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To the best of my knowledge, no scientists have discovered the cause of the Temporal Cluster Phenomenon. In cities, there's stuff going on all the time, so it may not apply. But out here, it's different; this came to my attention several years ago when our older daughter, Columbine, was a student at Western State College in Gunnison.
Someone was speaking there, and Martha and I decided to catch the lecture. We called Columbine to ask if she wanted to go with us. Some band she really wanted to see was in town, so she had other plans.
I mentioned it that night to George Sibley, who teaches
there. Most winter nights in Gunnison, there is nothing
to do,
he explained in a Zen sort of way. But some
nights there are two things to do.
In our part of the state, there's usually nothing special going on. But sometimes there are many events. Last weekend, there was the jazz festival in Westcliffe, the music festival in Crestone and Gold Rush Days in Buena Vista. Come Sept. 20, there's a big party above Gunnison, the Molly Brown Trial and St. Patrick's Day Practice in Leadville, the Handmade Festival in Saguache, and a festival in Salida -- all of which I'd enjoy attending.
The Temporal Cluster Phenomenon also struck last Thursday morning. That's when I normally write the Sunday column. There was a breakfast meeting of the Salida Merchants Association that I wanted to attend. However, Martha and I had been scheduled for a local radio talk show then.
While I was trying to sort that out on Wednesday, Columbine called. She's been living here for the past year as a normal mountain-town gen-Xer -- that is, lots of part-time jobs, like waiting tables, tending bar, substitute teaching, free-lance writing, and lately, guiding float trips.
All this summer, she had offered Martha and me a free trip on our choice of Arkansas River segments. But last Thursday was the last day of a guaranteed 500-cusec flow. That was important because the section we wanted to float -- an eight-mile quiet stretch from Stone Bridge to downtown Salida -- doesn't work when the water's lower.
As good mountain residents, Martha and I had no trouble making the proper decision: Blow off everything else, and enjoy the river.
That excursion did involve some preparation: writing the Sunday column on Wednesday, which meant no time to write another after the late afternoon call with the news about Sue O'Brien.
It came as no surprise. She had called me in April,
ostensibly with a question about a column. It began with
her customary sweet greeting: F -- - you Quillen, what
do you mean by ...
After we discussed a minor change,
she told me about the latest cancer, and that this time it
looked terminal.
People often misunderstand what editors do. Often there's the idea that editors are censors, or that they issue orders to columnists. Neither is true, at least in the Post's case. Editors work to keep me from making a fool of myself (they don't always succeed) and to make sure that whatever I've got to say is expressed clearly.
They spot ambiguity that I missed, as well as spelling and grammar lapses. They make sure numbers add up, and that dates make sense.
One rule of writing: If an editor tells you that something isn't clear, it isn't clear. Don't argue. So I never argued with her about those matters; we did argue about other topics, from Roy Romer to Animas-La Plata.
Sometimes she called herself a den mother,
and
that annoyed me at first with its Cub Scout connotations.
But over time, I realized it fit -- if you thought of a
real ursine den, rather than the scout version.
She nipped and swatted at her columnists to do better work -- I'm fond of putting lists in columns, and she made it profanely clear they should end with a summary or conclusion, rather than just the last item.
But she was ferocious in defending her cubs from outside forces -- I'll always be grateful to her for standing up for me when most of our legislature wanted my hide after I named those who voted to kill a bill that would have protected Coloradans from SLAPP lawsuits.
Den mother? More like Big Mama Grizzly.
It would comfort me greatly if there were a traditional newspaper office in the afterlife. Modern newspaper offices are quiet, civil places that resemble insurance claims processing centers. This one would clatter of Linotypes and shake when the press ran. It would be a smoke-ridden den of hard profanity and harder whiskey, with Jack Kisling and Sue O'Brien hammering away against the evils of obfuscation and purity, and it would be as close to Heaven as I'd ever want to get.
And it would be a place where you never felt as though you should be in four places at once.
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