Pueblo, a beautiful place in time.....

We arrived on my birthday, November 25, 1959, the year I turned eight. Although there were no presents because of the haste of our move I could not know the gift we all were receiving in our father's transfer to Pueblo. Appropriately, the next day was Thanksgiving.

Although we had loved the mountains and life in Denver, and had forayed into several wonderful adventures during our brief stay in Colorado Springs, we were about to live through the most enchanted time of our lives.

Assembly-line style, we carried boxes from the truck our father had rented to move our belongings into the white stuccoed house with green trim, taking in details about our new home. It had a modest Tudor look to it, was framed by elms in front and back, and a rather unruly shrub between the windows. The front door was thick wood, appropriate for a medieval fortress, with a little door to peak out of that latched from the inside. The inside was a modern aqua blue--a designer, we were told, had owned the house before us. Draperies framing the living and dining room windows made of quirky abstract prints in light colors. A built in display and book shelf was on the wall opposite the fireplace in the roomy living room.

The kitchen was a calm creamy yellow but the ante room between the kitchen and stairs leading to the basement was a brilliant, not quite mustard yellow. Our mother announced that painting the ante room would be a top priority, but it was still the same color when we moved out several years later. In the kitchen were a staggering number of shelves, all of which needed cleaning before we could put away the dishes, and one small appliance garage just right for a toaster.

The bathroom had a soft blue terry shower curtain that contrasted with the pink and black metal tiles that lined the wall. Like the curtains in the front of the house, a little quirky.

There were two upstairs bedrooms, both ample.There were two parents,two daughters, and a son when we moved in.In Colorado it was almost unheard of that you didn't have a basement. We did, with a beautifully paneled light knotty pine bar at one end of a long black and white tiled floor game room.

In the corner behind the game room was a little coal room, long out of use, with a single small window that had been the coal chute. Behind the remaining width of the game room was the laundry and storage room, where all the Christmas decorations were kept.

Mother was quick to turn the coal room into David's abode. Mary got the nice front bedroom, and I was consigned to the 8 X 10 room, with what was probably the wine closet for my clothes closet, just behind the bar. Mother curtained off the open room with a feminine floral print for privacy and I was good to go.

The truck unloaded, our things arranged, we spent our first night in what was to be the home of our hearts. The morning was cold when we awakened the following day. We were grateful to have a fireplace, and a nice furnace, which was allowed to heat the 3 core rooms upstairs. (All the bedrooms had their furnace grates shut and we slept beneath quilts piled so thick we could hardly turn over, but kept a window cracked in almost any weather because we craved the fresh, clean air.)

After whatever morning chores we had were done, my brother, David, and I coated up and ventured out into the neighborhood to see who we might meet. It was the Thanksgiving holiday and the sounds of other children nearby piqued our curiosity. We made our way across the front yard when two boys appeared from behind the fence across the street and began to throw rocks at David. He seemed non-pulsed and just picked them up to throw 'em right back. Pretty soon they were best friends, my brother, David, and David Norton.

The Nortons lived in a big white farmhouse that was probably there before the rest of the neighborhood encroached from the south where the downtown area was.
We lived on 22d Street between Court and Grand streets, and to our south on Grand were an array of tall turn-of-the-Century row houses. They were punctuated with filigree and gingerbread, every one having a porch. To our north on Grand after the first lovely Victorian style home came a series of Bungalow and Mission style homes on both sides of the street. In general the surrounding neighborhood dated to the turn of the century every block or so but was filled in mainly with homes dating to the 20's and 30's.

As we explored the neighborhood, my brother and sister and I found the park just five blocks south, it's name dreamy: Mineral Palace Park. Specimens of different trees still had labels declaring their origins. Waterlilies lay dormant beneath ice in a small pond that became a skating rink when it was cold enough. A community hall flanked one side of a beautiful lake that was accented by two beautiful arched bridges. Behind a shrub-covered chain link fence was the right of way and the noise of the highway. Across the lake from the community hall, a band shell with an Art Deco rainbow frame presided over the stage from which we would later hear the city orchestra play in the summers. A swimming pool and a playground in the park seemed mere fringe benefits. A bench to dream upon was all we needed aside from the carefully staged beauty around us.

Winter came quickly with an abundance of snow, and the walk to Thatcher Elementary School was pure joy. Although everyone shoveled their sidewalks, we loved to walk in the drifts to each side, making deep prints in the snow. An easy snowball fight could last for blocks as friends joined the parade along the way.
Grand street was the usual path we took toward Thatcher, but it was my preference to take Court because the trees from both sides of the street formed an ice Cathedral overhead for most of the walk. Ice cicles draped every tree and house, snow frosted and softened the landscape and silenced the scene to allow the gentle packing of footprints left behind to assure a record of your travel to a warm destination. Coats and hats and boots left on hooks and wooden floors were reclaimed at the end of the day.

I remember seasons before Pueblo only in flashes of time, but the walk to school gave a little girl a lot of time to notice everything. Winter slowly gave way to violets blooming through melting patches of snow. Daffodils and tulips came next, then Lilacs, heavenly Lilacs.

Mrs. Arthur, our next door neighbor had 3 different Lilacs: a light purple, a dark purple, and a white. We had two light purple not quite as tall as hers had grown to be, but we could sit under them to read Under the Lilacs by Louisa May Alcott. How romantic!

The elms in the front and the back had crotches just at the right height to be able to climb. Across the street, the Nortons had a tall pine with sturdy spiral stair branches to climb. A wooden swing suspended from a thick rope hung beneath the branches of their cottonwood tree.

When the school year wrapped up, we were scattered among relatives so Mother could work without worrying about what kind of trouble we were getting into, and as summer wound down, we would return home for the preparation for school. Mother sewed nearly everything we wore, and there was shopping to do for material and shoes. Her machine hummed out a complete wardrobe within days.

With sweaters and coats bought we were glad to start the annual migration back to school. Doors along the way opened as friends joined us for the walk through crunchy leaves. The sweaters of the morning were too hot for the afternoon sun on our shoulders as we returned home.

The familiarity of the routine was right out of Leave it to Beaver or My Three Sons. Something fragrant was cooking for dinner when we came in from school. Daddy would up from his big Family Bible, marking his place with one finger, and say,
"You need to get a Nanner (banana) and eat it right now!"

Filling our cheeks and bellies with the stuff of life, covering our bodies with hand-made clothes, providing our minds with beauty and joy that would last a lifetime, we were so very lucky. This time of life was the best, the very best present we could get.