JOSEPH N. BELL -- The Bell Curve

I’ve been spending the past week in Boulder, Colo., with my youngest

daughter and the only grandson still at home. This is an annual event

that has been going on for two decades -- a stable reference point

through a long period of change.

This year it also represented my first foray into the outside world

since Sept. 11. So what follows is at least partly a report on what it’s

like Out There for those who -- like me -- have been staying home.

I have been traumatized by the drumbeat of long lines and security

delays at airports since the attacks on New York and Washington, D.C., so

I arrived at John Wayne Airport at 7:30 a.m. for a 9:30 flight, over the

protests of my wife, who drove me there after trying to fob me off on

neighbors who could drop me off at the airport a half-hour later.

My wife was right, of course. The place was virtually deserted when I

arrived. There was no check-in wait at United, and it took me about 10

minutes to negotiate the security line, which was staffed by the same

white-haired ladies sitting beside the same ancient machines I have seen

at John Wayne for many years. The only observable change was the presence

of four bored soldiers in fatigues with slung rifles.

So I was able to read the entire Los Angeles Times -- even the sports

section -- and enjoy a McDonald’s senior coffee before my flight was

called. The plane was perhaps two-thirds full, and I carefully avoided

profiling my fellow passengers as I got on.

The flight was uneventful except for two notable changes. The captain

made a small speech while we were awaiting takeoff clearance that

transcended the usual time of flight and weather at destination. He said,

rather eloquently, I thought, that he and his crew were aware of the

general uneasiness about flying these days, and they appreciated our

confidence and assured us it would be a safe trip or he wouldn’t be on it

himself. I found that comforting.

The other change had to do with breakfast -- or rather the lack

thereof. Admittedly, it wasn’t much before Sept. 11, but it did fill the

belly. Not so on my flight. We were offered a beverage and a tiny bag of

peanuts. For breakfast.

When I asked the flight attendant if this was it, she smiled benignly

and said, “Bon appetit.” Happily, my wife -- probably feeling guilt at

trying to avoid driving me to the airport so early -- had packed me a

cheese sandwich that held body and soul together through the breakfast

ordeal.

December weather in Boulder is inscrutable. I have been chilled to

the bone and up to my knees in snow or quite comfortable in just a

sweater -- or sometimes both. This time, the days were in the 40s and

sunny, and the nights bitterly cold. I found this exhilarating -- partly,

I admit, because I knew I would be coming back to Southern California in

a few days.

I always like to get up to speed on local newspapers when I travel,

and the big running story in the Boulder paper -- involving two totally

disconnected events at the local public library -- was heartening to a

visitor who is convinced this sort of thing happens only at home.

It started when Boulder’s head librarian objected to the size of the

American flag draped over the library entrance, questioning its

appropriateness and claiming it interfered with library business. While

this controversy was heating up on local talk shows, a new exhibit titled

“Art Triumphs Over Domestic Violence” -- sponsored by the Boulder County

Safehouse -- moved into the library’s art gallery. Its centerpiece,

called “Hanging ‘Em Out To Dry,” consisted of 21 ceramic reproductions of

male genitalia hanging on a clothesline.

The response was loud and immediate, even in this swinging college

town. The critics charged that while the public library was openly

supporting pornography, it was trying to restrict patriotism. And in this

acrimonious atmosphere, someone broke into the art gallery and stole the

contents of the clothesline. He was, of course, immediately labeled a

title fitting the choice of items he stole

That inspired a local songwriter, and while the ode to this character

was being played instead of Christmas carols on local radio stations, the

bandit emerged, claiming he was driven by anger over tax-supported

pornography and male-bashing. He became an instant hero to one group of

locals and an instant nut case to others. When I left Boulder, city

officials were still undecided whether to prosecute, institutionalize or

free him.

Departing Denver was almost as easy as departing Orange County. I got

to the Denver airport much too early and found the security lines longer,

but the process more efficient. The machinery looked new, the staff

seemed professional, and there were no bored soldiers in view. And my

wife picked me up at the airport when I returned, thereby expiating all

the departure guilt.

Oh, yes. I had a wonderful time in Boulder with my family. We bought,

raised and decorated the household Christmas tree. My high school senior

grandson was caring and accessible -- in every sense of that word -- and

even exposed me to some of his friends, both male and female. And my

daughter was my good friend. We talked together like grown-ups,

occasionally over a drink, often with candor, but never too much.

Next Christmas there will be more change. But that is light years

away, and this year was good. Very good.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.