Manitou Fruitcakes

Manitou Springs held its 14th Annual Fruitcake Toss yesterday, with a respectable sized crowd that diminished as the weather turned winter-like. The remaining crowd consisted mostly of entrant's families, the truly curious, a Discovery Channel film crew that hoarded most of the good shooting locations, and one dumb kid who had a haircut that looked like a cross between Darth Vader's helmet and Punk Rock Barbie. He did his best to get hit with flying fruitcakes; possibly his sights were set low enough that being hit by a flying fruitcake would qualify for his 15 minutes of fame. I didn't ask his name since he wasn't even nailed by any fruitcake shrapnel.

We probably should have headed for Denver after the "event," but Dawn, Drew, Jason and I stayed in a little bed and breakfast that clings to the side of the Manitou valley. Agate Hill Inn's Garden Cottage is where we stayed, complete with a view across the valley, a full kitchen, a roaring gas stove and much to the delight of the crew, a hot tub. I personally stay away from hot tubs, since I have my own theories about water displacement and the use of harpoons.

We ate pizza and drank, watched movies and the snow come down. Lots of snow. When I woke up this morning, there was ice on the inside of the window and reportedly 14 inches of snow on that steep, narrow hill. After that chilly, three dog night, we had a B&B breakfast of home-made waffles and strawberries but much to Jason's chagrin, no bacon.

Jason and I headed down the hill to visit an ATM, get a Diet Pepsi and maybe even a package of bacon that we could surreptitiously cook in our little kitchen. The place that was closest and open that early on a Sunday morning was a little converted gas station-mini mart that's next door to the liquor store. Last night, it seemed like a good place to bookmark for those little trips for things you spend change on but would give a million for if they weren't readily available. Besides, the guy behind the register wearing a red bandana and welding googles looked nice enough.

This morning, the cranky knitter was there and we could do only wrong.

"Don't wipe your feet in here, the carpet's getting wet!"

"Don't you have anything smaller?"

"The ATM is RIGHT THERE!"

I was tempted to ask her if she had recently lost one of her knitting needles, but I didn't. Chastened, we left without the bacon, possibly as atonement for thinking it was OK to wipe your feet on one of those rubber backed rugs, or use a $20 bill.

Yes, Manitou has interesting history, beautiful scenery, and apparently quite a few people that don't spend much time in front of the television set. They're out in the shed hammering away at pieces of lumber and in hardware stores looking for PVC pipe big enough to launch a 4 lb. fruitcake.

I found this bumper sticker on a truck up that was parked in one of the little lanes above the B&B. I was taking a walk, and I walked for an hour and enjoyed the soft, falling snow coupled with the subdued mountain light. It was quiet, utterly quiet. The kind of quiet you need to sort through troubles, make decisions, and view your life and see what needs work, what needs love, what needs discarded. In the middle of this Colorado beauty, I realized:

"What the hell am I doing out in the freezing cold!?"

The bumper sticker? The truck probably belongs to the kid with the Darth Vader/Punk Rock Barbie hair.