Ranch in a valley along the river

Long before RVR was a posh golf course neighborhood, it actually was a ranch in a valley along the river. My younger sister, Annie, remembers sitting in the big comfy chair in our grandparents’ living room when some men showed up in clean western-style shirts and brand-new cowboy hats. Thirty-odd years ago, she witnessed the initial investors negotiating with our grandfather for land and water rights they would need to build their golf course community. They all took a seat at the dining table with Gan, in his usual spot at the head of the large table that easily sat 10. They were merely steps away from where she sank down into the leather armchair— not exactly hiding, but Annie knew she could stay and listen, unnoticed as long as she kept still.

When we were kids, staying at the ranch came with a heightened awareness. More like trepidation than fear, it was the uncertainty of ranch life: what was in that simmering crockpot that we would be expected to completely clean off our plates? What kind of mood was Gan’s dog, Bogie, in? Does fluorescent lighting make every room feel this sad…

Today, when I stand at the southern edge of RVR, I can still see the ranch of my childhood. The back of the two-story house and basement garage, the pool with a giant rock for diving in the deep end, the tennis court surrounded by weeds, and the little rock wall enclosure where they burned the trash. Back then there wasn’t nearly as much packaging as today, and glass and plastic containers were washed and reused, so all the paper, cardboard, etc. was burned behind the house.

“What about the food waste,” you ask? Well, there wasn’t any. Sunday supper was as reliable as death and taxes, and we had just as much control over the portion put on our plates. Finishing your dinner was non-negotiable and rummaging through the fridge later was not a thing on the ranch.

Beef was the centerpiece of every meal, seeing as it was a cattle ranch and all. The blood running across my plate was the only dipping sauce available, and it inevitably ran into the rest of the standard food pyramid: lima beans, bare baked potato, etc. An insurmountable amount of my least favorite foods that I was expected to finish completely, especially if I wanted dessert. Luckily, there were always hungry ranch dogs under the table, circling like sharks at a capsized cruise ship. Sneaking food into my napkin, then to my lap where it magically disappeared was the only way I was ever gonna see an ice cream sandwich. And this was one time Bogie could be counted on to be gentle, eating our scraps under the dining room table. He didn’t want to get caught any more than we did.

Whether or not my grandfather knew this was going on, is debatable. Not much got by him. I often wonder what he would think of Carbondale these days, but I’ve got a pretty good idea what he would say about a Florida crew buying RVR and “elevating the experience.” Anyone who has experienced Carbondale already knows that this community is the real deal. Ranchers and golfers living together in harmony; hippies and hipsters coexisting on mountain town time.

Carbondale knows how to have a good time, and anyone wanting to Aspenify us will learn that our connectivity roots run deep. All the way back to pre-RVR days, like the time Josh and Justin Lent (Mal’s boys) and their friends helped my grandfather wrangle some loose horses in their black leather jackets and combat boots. Or when their ride broke down, and Gan came along in his old FORD pickup— with Bogie riding shotgun no doubt. He pulled over without hesitation, telling them all to climb in the back. As he pulled out onto the road, a couple of men watched them go by and one said to the other, “There goes Bob Perry with a load of punks in his truck.”

That image lives rent-free in my mind, capturing the essence of the Carbondale community. All of us, enjoying this ranch in a valley along the river.