The root of things
By Polly Oberosler
There is an old root cellar along Highway 50 and I thought about it and many others that have come to pass as I drove by. I know one of the offspring of that homestead and portions of his family story of their travels here.
The root cellar was there for a collection of prepared fruits and vegetables that were stored there year-round before refrigeration by many years. My family had one and I marveled at the pretty glass jars filled with colorful fruit stacked neatly on the crude shelves.
The cellars were basically dugouts created by digging into a hillside and lining the walls with logs to keep the dirt from falling into the structure. They all had a door made of rough sawn planks and shelves lined the log walls inside. The temperature inside was pretty much a constant 40 +/- degrees depending on how deep the cellar went into the hillside.
The roof was often thatched, but the more capable craftsmen laid a real plank roof on top then sealed it with tar paper.
As I drive by that old dugout, I think of the story that man told of his grandmother’s recollections of traveling west in a wagon. He told me that fencing the prairie had just begun, so they came on a pile of buffalo lying dead from suffocation when they could go no farther in a blizzard due to a fence. This man’s great-grandfather started the wagon around the carcasses, traveling by the dead beasts for miles. It took them four days before they could move west again.
Unlike the buffalo, they persevered crossing the plains of western Kansas and into Colorado. I believe they lingered for some time in eastern Colorado, but the dustbowl left them little decent soil to farm, they moved on westward. I am not sure when they reached the Gunnison Valley, but they thrived. By that I mean they got by on what was available, like many of us did. It felt like thriving to me growing up with food in the cellar, deer hanging under an awning and all the outdoor fun you could have. We wanted for little.
Our life was tied to that root cellar. To me it represented a joint effort to fill it year after year. Canned meats, fruits, vegetables, juices, etc. all put up by many hands. I remember the tail end of my family making tamales. Before my time they shipped them all over to the mining camps to make ends meet.
My entire life has been rooted in that lifestyle. The root cellar to me represents a collection of folks who formed a community even living several miles apart. A ranch here, a farm there, all rooted in community. Neighbors helping neighbors to brand cattle for the range or dress out the beef and sharing in the cuts as well as trading both labor and goods for the thanks of getting the beef. That is how I grew up, one deed for another.
In the root cellar the canned beets did not argue with the canned carrots, they stood together as we should, coming from the same pot with maybe different water. We thrived on camaraderie and would ask for nothing more. Sure, there may have been a few that did and those who eventually fall into the cycle of greed. But the roots of most held. Caring, the touch of hands in so many ways; it seems we are losing that, losing our roots and perhaps the cellar to anchor them.
The cellars are gone, and the one I speak of got turned into a small fire truck shelter for a collection of neighbors, helping neighbors. That followed the root of things. We seem to be discarding that. Measuring people by what they can do for each other, not who they can help. We can flourish alone perhaps, but it is not likely for we need the caring of each other. Some days we need help.
My husband and I have been debilitated in one way or the other since November and the neighbors were there for us as we have been for them as we could. They never asked why, for they are rooted in the things that make the world a better place. None of us have the same politics, but it matters not. What matters is we are rooted in community.
I have friends of all stripes who care for me and I for them. There is not a measure stick or score card. If someone needs help we do our best to be there from pushing cattle, grazing them or giving some of our hay to someone in need. We hope to help others thrive. I spent well over 20 years and my husband more than half that volunteering to the United States Forest Service, clearing trails, hauling trash and helping people. That is the root of things.
