erulissedances | The Real LJ Idol - Week 2 - Sankofa

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The Real LJ Idol - Week 2 - Sankofa - Summer Memories and Dreams

Saturday, July 13th, 2024 08:44 am

“It is not taboo to fetch what is at risk of being left behind.” I fetched a memory to share, and having done so, I’ve kept that memory alive and still hope for a fulfillment of childhood dreams.

Summer Memories and Dreams

Aspen, Colorado, was my home every summer for decades. My parents had been escaping the heat of Denver by going up to Aspen on Memorial Day every summer. They planned to attend the Aspen Music Festival, go to operas at the Wheeler Opera House, and get out of the heat sink that Denver became at that time of the year. The cool, crisp air of Aspen always raises the glow of fond memories and reignites my love for classical music.

At this time in the early 1960’s to the mid-1970’s, Aspen was still a diamond in the rough – known to some people, but not the “Hot Spot” or the “Place to Go” as it became in following decades. It was an affordable getaway location for the middle class. (It’s certainly NOT affordable now.) It was a winter skiing playground of the rich and famous (or it became so), but we didn’t ski, and I was attending school in Denver over the winters. We returned to our small rental home the day after school let out for the summer.

After a few years, my parents purchased our small home and its’ larger lot, renting our house out over the winter months. We later built a second home on the remaining lot, rented the small house permanently, and rented the new house for the ski season only.

The summers of my youth were spent exploring abandoned miner’s houses in the overgrown lots (against my parents’ orders), swimming in the pool at the Hotel Jerome or sometimes in the municipal pool near Pinocchio’s Pizzeria and playing catch and baseball with the boy whose father raised chickens a block south of our property. Mom also loved to explore, so she drove us all over the greater mountain area, exploring and hiking in the brisk mountain air of 8000 feet.

There was music, of course, and hearing it everywhere was as natural as breathing. It wasn’t uncommon to walk down the streets, hearing various instruments being played and practiced. It was the music that brought us back to this little town in the heights – to be more precise, it was the Aspen Music Festival.

The Festival, in addition to offering a variety of classes, Master Classes and lectures, also featured a chamber orchestra, and a full symphonic orchestra. Mom would often sit in on rehearsals during the week (while my cousin and I played outside, sometimes being loud enough that Mom or my Aunt had to come out and tell us to be quiet). Sundays always featured afternoon symphonic performances in the Tent for which we had season tickets. The Tent itself was iconic. (It has now been upgraded to something not nearly as interesting.) It was sometimes warm and stuffy but could also be wet and cold. It was a canvas tent, and leaks from the fabric top onto the seated patrons (and sometimes onto the musicians) were not uncommon.

Occasionally it was so windy that while the wind added to the percussion section, the higher voiced instruments were difficult to hear. The Tent itself breathed in rhythm with the air, and in a stiff wind, seemed as if it might fold and fly away. At other times, it seemed to inhale and exhale in time with the orchestra, singing accompaniment with the musical pieces on that day’s program. At the height of summer, the air was sometimes so still that the interior became an oven, even when the walls were rolled and tied up. The Tent wasn’t an easy place to hold or attend a concert, but it was beloved by both the audience and musicians. Concerts were very well attended, and the music for each performance made it a magical event and venue.

So why bring Aspen up? What triggered these memories? Because Aspen was the first place where I learned to spread my own wings. It was a place that encouraged personal growth, and that never said “No”, just offered choices. If I didn’t like the chamber music on one block, I’d have an opera singer practicing on the next.

I was a cellist (starting when I was 10 years old) and my summers were spent taking weekly lessons from some of the top cellists in the nation who had come to Aspen to either perform, or to teach at the Aspen Music Festival and School. Later, I auditioned to attend the Aspen Music School, (but was not accepted). I was competent at the cello (best in Denver for several years in my age group), but I was not the caliber of student they looked for at the Aspen Academy of Music. I wasn’t scarred for life – but it was a disappointment.

I’ve never forgotten Aspen, although I eventually left it behind me when I started college. My parents sold their property in the late 1970’s, and the town changed dramatically – it’s become busier, richer, more exclusive, and far less welcoming. Many of the dreams that I first dreamt on those dusty streets are still goals today, as an older adult. And when I finally achieve them - those visions I first had at our small old miner’s house on Hymen street - I’ll remember those idyllic days of my youth. Dreams don’t have an expiration date, and memories only become sweeter as they age.

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