MOUNTAIN SHACKS, FLYING BEER BOTTLES AND THE DEATH OF THE MIDDLE CLASS
Or How to Save St John From Itself
We are walking through dense undergrowth in search of a shack for rent. We have hitchhiked up Centerline Rd and stumbled down a goat path. The shack clings precariously to the hillside. It’s screen door hangs on one hinge.
“It’s perfect” we exclaim, “We’ll take it.”
That sad little hut on the mountain is as precarious as St John itself. Rising property values put shacks in high demand for renters. At the same time they are an endangered species as more land is cleared for new development. In some areas expensive houses spring up next door to plywood and corrugated tin huts. The contrast is shocking. Alas the old St John is quickly disappearing into memory.
Old St John was lawless, rough around the edges, quirky and sometimes unpleasant but a real place. A place completely different from the homogenous suburbia that smothers America.
The new St John doesn’t pick up unshowered long hairs with their surfboards heading to the break. It’s residents are tucked safely inside brand new SUV’s, air conditioned and sealed up tight. The new St John is gated developments, with homeowner’s associations. Meanwhile, the soul of old St John dies with each Suzuki Samurai that belches it’s last breath.
No longer can you buy a piece of land, build your own little house, and live like Robinson Crusoe in the jungle. That would hurt your neighbor’s property value, not to mention violate building codes. Impractical dreamers beware, the new St John is about money, lots and lots of money. Funky, eclectic shops like Natures Nook are under siege by parking garages and supermarkets where a gallon of milk is $7.95.
But there’s no point in waxing for the past. The question is, where are we headed? Headlong into a race of progress, development and estates, leaving in its wake an entire population of pool cleaners, driveway sweepers and housecleaners. I’m talking about no less than the death of the middle class. Aspen Colorado has to bus in it’s resort workers because no wage earner can afford to live there. The tragedy of St John would be a ghost town of massive empty houses and a phone book full of property management companies. Communities can literally be gutted by the onslaught of wealth. Property taxes continue to rise as the uber rich speculate and the native population, unable to sustain, must cash in.
Of course the dynamics aren’t quite that simple but judging by the crowds at the ferry dock each day, more and more people are forced to live on St Thomas and commute to St John.
I have a suggestion on how to save St John. It’s radical and unheard of, except in the little town of Ward, Colorado. This small mountain town, sits precariously in the Rocky Mountains just above the burgeoning, exploding, wealth pit of Boulder. Boulder is a town so infamous for yuppification and massive demographic shifts that one needn’t even mention what state it’s in. Boulder suffered from being beautiful. A perfect town with a mountain backdrop and an urban core of escalating property values.
The outlying areas boomed as speculators and developers rushed to meet the new demand for Rocky Mountain high - rises. Only one place was spared, the odd little town of Ward. A town so eccentric that when the mayor died they never bothered to elect another one. And since the dead mayor never told them what to do they did nothing. You see Ward was and is a kind of haven for bohemian types and hard toothed mountain men. When our car broke down just outside of Ward and we sought out the warmth of the wood stove at the local market a large bearded man with knee high moccasins sat next to us, unsheathed his knife and lay it pointedly on the table between us. Then he proceeded to berate us city folk, our inability to fix our own car, our inability to survive out here. His point was, basically, go away and don’t come back. From that moment on I loved Ward. I loved it’s mountains of trash, old hippie buses, shrines of rusty car parts and half finished sculpting projects. I loved its cabins fashioned from recycled barn lumber and homemade stained glass clinging stubbornly to the hills above the little town.
Passing through Ward there were always people in the road to glare at you, jealously guarding their hamlet from speeders and realtors. There also might be a procession of flautists and other musicians prancing along. Or a group of unkempt kids lighting off fire works in the middle of the road. My point is, this eclectic community survived Boulder’s excess by leaving a wall of old cars, buses, trucks, trash and unsavory and unpleasant characters to guard against attack.
Perhaps St John should do the same. We need more abandoned vehicles, less trash removal, less government, less showers and more spontaneous festivals of the weird. Investors, speculators and second homeowners are notoriously finicky. They don’t like messy, chaotic, un-manicured, anarchistic places. So spit in the street, wear your dirtiest shirt, roll that old heap from the back of the yard to the front, take a jackhammer to the street in front of your house and generally be unpleasant. Watch our local homeless for tips in how to head off the
impending shifts in our way of life. Each person must take personal efforts to smell badly, drive badly, talk badly and landscape badly. We can no longer afford to be charming or cute or friendly or pretty.
When you go to the beach go naked and bring your dog, let ‘em poop wherever he wants, then put your cigar out in the sand. Have a huge fire, and roast a pig. The horrifying sight of a burning pig carcass skewered on a stick while we all jump around naked and the dogs howl might make the beach a little less attractive. Don’t worry, after things get back to normal we can sift the cigar butts and pig bones out of the sand.
A few days ago I ducked as an irate man hurled beer bottles down the ferry dock at our “Homeland Security Guard.” As the bottles hummed overhead, bouncing off vehicles and shattering down the dock the guard collected up his own bottles angling for a clear shot back at the trouble maker. I had to admit, in spite of all the changes, St John is still like nowhere else on earth.
