Adventure 396: Park City, Utah/Post A

Home Sweet Home for the Final Four.

In his book, "Hillbilly Elegy" J.D. Vance made reference to the reason poor folk of all ilk lose hope. He said that the psycho babblers call it "learned helplessness" in that those afflicted feel like whatever they do can have no effect on the outcome of their lives. I've never felt that, nor have most of my relatives. We refused to give into our plight, and we were no less poor than Appalachian hillbillies, inner city Blacks, or border town Hispanics. We simply wouldn't accept the given, and except for one, we clawed our way out. Tonight, as we sat around my cousin Douglas's table playing crib and replaying acrid stories of our childhood, which by now we laugh off, like whistling through graveyards. At one point, I looked over at Judy whose secure life no more resembles ours than the man in the moon selling cheddar cheese. Her face was flush, her mind awash. She couldn't relate, but still she laughed. In fact, we all laughed until our eyes watered, and though the chandelier hung over us like an ever present gallows, we all realized that we've made it because we're winners. Judy because of fate (And talent), and us because we refused to lose. It also helped that we're graced with brains, luck, grace, and good will. I prefer to think of it as preferential treatment from my guardian angel, but that's just my Catholic upbringing talking. It's most likely a combination of things. I'm struck not only by the contrast of the interaction with Judy's family, which is one of constant love, constant affection, and undeterred faith, but also by my interaction with my model family, the O'Brien's whom I've tried to emulate all my adult life. There's is a model of pure acceptance, undying loyalty, and ever present hope. In contrast, my family breeds a caustic love, a sharp edged existence, a balance that relies on performance,  and a loyalty that is constantly tested. We've experienced the ultimate betrayal, the most egregious lies, the emptiest apologies. So, when we relate stories of our formative years, they always have a truth that is burned into us like a brand. It makes us wary and afraid. In part, it explains our bluster. So when I relate my surely subjective memory of this uncle who injured me or this aunt who nurtured me, it's a memory seared, a memory forged into permanence, and even if it has some level of inaccuracy because of lack of context or perspective, it's no less hurtful or no less inspiring. Small things injure, and small things inspire. My nuclear family lived with instability, with uncertainty, with doubt. All my life I've surrounded myself with the opposite, but as J.D. Vance's Mamaw said, "You can take the boy out of the Kentucky, but you can't take the Kentucky out of the boy." Frankly, I look at the life I lead now, and I can't believe it. Millions are suffering, but I'm not, nor are those I love. Why? I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could spread the fortune I enjoy to others, and I try, but mostly I thank God that life is good, especially today.

 We left Fremont Indian State Park about 8:30 and among the pleasant surprises along the way was this magnificent view of Mt. Nebo (@12,000).

 We got to my cousin's place in Park City about noon. This is the view from his living room window.

 Bordering his property is the the Swaner's reserve, which is  a portion of land set aside for migrating birds and other such environmental treasures.

 So, not only is he guaranteed a great view for ever, but the birds who migrate through the area are also guaranteed a nice place to stay. Quite humane of us humans.

 Art shot of the day. I could imagine this piece to be saying, "Guard what's precious, if you please."

 My cousin, Joan, former city attorney of Bellingham, WA, has retired to a life that is good in Park City.

 Douglas, Me, and Joan. We lived together as children. We're better for it.

 Douglas, ever the exquisite host, fixed us seared flank steak. roasted brussel sprouts, and fresh salad for dinner ( And he did the dishes!).

 Don't tell anyone, but there are fighting liberals alive and well in Park City, Utah.

 My relatives actually carried these signs (I had the bail money ready).