Dear Woodland Park:

Twice I have left you, and twice returned. I began this letter just after the second departure, living back east.

I first came to know you, my adopted town, in 1993, when you were just under five thousand souls, and I had just turned forty, my last six years dogged by chronic, debilitating illness. No horde of doctors, allopathic or alternative therapies, or money helped. Finally, my doctors ordered: “Go to a high mountain, breathe particulate-free, pollution-free, pesticide-free, i.e., clean air! Your immune system hasn’t a chance here.”

Well, my husband and I had no regrets over leaving the extended family who had never helped us as we struggled with a child and, shortly thereafter, the onset of a mysterious, intractable physical foe. Nor did we regret leaving our gigantic metropolis with all of its unfortunate, sorrowful growing pains -- the crowding, serious pollution, trafficked-choked roads (with the accompanying road rage), impersonal and apathetic merchants and service-people, aimed shootouts at our local grocery and mall, random shootings off the upscale-neighborhood bridge under which I needed to travel with the baby to my parents’ house. This was the beautiful southern city my father had adopted, had written and published many books about, and in whose Chamber of Commerce had labored for eight years.

But on May 11, 1993, we traversed the 1400 miles west, to an unknown, tiny community just outside of Colorado Springs, Colorado, ignorant of mountain living, its joys or its trials. Well, to make a very long and complex story short: a lack of dramatic improvement, other extenuating circumstances, a sense of familial isolation, the altitude factor, and endless mountain-related gripes and annoyances distanced us emotionally, then physically, from you, our still-quaint, rather odd picture-book paradox of a town that sported palaces alternating with lowly cabins, snow in the front yard but not in the back, skies to die for in summer but curse mightily in spring, a silent domain lacking summer crickets and their accompanying heavenly symphony, awesome relentless-seeming cold, a savvy non-provincial citizenry, and retention of just enough, rurally, to be quite serene.

Our first move way was horrible, but the second, insupportable. There, we had relocated to my former small college town which had, unbeknownst to us, sprawled to meet not one, but two major cities. Population growth was rapid, as here. But, unlike here, the pollution was so bad that the family (four of five) sequentially developed walking pneumonia, and we discovered that the asthma rate was 33%, details you won’t find in Chamber literature. Nearly each day last summer, we reckoned with “code” alerts for the elderly and the young: “Stay indoors; do not breathe the air!” This was not “humidity” as an acquaintance explained, but rather, smog, big Bad smog. Oh, what had we done? we wondered ruefully.

But then, the following must also be acknowledged: Life in Woodland Park is often harsh, especially if one is not an Olympiad, especially if one comes from, say, very oxygenated air. Life is often challenging, even scary. There are great distances to travel for certain pleasures, lessons, or acquisitions and your love of growing things (my own thumb turns black and blue, will be sorely tested. Snow or hail in June, splitting and or freezing things, combined with the realization that certain tasty things would not surpass infancy, have reduced me to tears of frustration and loathing. Homes and rentals are crushingly expensive, and salaries rarely compensate. Life is often an indoor occupation, or can be, depending on the ability to withstand hills, chills and so forth, which can be disheartening to a nature lover, who can’t hug a tree through a window (which prompted well-meaning if rather clueless husband to suggest bonsai.) Allergic to natural gas, I have daunting electric heating bill. Additionally, and horrifyingly, innocent children can succumb to tragedy in a seemingly innocuous fog.

Woodland Park’s SAT’s are a full 200 points lower than in our domain, and even the relatives you get along with (in this case in-laws kin) may not be able to visit, due to altitude or financial considerations. My own mother, who walks three miles a day, could not take a walk even after a week. Personally, our lack of ethnic diversity is bothersome: a relative once accused me of hiding out in a white ghetto, and tying it to low crime, and yet crime is not necessarily proportional to diversity or low income. Sleep is light in thin air, and is and is a wretched situation for a parent. How I miss the sound and feel and smell of rain.

Let me discuss one specific circumstance – congestion – and its ramifications. Of course I don’t suggest closing the gates to Woodland Park. This is no better for the moral fiber, character and charm of a place than other actions! But last February, our population was 7100, a growth of 20% in eight years, fairly hefty growth. In my six-month “incarceration”, other experiences were disheartening to infuriating, e.g.: In any kind of retail store, or even the library, I’d ask where something is, and the usual response was, “I have no idea.” I was looked at askance, with vacant eyes: no elemental help, not to mention any of the above-and-beyond type (which really is unparalleled, here, whether it involves a spree for groceries, a book, or a complicated exactly-as-you-like-it coffee). Due to a disproportionate plethora of shoppers, merchants did not, often could not, value one’s business or time. (I do not advocate more merchandising; this cycle of twin growth snowballs, with dire consequences.) My pediatrician overbooked – always – with an average wait of 1 ½ hours; hurried and harried start to finish, she stared blankly past when we waved a thanks. Good care, poor bedside manner. Does it matter?

