A trip to Pueblo last week brought with it a wealth of knowledge.
Visiting with my eldest son, who has moved outside the city to a pleasant rural area, I learned that the inner city has some festering wounds and, no matter how hard the authorities work to heal them, the sickness they take out is replaced by more of the same.
“When somebody threw a rock through my bedroom window, that was it for me,” he said, explaining why he moved out of the apartment he had occupied for more than a decade.
Someone was also shot near where he lived.
Happiness, it seems, is a historic house with good neighbors, who have a horse, cows and other critters.
The kindness of those neighbors, who also are Rich’s landlords, was shown when the woman allowed the grandkids to pet the horse and explore the woods behind their place.
Fountain Creek runs nearby and they were warned not to wade into it. It’s a long story, a battle between Pueblo and Colorado Springs, I was told.
As last Friday drew to a close, I went into the city to buy gasoline and returned to learn that the landlords had given the family a spiral sliced ham and some Irish cheddar cheese for their Easter dinner. They had also given the grandkids some brightly colored plastic eggs, which Rich hid around his yard.
Finding the eggs was fun and the kids expected candy treats. Nope. The woman had put bills of various denominations inside.
The largest was a $20 bill, followed by $10 and about 15 ones. We had met the woman once, but she apparently temporarily adopted our family. She really likes Rich.
Easter goodness and human generosity brightened the day.
Another enlightenment during our stay was the discovery that technology has dimmed and nearly erased the memory of the equipment with which my generation and our children were raised.
Along with his main house, Rich has an older structure on his property, which he uses for storage.
He let his nieces and nephew explore the place. I think they are “pickers” in training.
Along with all sorts of interesting old musical instruments and a crank-up phonograph, the nine-year-old boy, Bubba, found something even more interesting.
He came running into the house and stood in front of me.
“Gramma, I saw a real typewriter!”
I asked him if he knew what it was, and he replied, “a primitive computer.”
How did he know it wasn’t a more modern computer?
“It doesn’t have a screen or a mouse.”
Rich told him that, if he put a sheet of paper in it, he could write something.
“Nuh-uh. There’s no printer, either.”
Ah, technology. All the way back home, he watched movies on an iPad, with ear buds securely in place. He didn’t hear a word I said.
It’s just as well. I was reminiscing about the IBM Selectrics that came complete with balls.