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Show THE ZEPHYR DECEMBER 1994 PAGE 10 m w an little metropolis to reflect on the season gone memory. Leaving just the nucleus of our winter. by as well as endure the hardships of The natural assumption would be that five or six thousand inhabitants of a small rural community would share some uncanny similarities. Oh contraire! I can only link lies in the rubble of our scattered and speculate, however, that the elusive missing diverse pasts. Further, one can not ignore the motivational forces that brought us here. This far from "planned community" is home to quite a collection of distinct individuals. One would at best grope for a common bond other than the obvious for a replacement existence for a former happenstance that we are all searching unfulfilled life. Let us not forget, the (meal ticket) internal trappings of the season. The "DIRTY LAUNDRY"! Our local "underpaid and overworked" law enforcement agencies are A book on Freud and a cup a joe and gearing up for their grueling winter challenge. they're off into the night. Something about mixin' dark cold days, unemployment and various mind altering substances. Desperate people revert to desperate actions. We got it all, suicides to wife and child beaters. Where's my head? Husband beaters too! Unless you have your head in a darkened extremity, as some of our residents do, it's one of the first bubbles to burst after entering, THE SMALL DESERT COMMUNITY ZONE! If not my favorite entity, perty dang close, the NONDESCRIPT. There's hundreds of them all over the place. Perhaps it doesn't show in my writing but, Tm a chatter". I've never been much for formalities, in so many of my impromptu encounters my mind has been riddled with cosmic complacency vibrations. It's just virtually impossible that everything could be that damn o.k.. With all (annoying as hell at times ) the problems we face both individually and as a community it just seems that our scope should be a bit broader than contemplating the notion of dressing wanner for the winter season. TURN OUT THE LIGHTS By the time this publication hits the racks, the fat lady will be in full vibrato. The task of transforming the cornucopia of sights, sounds and mental gymnastics into the written word is destined to be all encompassing. Not the kind of thing one seeks but, if called upon as I have been, certainly a challenge that has to be met. I have no knowledge of or ( tourists ) any reason to suspect our seasonal sequence varies from the standard issue earth scenario: Spring - Summer - Fall Winter. What makes our most recent metamorphosis noteworthy is the transition from thriving infont tourism mecca to desolate old mining town. This phenomena is fueled by atmospheric conditions that render our array of recreational amusements undesirable. Moab is The Great Outdoors" personified. Come winter, it's not as if it transforms into (angels in motorhomes) a ghoulish topographical atrocity. The red rocks are a thing of great beauty regardless of the environmental conditions that embrace them. They are magnificent monuments to erosion. The rhetorical reality to the equation is if one is destined to put forth all that is required to bond with such a remote locale, most likely they have enough intuitive secretion to surmise that their best interests would be served (the peddling salt of the Earth) if they came when they could take advantage of its offerings in their entirety. The season's conclusion is somewhat like an alluring lady of the evening at first glance. After countless months of responsibility and associated rhetoric, the knowledge that the battle has concluded and the remnants are forming their winter agendas in stone are a welcome finale. Which also eliminates the need for any concerted efforts and allows one the freedom that comes with the knowledge that any attempt to drastically altar events or circumstance is for the most part, fruitless. This, combined with the elimination of the multi-nation- al sea of camera toting question asking line makers that you've spent the past eight months (meal ticket) skillfully navigating and avoiding, adds to the euphoria. Inevitably, the ether finally relinquishes its grasp giving way to reality. The gambit that obstructs the path to winter often is a force to reckon with. One of the first requirements, population reduction. If not successfully implemented we run the risk of the weak increasing the burden to levels beyond tolerances conducive to survival. Fortunately, the majority of communal guests seem to heed the warnings that surface during the course of the season at the mere mention of winter. The second wave departs with the first signs of territorial claims by townsfolk settling in for (goofy) the winter. The few remaining procrastinators foil victim to various social and occupational hazards that eventually changes their status to little more than a Yet, in the midst of this collage of events and humanity, there is an old world flair that softens the societal impacts. People talk about firewood, insulation and things that have to get done before the first freeze. Some have crops, cattle and things like irrigation. We don't have a mall, why, you'd have to drive 90 miles to sit on Santa's lap. There' s things to fight for here as well as things we're witnessing the destruction of. Some folks that were reared here grew up without electricity or plumbing for reasons other than it hadn't been invented. Acceptance is (meal ticket) still based on individual merit not social status. Perhaps therein lies the essence of our bond; we haven't succumbed to the facade that urban folks identify as comfort, security, safety and convenience. Maybe you're suffering from the same underlining bewilderment that has been with me from early on in this piece? What's the point? Well, I think there's some AVALANCHE CONTROL CENTER BENEFIT: December 17, 830PM WHY THE SAD ITS CAPTAIN FACE? KIRK.. iCANrrBELlEVEHE's 'r I i. 'a iriii y it;- - REALLY GONE. Restaurant OUTSTAUDINGISOUTHWESTER |