The roads were choked, swollen, dreadful. Instead of one heavily traveled Hwy 24, imagine every road a 24, or 25, and surrounding you. There wasn’t a commutable outskirt without the terrible thrum at all hours, with the pollution almost palpable. And early on, when driving and obviously lost, I experienced my first well-aimed cussword (rhymes with witch).

I had to drive to a funeral in Atlanta. Boarding our elderly dog; my husband and I (by phone and in person) requested veterinary care; our dog was wheezing. We were assured of it. On return only two days later he was profoundly worse: they insisted that no one had requested care, and that care is administered only if the animal gets sick or worsens (which he did, dramatically). There was no apology, no concern for the person or the animal; simply the implication that we were wrong and they were right). That very night, my suffering companion died in the animal emergency clinic, and in my grief and anger, I wasn’t even been able to call and let that kennel know.

Though I’ve always a bit of rancor with schools, at least here I am working with human beings and not answering machines. My daughter was sick for many days last spring, and out of 6 teachers only one returned my calls about keeping her abreast of her work…after a week had passed. Her grades were impacted. But the counselor assured her (and me), over and over again, that her Woodland Park grades would be averaged in, and then, they were not. “Policy,” they cited, but without explanation as to why “policy” had arbitrarily changed. Or perhaps it did not. The right hand never did what the left was doing – anywhere.

And on the subject of real estate: although we were assured that we could rent our tiny house month to month until summer’s end, the landlords changed their minds. They related that summer ended at the end of July (when students return), and not near-end September, as in the rest of the known universe. We pled, explaining that with all the sickness our househunting was slow. No mercy, decency, and no agency to help. In addition to this travesty, an unfortunate animal had crawled in and died in the wall of my children’s room. Along with everything else broken and missing on arrival, the landlord refused to address this and thus, our children lost their bedroom, we lost shared space, and the stench was a horror. We stopped pleading, and starting packing, instead.

So please, I ask you: take a moment to recognize, as I have (finally), that, even with all the hardships, disappointments and other annoyances, large and small, (I do not dismiss tragedy) -- that you may possibly (even probably) dwell in the most amazing, beautiful -- indeed, magical -- habitat on earth! Don’t let it slip away! Do not take it for granted, poison it, crowd it to death, or let profit, or making it onto the map be your response to your treasure! Please note: I am not a knee-jerk reactionary to change. Change itself is normal, natural, expected, and can be good or bad. Life, the earth, ideas -- all, evolve. But it is irresponsible change, which I have endured thrice so painfully, with heedless damage done, that must be avoided.

Do the math, the science, and the sense of it all: Compare and contrast to the above our warm business personnel who, despite increased demand, remain cordial, personal, and beyond; friendly restaurants, heck-bent to please; library staff who will go out of their way to get you that particular hard-to-find book, or gather them up for your child’s report, before you even arrive; grocers who tend to trust you when an item was not satisfactory but you’ve forgotten the receipt; kind grocery-baggers and a bakery who wants your child’s cake perfect.. Drivers are still usually and unusually courteous and considerate. Keep in mind that, except in summer, the roads here are tolerable. I am a huge advocate of the bypass, however (a solution to congestion as well as inebriated drivers) -- but we would need to increase patronage of local merchants – bigtime, or Bigtime merchants will descend upon us… My experience is that out veterinarians are genuinely caring; the vet assistant who worked with me during my dog’s protracted decline, came to my house, my bedroom, to my dog’s favorite spot, to ease her gently from this life. In Woodland Park, if you are stranded, or your packages heavy, or you have slipped and fallen, a stranger will offer help. Can you put a price on this? Will you barter or sell it?

While it is true that there may never be crickets, lush gardens, and many of the almost overwhelming cultural opportunities, awesome shopping, giant museums and, of course, that single balmy summer night, it is also true that gain often implies loss. Now, topographically, Woodland Park could never be an Atlanta, Richmond, or even Chapel Hill, surrounded as it is on three sides by forestland. A mountain pass prevents total sprawl from our satellite city. We might not become terrible if we tried. But many longtimers are presently mourn the loss of much of the charm and pristine; they perceive unwise diverging. I too notice subtle changes over eight years, clearer due to my several hindsights.

Therefore, citizens, let us ponder with honesty and wisdom these matters: ruminate on them, nurture them gently in your hearts and souls, because the future is not then, it is now: a process. Juggle and judge the ineffable mountainous beauty, double-flung rainbows, cloudless and clean periwinkle skies, the struggling vegetables, distasteful distances, sleep challenges, and endless tundra of “spring.” I have, and thus implore, “let us be good stewards”. We won’t be sorry.