Clifford G. Colgin, 1907. Natural Fort, Colorado, 2016
Who was this man, you ask?
Cliff was my maternal grandfather.
Note the birth date in the blog title (1891) and think about this: If he were still alive today he would be 125 years young. So, when Cliff was a child, there were Civil War veterans sitting around the dinner table telling stories about Yanks and Rebs–and those crusty 19th century vets would have been about the same age as today’s Vietnam veterans.
It’s amazing how far, far away things in history might seem. But they aren’t really that remote when you look creatively at certain personal connections.
Cliff and his wife, my grandmother Helen, used to take me out arrowhead hunting on the plains around Cheyenne. They knew where the old tipi circles were and, by golly, we found real arrowheads there! Young and impressionable, this was all so exciting and I could sense in my bones the ghosts of the Arapaho, Arikara, Bannock, Blackfeet, Cheyenne, Crow, Gros Ventre, Kiowa, Nez Perce, Sheep Eater, Sioux, Shoshone and Ute tribes as we scoured the rocky ground… their apparitions seemed to me to be very much present on what has since become national forest or private cattle and sheep ranches. (Another sad chapter for another day.)
He would take me fishing, too, and show me how to sneak up on the trout in the little prairie streams.
The one and only (and last!) time I went hunting was with him–when he was 85 years old! On that day, I actually killed an antelope with one shot, while standing, with the antelope jogging along a good 100 yards away–I couldn’t believe it. Fantastic luck or horrible luck, depending on your number of legs. I had no idea what to do next, so it was my grandfather–yes, at his age–who did all the dirty work with the knife to get the animal “cleaned” (to use a softer term) and into the trunk of the car and ready for the butcher. We always ate the meat he hunted.
I like to think that today, if he were my age, instead of hunting we would be hiking Colorado 14ers together, or rock climbing, or cycling, or photographing (he was a very avid amateur photographer and especially loved his various Polaroid Land Cameras).
Cliff was called up for World War I and told to report on his birthday–November 11th, 1918 (note that date). He reported and was literally standing in line for his physical when someone came in and shouted, “The war is over! Everyone can go home!” Imagine that! By 1941, he was considered too old for World War II, so missed out on that one. He scraped and scrapped through the Great Depression like millions of others were forced to do, so always cleaned up his plate at dinner and told us to do the same–and, of course, he was a big fan of FDR.
Cliff raised chinchillas for fur (pre-Depression, pre-animal rights!), sold cars and calendars, traveled around and set up movie projectors for shows, owned and operated several grocery/sundry-type stores… he basically did whatever he needed to do to make a living. He also wrote stories and poetry, collected unusual rocks and gems, even building a house, fountains, and flower beds out of all the bizarre and beautiful stones he found. (You can still see some bits of his handiwork at 711 E. 18th Street in Cheyenne, Wyoming.)
And he always had stories…
One of his best was about the first automobile he ever encountered (circa 1901-1905, I would guess). The primitive and strangely horseless “vehicle” was on its way, very slooowly, from Colorado Springs to Denver and the driver had to spend the night in Larkspur (Grandpa’s birthplace) at mid-journey. Cliff and his excited young buddies helped push the very under-powered and novel contraction up a sandy hill. The rest o’ the story? Well, fast-forward 20-30 years later and Cliff just happens to run in to that very same driver (now much older) in the Colgin and Son store in Carr, Colorado, some 100 miles to the north. The weird coincidence came up in a casual conversation between the two of them about the incredible progress in automobile design. Such was the intimate nature of the population of Colorado back then.
Another nice memory of mine: I watched the 1969 Apollo Moon Landing on my grandparents’ huge black and white console television in Cheyenne. (When Neil Armstrong apparently forgot to say “a man” instead of just “man”. And, yes, we really did land on the Moon.)
About the photograph above…
As you drive north on I-25, just before you hit the Wyoming State line, you’ll see some unusually sculptured gray sandstone formations on both sides of the interstate highway. This, at one time, was a wonderful rest stop maintained by the State of Colorado called “Natural Fort”, and we picnicked and played here often as young ‘uns. It was definitely a kid paradise. The rumor was that a skirmish between Indian tribes–or was it between the Indians and the settlers?–took place here, so that’s what we re-enacted. Now abandoned and no longer maintained, and as evidenced by the many broken bottles and spray-painted graffiti, the place seems to be the big party spot for high school and college types from Cheyenne, Fort Collins, and the few surrounding rural communities.
Anyway… one day, when Cliff was 16 years old, he stopped by a section of those rocks (likely on horseback and perhaps while out hunting rabbits for the home kettle) and carved his name and the date–“1907”–in the soft stone. Then, some 90 years later, my brothers stopped by and dug the thing a bit deeper as erosion was taking its toll (we consider it sort of an historical artifact–or is it merely “older” graffiti?).
A few days ago, I stopped by myself for a look-see and found it still visible (above), although erosion and lichen are both continuing to work in tandem to make it belong to the ages. I’ll have to come back soon with a carving tool.
What’s it all about?
The big questions… what will become of my grandfather when the wind and the rain finally smooth over the rock completely? What will happen when there are no longer any grandsons to carve the signature and date more deeply into the disappearing stone?
What will happen when the rocks themselves are completely gone?
Will my grandfather still exist? Will I?
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