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The competition was over. Now it was time for the awards. Worried that I would do something foolish, like trip over my shoelaces, I glanced down, and felt reassured that it would be impossible. I was wearing boots.
Up to the platform. Flanked by the second- and third-place winners, I stepped to its highest level. An official came forward with the gold medal. I bowed as the strap settled around my neck.
Then I straightened and stared resolutely forward,
brushing tears from my eyes as the band struck up the
Salida anthem, Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.
Alas, it wasn't at all like the Olympics. At the annual Colorado Press Association awards luncheon Saturday afternoon, they just flash a slide of your work up on a big screen, and somebody reads your name. Seconds later, they move on to the next category.
Afterward, you shake hands, accept and extend congratulations, catch up on some trade gossip, and move on. For Martha and me, that meant driving north to LaSalle.
One reason was to visit the Farmer's Inn and get some decent chili verde to counteract the Brown Palace's banquet food, something on the order of Lunchmeat Cordon Bleu. These days, it's only prudent to gorge on Mexican food at every opportunity; any morning we might end up with a law that makes crumpets or boiled beef the Official Cuisine of Colorado.
Years had passed since I took U.S. 85 north from Denver.
Little had changed, except that there used to be a motel in
Brighton whose MOTEL
sign was upside down. It was
gone. What happened to it?
When we reached LaSalle, we looked up my old friend from high school, Rex Ewing. He asked why I was smiling, and I told him about the first-place award.
Does this mean you're going to be rich and
famous?
he wondered.
I doubt it,
I confessed. I've won awards
before, and the most I ever got was a free dinner.
Rex laughed. You want to know just how famous you are
these days? Let me show you this. You won't believe it.
He went to a desk, fished through some papers, and returned
with an envelope.
Inside was an announcement that this summer, there will be a joint 20-year reunion of the classes of 1968 at Greeley West and Greeley Central high schools.
That might be fun,
I muttered as I read through
the proposed activities. Except Greeley must have
changed a lot since I finally left town in '74. I never
heard of Bittersweet Park or the Raintree Plaza
Hotel.
Read on,
he advised.
Look here,
said Martha, who didn't grow up in
Greeley. They want each family to bring two side dishes
to a picnic. That's an awful nuisance when you live 200
miles away, like us. And what of people who might actually
have made something out of themselves, and would be flying
in from California or Massachusetts? They must think that
Greeley is such a great place that no one would ever move
any farther away than Platteville. Or maybe as far as
Nunn.
Don't fret about that,
Rex said. Look at the
back.
He turned the sheet over. On the reverse side was
a long list of people whom the reunion committee couldn't
find. Rex pointed down the list. There I was, among the
missing. See how famous you've become, Ed? Our own
high-school reunion committee can't find you.
That's preposterous,
Martha said. Every bill
collector and process server in Colorado can find you, and
they can't? Why bother going?
Well, there were some people I'm curious about,
I
began.
You really want to spend $64, plus motel rooms and
the other horrors of travel, just for two sweltering days
organized by people who don't even read newspapers?
she
wondered.
We've since discussed the matter considerably, and I still don't know. Like all columnists, I love to dispense advice. Now I'd like to receive some. Would you go, or not? Since you're not a member of the reunion committee, you shouldn't have any trouble finding me to let me know.
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