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.
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