The point is I don’t have to cut it and I love that. I was getting tired of it. Dreading it. Now I just say let it grow. I know my dad taught us to cut our own lawn and paint our own house but I am sick of lawn and home maintenance. It never stops. The dandelions just keep popping up, the lawn keeps growing and the paint keeps peeling. But I’ve got a ‘guy’ now.
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Park City evolved in waves
over the past 50 years, from a hip little ski town to the international destination-resort
it is today. We weren’t Mork and Mindy,
Rocky Mountain High glitz like Colorado.
We were the sleepy, edgy, underachiever, off the radar, on the fringe -
in Utah of all places. People were afraid of the Utonian natives and
thought you could not buy a coffee or have drink here. But we knew better. We
loved it. We called it home.
Our early town moto could be found on the back of icon Ira Sac’s business card,
– ‘Be More, Appear Less’. We grew better when we grew
slowly. That lasted only so long in spite of the admirable development
protests of CARG and other dedicated citizens chained to bulldozers. Some of us remember the water wars; days of
dry tanks, rationing, water moratoriums and massive lawsuits. So, we threw a lot of money at that and
solved the problem by coordinating, regionalizing and pumping our water from
the Weber River. Water flows uphill, towards money.
We also remember the two-lane
highways that flowed gently into town, with no traffic or traffic lights in
Summit or Wasatch Counties. Then one day we woke up and 224 was as
wide as an airport runway with ten traffic lights and a roundabout between I-80
and Deer Valley. Then there was a traffic calming flower box planted in
the middle of 248 that alternatively proclaimed our resistance to building big
roads that would increase our traffic. If you build it, they will
come. Traffic flows towards money.
We built parking lots in
Old Town and paved Guardsman Road to plough more cars into our residential,
historical districts. We contracted paid
parking on Main Street while developing two bus systems and building
unobtainable satellite park-and-ride lots. Powder days and weekends
saw gridlock along with Sundance, Arts Fest, and summer weekends with multiple
events. ‘You can’t get there from here’ became the new refrain. You can’t buy your way out of a traffic jam.
But Park City still doesn’t suck. We now have 500 miles of trails, 3 interconnected ski resort bases, endless (but inaccessible) backcountry, a free bus system, relatively low taxes and excellent services. We host THE major international film festival and A highly respected arts festival. There is always; music, theatre, culture, coordinated philanthropy and social justice. And let’s not mention that we still have a sense of humor, a sense of place and a sense of who we are.
So, where do we go from
here. How can we save the Golden Goose
or is growth like a shark that dies if it stops. Do we want to become another Aspenized ghost
town of second homes? How do we save ourselves
from industrial-corporate skiing, big development or our government’s own entanglements
and ambitions? Can we solve the Chambers popularity progression or endless
development de-evolution, to save the soul and spirit that made this town? Or do we do what humans have always done;
move on to the next great place and ruin that?
I, for one, still have
faith in our evolution away from those original, opportunistic interlopers who took
the money and ran, moving rather towards the stickers and stayers of today, the
people who value our collective standard of living and local quality of life
more than the almighty dollar. But money changes everything. Now that we are all home-equity millionaires,
it depends on our own avarice and greed, resolve and resolution, voice and
action, leadership and public participation. Don’t follow the money this year, follow the
community, the committed, the local values and the love of this place we call
home.