We are walking through dense undergrowth in search of a shack for rent. We have hitchhiked up Centerline Rd and stumbled down a goat path. The shack clings precariously to the hillside. It’s screen door hangs on one hinge.
“It’s perfect” we exclaim, “We’ll take it.”
That sad little hut on the mountain is as precarious as St John itself. Rising property values put shacks in high demand for renters. At the same time they are an endangered species as more land is cleared for new development. In some areas expensive houses spring up next door to plywood and corrugated tin huts. The contrast is shocking. Alas the old St John is quickly disappearing into memory.
Old St John was lawless, rough around the edges, quirky and sometimes unpleasant but a real place. A place completely different from the homogenous suburbia that smothers America.
The new St John doesn’t pick up unshowered long hairs with their surfboards heading to the break. It’s residents are tucked safely inside brand new SUV’s, air conditioned and sealed up tight. The new St John is gated developments, with homeowner’s associations. Meanwhile, the soul of old St John dies with each Suzuki Samurai that belches it’s last breath.
No longer can you buy a piece of land, build your own little house, and live like Robinson Crusoe in the jungle. That would hurt your neighbor’s property value, not to mention violate building codes. Impractical dreamers beware, the new St John is about money, lots and lots of money. Funky, eclectic shops like Natures Nook are under siege by parking garages and supermarkets where a gallon of milk is $7.95.
But there’s no point in waxing for the past. The question is, where are we headed? Headlong into a race of progress, development and estates, leaving in its wake an entire population of pool cleaners, driveway sweepers and housecleaners. I’m talking about no less than the death of the middle class. Aspen Colorado has to bus in it’s resort workers because no wage earner can afford to live there. The tragedy of St John would be a ghost town of massive empty houses and a phone book full of property management companies. Communities can literally be gutted by the onslaught of wealth. Property taxes continue to rise as the uber rich speculate and the native population, unable to sustain, must cash in.
Of course the dynamics aren’t quite that simple but judging by the crowds at the ferry dock each day, more and more people are forced to live on St Thomas and commute to St John.
I have a suggestion on how to save St John. It’s radical and unheard of, except in the little town of Ward, Colorado. This small mountain town, sits precariously in the Rocky Mountains just above the burgeoning, exploding, wealth pit of Boulder. Boulder is a town so infamous for yuppification and massive demographic shifts that one needn’t even mention what state it’s in. Boulder suffered from being beautiful. A perfect town with a mountain backdrop and an urban core of escalating property values.
The outlying areas boomed as speculators and developers rushed to meet the new demand for Rocky Mountain high - rises. Only one place was spared, the odd little town of Ward. A town so eccentric that when the mayor died they never bothered to elect another one. And since the dead mayor never told them what to do they did nothing. You see Ward was and is a kind of haven for bohemian types and hard toothed mountain men. When our car broke down just outside of Ward and we sought out the warmth of the wood stove at the local market a large bearded man with knee high moccasins sat next to us, unsheathed his knife and lay it pointedly on the table between us. Then he proceeded to berate us city folk, our inability to fix our own car, our inability to survive out here. His point was, basically, go away and don’t come back. From that moment on I loved Ward. I loved it’s mountains of trash, old hippie buses, shrines of rusty car parts and half finished sculpting projects. I loved its cabins fashioned from recycled barn lumber and homemade stained glass clinging stubbornly to the hills above the little town.
Passing through Ward there were always people in the road to glare at you, jealously guarding their hamlet from speeders and realtors. There also might be a procession of flautists and other musicians prancing along. Or a group of unkempt kids lighting off fire works in the middle of the road. My point is, this eclectic community survived Boulder’s excess by leaving a wall of old cars, buses, trucks, trash and unsavory and unpleasant characters to guard against attack.
Perhaps St John should do the same. We need more abandoned vehicles, less trash removal, less government, less showers and more spontaneous festivals of the weird. Investors, speculators and second homeowners are notoriously finicky. They don’t like messy, chaotic, un-manicured, anarchistic places. So spit in the street, wear your dirtiest shirt, roll that old heap from the back of the yard to the front, take a jackhammer to the street in front of your house and generally be unpleasant. Watch our local homeless for tips in how to head off the
impending shifts in our way of life. Each person must take personal efforts to smell badly, drive badly, talk badly and landscape badly. We can no longer afford to be charming or cute or friendly or pretty.
When you go to the beach go naked and bring your dog, let ‘em poop wherever he wants, then put your cigar out in the sand. Have a huge fire, and roast a pig. The horrifying sight of a burning pig carcass skewered on a stick while we all jump around naked and the dogs howl might make the beach a little less attractive. Don’t worry, after things get back to normal we can sift the cigar butts and pig bones out of the sand.
A few days ago I ducked as an irate man hurled beer bottles down the ferry dock at our “Homeland Security Guard.” As the bottles hummed overhead, bouncing off vehicles and shattering down the dock the guard collected up his own bottles angling for a clear shot back at the trouble maker. I had to admit, in spite of all the changes, St John is still like nowhere else on earth.
posted by Han at 1:29 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home