we didn't think about at the time was the bug poison mixed in as well. That resulted in a late night race across town to the emergency vet, with a thunderstorm crashing around us as we ran every red light hoping that no cops would be around to slow us down. The vet told us she was lucky to be alive, and indeed for several days, it was touch and go. But in a week or so, the spark returned to our new pal, and soon after, the irrepressible joy of life was back.

Another time she snagged an entire 5 lb jar of peanut butter; all but the bits around the dimple at the bottom where her tongue wouldn't quite reach. No, she didn't go to the bathroom for several days, and yes, I nearly threw my back out cleaning it up when she finally did.

As you can tell, learning from experience was never Wiley's strong suit and over the years we spent many worried hours sitting next to her on the floor, massaging her stomach and wondering if the latest ingestion would be the one to do her in. Mushrooms were nearly her downfall on several occasions after we moved to Colorado. We never really learned which were the poisonous ones but in the spring they grow in the yard faster than we can clear them. After finding her drooling and panting too many times, we resorted to putting a muzzle on her before letting her outside.

It's really a miracle she lasted over 14 years especially as that's a ripe old age for a dog her size in the first place. But over the last few years it's been hard to watch this boisterous, noisy and tireless dog grow slow and stiff and old. Eventually, I had to stop taking her on my long hikes and it broke my heart to leave the house with Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™, while Wiley stared at us through the door. Still, most days I walked a mile around the neighborhood, while Wiley plodded gamely along beside me.

I didn't have a dog growing up and the Aussies were in Dear Wife's life before I came along. So while we always talked about Wiley as being 'our' dog, she really wasn't; she was my dog...my first dog. My hiking partner, my camping buddy, my therapist and my best friend.

Wiley passed away, peacefully in her sleep on Tuesday night, almost certainly as a result of something she ate, and I've hardly stopped crying since. And yes, I'm crying right now.

So happy trails and so long Wiley, my greedy, goofy, lively and loveable friend. Wherever you are now, I hope they're feeding you right. Thanks for everything...I'm going to miss you so much.

The First Bike Ride of Spring

So we've just enjoyed a week of beautiful spring-like weather, with the sun shining, temperatures up in the '60s, and the snow melting fast. Naturally, this was while I was at work and today, Sunday, the snow is falling thick and fast. However, yesterday was fabulous and I even got out on my bike for an hour or so. I managed to blow out an inner tube and pick up two more punctures but why let that spoil a good memory?

Instead, I decided to go back 2 years, to another beautifully warm day when my friend Raven and I took our first bike ride of Spring.

The First Bike Ride of Spring

It’s been warm for ages now. It’s not Spring yet, we know that – and there will be plenty more cold days to come before winter lets go but right now, for day after glorious day, it’s been sunny and mild. Willows are turning red, green shoots are appearing and the geese are choosing mates. Not only that, but it isn’t turning cold on Friday afternoon and warming back up on Monday morning like usual, this warm spell is something special. The stars are in alignment and magic is in the air. It’s time to bring out my bicycle.

My friend Raven and I have cycled together before, and while she’s in seriously better shape than me, she’s equally rusty when it comes to two-wheeling so we make good partners. I was at her house in Buffalo Creek only a few minutes late, as the sun was just appearing above the canyon walls. With his back seats folded down, Angus the 4Runner makes a good bike rack and in no time, both steeds were bungee-corded to the roll bar and we were on our way.

The North Fork of the South Platte River winds its way from South Park through Bailey to Buffalo Creek and beyond before dropping into Waterton Canyon where a series of reservoirs provide water for the thirsty lawns of Denver. Once upon a time the Denver and South Park Railway ran on a narrow gauge track where the road now lies, transporting ice from the lakes which were once near my house, to the dairy, which was once near my office. Buffalo Creek Post Office has been owned by the Green family for generations and the story goes that in his dotage, the patriarch, old John Green would walk outside with his stopwatch to await the arrival of the train; even though the trains stopped running long before John Green did.

The South Platte Hotel hasn’t seen business for many a year, probably not since the railroad was torn up and today it’s a semi-derelict shack with plywood windows and holes in the roof. A sign informs us that this is now the property of the Denver Water Board and that they’re considering a renovation project. Nothing is stored inside, so please resist the urge to try and enter. We resisted the urge, entranced as we were with the beauty of this spot where the North and South Forks of the South Platte converge in a grove of cottonwoods. They weren’t too imaginative when it came to naming rivers in these parts but perhaps the early explorers were like us, simply captivated by the scenery.

Soaring cliffs towered above us, while the river, green-white with ice melt tumbled along below. Pine trees stretched to the porcelain blue sky while the occasional cotton wool cloud appeared, just to make the whole vista too perfect to be believable. What did we do to be so lucky?

Angus was soon tucked under a tree and we were rolling our way down a smooth dirt track deep into the ravine. Sadly, we didn’t get too far before the trail disappeared under a layer of thick, blue ice reaching out onto the water. It wasn’t until I was home and reviewing a map that I saw that this was as far as it went; the real trailhead was some distance away, and didn’t rejoin the river for several miles. Maybe we’ll try that one another day. For now though, we didn’t care; it was worth a short ride just to experience the exquisite magnificence of this canyon. I haven’t made it to Alaska yet, but Raven tells me that when I get there, I’ll find it to be a lot like this.

We were still only a dozen or so miles from Raven’s house, so leaving Angus where he was, we set off back up the banks of the river, following the gentle grade as it meandered towards home. Other than a handful of climbers, hikers anglers, and of course, cyclists, few people come down this way and the small number of houses we passed had an air of charming neglect, relaxing little by little with each passing year as the earth gradually reclaims them.

On through the metropolis of Foxton; half a dozen cabins with the old railway station, its log walls sagging and derelict. Raven is a veteran of 3 wild fires and too many flash floods to count so she knew all the people who’d had to be rescued, or who had lost part of their property. She also had names for each of the rock formations so even though I’d driven this way many times; I was seeing the landscape through her eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

As we rounded a bend, an eagle flapped his way up from the riverbed. A juvenile, but still unrealistically big, his wings flashing brown, white and gold in the sunlight as he headed into the trees. Coming level we saw his breakfast, a dead goat, lying against a river rock, held fast by the current. Its belly slit open, entrails red in the sunshine. In a nearby tree sat a large black crow, waiting his turn to feast. Mother Nature’s recycling program working as designed.

For reasons best known to themselves, the county has spent some time re-grading the road in stretches but it was smoother in the parts they’d left untouched. Still, the deeper gravel gave our legs a bit more of a workout than the gentle slope would have done. Still not too taxing, this is the first run of the year after all, but enough to feel as if we were getting some exercise. Even so, twelve miles go by fast when you’re surrounded by scenery such as this and we were happy to take things slowly.

But, all good things must come to end and too soon Buffalo Creek hove into view. The church parking lot was empty now, the parishioners home for their lunch and the weekend’s chores. They’d spent Sunday morning at their place of worship; we’d spent it in ours. Back to the house and cool water from the fridge, and a sit on the front deck listening to the breeze in the forest and the creek babbling below.

No, the ride wasn’t long enough, and yes, snow is forecast for next weekend. And we may have to rely on the memories of today to last us through weeks of office-bound servitude. But we had our first bike ride of the season, and if any of our future ones are as good as this, 2006 will be a very good year.