She Cut My Silk Tie in Half

That night at dinner the mood was more Old West. A C&W band performed heartily as an old friend and I entered the Traildust Steakhouse. The place was hopping. The hostess grabbed my blue silk tie -- I thought she wanted me to lean closer so she could put my name down on the list. Instead, she pulled out a pair of scissors, cut my tie in half, took a Polaroid of me, and asked where I was from.

I was speechless. My friend patted me on the back and said, "Boulder." The hostess shook her head -- I ought to know better than to dress fancy for a steakhouse.

I came out of my stupor with the first bite of my steak. Thick, moist, and full of smoky flavor, what had seemed like an enormous portion of meat quickly disappeared from my plate. After dinner, my friend and I hit the dance floor just as the caller told everyone to bow to our partners. There were so many people dancing I had to watch my do-see-dos. When we couldn't dance another step, we hauled ourselves out, but not before having a good laugh over the photo of my stricken face and the pitiful scrap dangling from my neck.

Claustrophobia at Bay

On my last full day, I walked west on Baseline Road until it bent up into the foothills, where I took one of the footpaths crisscrossing the mountains.

The trail led around the base of a Flatiron to the steep valley between the rock slab and the hillside. Halfway up, the space between the mountain on my right and the rock wall narrowed until it was only a thin corridor. The crisp breeze, full of the scent of pine needles, kept my claustrophobia at bay.

When I reached the top, I stared down the rock face and out over Boulder. I easily found my old street and even the brick house where I grew up, with the towering oak in the backyard. To the south was the Trident and near it, the Boulder Creek, where my family would go tubing on summer Sundays.

Below me, kids in Chautauqua Park threw snowballs and sledded down the hill. I realized they were keeping my hometown memories warm. I hustled back down the trail to get my hands around a cup of tea.

Hardy Griffin's writing has appeared in The Washington Post and the literary magazines Ox and The Hangman's Lime. He teaches fiction writing at the Gotham Writers' Workshop in New York.