Our Town
Iris DeMent
And you know the sun's setting fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Go on now and kiss it goodbye
But hold on to your lover 'cause your heart's bound to die
Go on now and say goodbye to our town, to our town
Can't you see the sun's setting down on our town, on our town
Goodnight
Up the street, beside that red neon light
That's where I met my baby on one hot summer night
He was the 'tender and I ordered the beer
It's been forty years and I'm still sitting here
Here I had my babies and I had my first kiss
I've walked down Main Street in the cold morning mist
Over there is where I bought my first car
It turned over once but then it never went far
I buried my mama and I buried my pa
They sleep up the street beside that pretty brick wall
I bring 'em flowers about every day
But I just gotta cry when I think what they'd say
Now I sit on the porch and watch the lightning bugs fly
But I can't see too good, I got tears in my eyes
I'm leaving tomorrow but I don't wanna go
I love you, my town, you'll always live in my soul
But I can see the sun's setting fast
And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts
Well. go on, I gotta kiss you goodbye
But I'll hold on to my lover 'cause my heart's 'bout to die
Go on now and say goodbye to my town, to my town
I can see the sun has gone down on my town, on my town
Goodnight
Goodnight
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‘Pickle Ball is Life’, said the well-worn T-shirt on the
vivacious, 40-something, mother of three with the wicked backhand. Well, it’s pretty fun but I don’t know about ‘life’. I’ve delved into Americas fastest growing
sport lately and here is what all the fuss is about;
It might have a silly name, but Pickleball is not just a
goofy old man’s sport. It’s easy to
learn and play but it’s hard to get good at. The game has nuance. It’s a cross between ping pong, racquetball,
squash and tennis. Beginners can easily
hit the ball over the net while intermediates can really whack it. Advanced players bring it to the net and Dink
softly while the elite players move their feet and play for angles and
position. You play with your racket and arm,
but you win with your head and your legs.
The smaller court is easy to navigate, and it is played with a
wiffle-ball that you can hit hard but it slows down quickly from the wind
resistance in the holes. There is also a
buffer zone at the net called the Kitchen that you must stay out of when smashing,
so you don’t hurt anyone or yourself, but it is seldom an issue.* You can even miraculously hit it around the
net post on real wide shots!
Pball is tremendously social. It’s like golf, where you can play with
friends and family, the kids or your parents.
Attractive and athletic women or men will introduce themselves kindly to
you and then trash talk and trounce you on the court. Doctors play with ditch diggers while new Latin
ladies play with old-school white guys.**
Women are as good as men and testosterone is probably a disadvantage, so
the court is level and there is no Affirmative Action needed. A game will last 10-20 minutes so it is moderately
aerobic, fat burning exercise or light interval training at best. It is very compatible for off-days, resting
from skiing and biking while building a base stamina and strength, without
beating yourself up. Most players have an
ailment and an injury or two but not much is said. Everyone has something. It is no more dangerous than any other equal
pursuit.
This game is a microcosm of sport. Play easy or go for it. Hit it low and down the middle or aim for the
lines. Drop that third shot right over
the net or aim for their feet in no-mans-land.
Keep the ball in play or go for the impossible, ESPN human-highlight
shots. Pick on their weak partner’s forehand
or focus on a good players backhand. It
can be very organized and competitive with player ratings and rankings,
tournaments and standings, or you can play it casual with friends, not caring about
the score, Players range in class and caste; from the elite A teams who never
seem to wait or split up, all the way to the beginners and the untouchables who
can play with anybody and everybody. Teams
are often formed randomly off the on-deck rack so you always meet a new mix of people
and play at different levels. ***
So pickleball might not be life, but what is. I’ve played with some very aggressive, high
roller entrepreneurs that just like to keep the ball in play as well as some
very timid housewives that just want to kill it and tell me that ‘winning is
everything’. Maybe it’s like Cornhole, a
fun game with a silly name or goofy reputation.
So go to your nearest park or Rec Center and see for yourself. You may find your next passion or the meaning
of life.
*The air friction is proportional to the ball velocity
cubed, not squared like solid objects like bikes or skiiers, that keeps us all
safe and prevents bruising or sore feelings.
It is like a squash ball that dies on the bounce and you have to really
go after it, not like racquetball where if you stand in one spot the ball will
eventually come to you.
**Every court has its culture and we have played from
Tuscon to Temecula, Tesuque to Tuhaye.
One court had a Latino group that only played with each other and not
the rich white guys. They were the best
and I tried to get in their game. They
were funny at first when declining me but then they got mean and in my face,
until I asked them if they were afraid and they all howled and scoffed. They let me play and kicked my ass but we had
a great time bridging cultural boundaries and improving racial relations
***It has become so popular that they are turning empty
tennis courts into P-ball courts to keep up.
4 Pball courts entertain 16 people per tennis court but tennis courts
still remain underutilized while 20-30 people consistently wait for Pall courts
every morning. Recreational managers are
ignoring or resisting the Pball flood but perhaps portable Pball nets can be
used to fill unused tennis courts until adequate facilities can be built for
this growing constituency.
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