Moral Uplift
A Chautauqua thrives at the foot of the Rockies.
BY GILLIAN KLUCAS
In 2003, I moved to Boulder, Colo., in search of
inspiration. I had been living high in the Rocky Mountains
for a year, working on a book about the town of Leadville's
struggle with the federal government over mine waste.
Home then was a third-floor studio with a view of
the range's highest peaks, but by September, with
my book half written and the deadline four months
away, I rented, sight unseen, a studio over Boulder's
food co-op with a view of a red brick wall.
After throwing my futon on the floor, I went in search
of places where I might write. Boulder's numerous
coffee shops looked promising, as did its downtown
public library overlooking Boulder Creek. But true
stimulation came, unexpectedly, from a little patch
of lawn along a quiet, narrow lane in Chautauqua Park.
The Waterwise Garden, intended to promote xeriscaping,
is a triangular wedge of grass within the triangular
grounds of the West's only surviving Chautauqua,
part of a national movement that provided education
and entertainment to isolated communities beginning
in the 1870s. Ringed by native grasses, sumac, and
daisies, the rustic garden lacked the formality of
the park's Centennial Garden and the popularity
of "the Green," an expanse of lawn often
filled with picnickers, students, and dogs.
The old-fashioned garden became my favorite writing
spot. I never set foot inside a building in Chautauqua
Park—although I did pull on a few locked doors—never
spent a night in one of the cottages, never attended
a performance at the auditorium or ate a meal in the
dining hall. I had no time or money for any of that,
but I did feel a connection to this place, as if my
writing pursuit would meet with approval by Chautauqua's
founders. Surrounded by simple, early-20th-century
cottages with their friendly porches looking on, the
Waterwise Garden was a quiet place for park visitors
to let toddlers play and to greet neighbors. I spent
many mild, sunny days that winter sitting on one of
the garden's uncomfortable, if original, iron
benches and looking up occasionally at the massive
red sandstone formations known as the Flatirons. Relaxed
and less hurried, I could easily slip into a world
of my own creation. My laptop—but not my labor—was
the most incongruous part of the experience in a place
that I imagined was much like small-town America a
century ago.
For more of this article, look for the
July/August 2006
issue on newsstands or e-mail us to purchase a copy.
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