sucumbing to suburbia

Who would have thought it would come to this? The Koehns of Dillon Valley East, of Snowdance Manor, of Key Condo and whatever other tiny apartment we have called home, have succumbed to suburbia. I sit by an open upstairs window in our somewhat feng shui’d new abode (the last people to live here must have been believers and left dozens of stickers with Japanese characters and symbols in all the right spots) and try not to listen too carefully to the neighbor’s conversation as they soak in their hot tub a few feet away. Upper-middle class neighbors walk their dogs, bike, and push baby strollers past our house. They park large SUVs in front of larger and even less economical houses, water their lawns, and race each other to see who can mow them first. They have block parties and spacious front porches. We are gasping and twitching a little, having landed… well, I would say like a fish out of water, but the simile really does not fit, seeing as we have gone from the murky, crowded muddle of apartment life to a crystal, clean, spacious fishbowl. As would any space-spoiled American aspiring to live above their means, I am loving the house. Coin laundries and bike storage up three flights of stairs are a thing of the past. The house itself has already spoiled me to the point of hardly considering apartment living as an option ever again. As for living on American Dream Drive, well… I will adjust.
The house borders designated open space, a delightful jumble of willows and aspens, out of which, on rare evenings, Bertram the resident fox emerges to check back deck barbeques for forgotten morsels. The neighbors tell us that occasionally it will also yield a friendly visit from a scavenging bear, and rarely, even a moose will take a leisurely stroll through the backyard. Personally, I prefer that Bertram tell his friends to stay away from me as I lounge on our elegantly understated deck furniture, the reclining canvas camping chairs we salvaged as they were preparing to make their final journey, to the city dump. The border of the Arapahoe National Forest is a short jog down the road, with yet another trail I shall have to add to my list of favorites. It is magical in a way my others are not. While my other favorite trails creep softly through dense forests which moan with old age, and are comforted by the stream’s voice talking to them in the same language they have conversed in since the first trickle of water found its way through their gulch, this one is leaping with new, young, fragile life. It dares to climb, through an airy forest, winding close to the edge to assure itself of the world beyond. Wild strawberries, roses, and Indian paintbrushes crowd close, begging for attention. The floor of this forest is emerald, not the enduring gray and brown of the valley floors. But now we come to the drawback (I told you I’d find one). The portion of national forest surrounding our subdivision is designated wilderness. This means anything with wheels is strictly forbidden. My bike has gone five days without me. I give it a reassuring pat as it leans against the wall, and as I climb into the jeep, tell it I promise, tomorrow…
After we finished cleaning one of our properties the other day, we pulled the trusty Suburban out of the garage, and out of a big puddle of oil. It wasn’t a very life-threatening leak, but severely affected the way the brakes operated, so it had to go to the shop. We were planning on taking it to Kansas this afternoon and loading it up with whatever we might need in the next two years in this house. The kitchen is unfurnished, so I could actually use all the handy little wedding-gift items that are sitting in drawers back in Kansas. And Bob wanted to hook onto the boat and haul it back, because the icy but calm water of the Dillon Reservoir beckons him every morning when he drives to work. But we cant really blame the Suburban. It has held together through a quarter of a million miles for it’s various owners, and has earned the right to balk a bit. We just hope the cost of keeping it alive will not have to exceed the cost of vehicle payments. Now it appears Mr. B. will not be able to go back to Kansas, although Marci and I may go by ourselves tomorrow.
This house came furnished with a wide screen TV and surround sound, capable of an alarming amount of decibels. I thought this would be a plus. That was before I remembered the Playstation. Now, our collection of games used to consist of mostly auto-racing, and inevitably, The Simpson’s game. I can handle screeching brakes at full volume, and Homer’s occasional “doh!”. But lately, guests have been leaving a lot of rather violent video games in condos. They very rarely call about them, so they all must be taken home and demo’d by B. It’s hard, but someone has to do it. Last night as I sat out on the back porch, machine guns clattered, things exploded, people screamed. Our poor neighbors. It seems it would be an utter waste to turn the volume down, although last night as my feet were being massaged by the vibrating floor, I went over and turned it down myself, much to the consternation of the video game head in the house. Of course, this stage may not last forever. Once he conquers the games, he will not play them again for a long time. Unless our guests keep leaving them… The next big thing is getting cable hooked up for the tv heads in the house. I am sure the volume will be no less blaring when favorite shows come on. This is where I find myself at a disadvantage. After all, I was the one raised as a Mennonite. When we played music, it could not be audible beyond the room it was being played it, lest someone catch us with it. I am perfectly comfortable with silence, besides, I do not trust my taste in all things pop culture to even wish for everyone to know what I am watching or listening to. This family has very strong opinions about what constitutes "lame".