Walking Through the Neighborhood in Mid October
Today in Denver on October 17th at 3:00 pm the temperature is 82 degrees. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I just finished a two-mile round trip walk to the grocery store. I haven’t been driving since September 9th due to a medical condition. This has given me the chance to do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, making observations as I wander and wonder, and reflecting on those observations. First, I’ll offer some background on my medical condition.
I wonder, when I tell people that I can’t drive for three months due to a medical condition, if they don’t suspect that I have actually had my license suspended for driving under the influence. This is not the case. You might have seen a report in the news of Mitch McConnell having a brief spell of perhaps thirty seconds when he was addressing the senate and became unresponsive. When I saw this I speculated that he was having an absence seizure, or what my doctors later called a complex partial seizure. I see these also referred to as focal impaired awareness seizures or focal onset impaired awareness seizures. Neurologists are less poetic than we are. We call this behavior spacing out. My first episode happened in March of 2017, when I was playing music with a friend. We had agreed that we were going to cover a handful of songs, including Greg Allman’s “Melissa.” When I told her I thought we should do that song next, she told me that we just finished it, and that for twenty or thirty seconds after we finished she could not get me to respond to her. When she told me this, I thought maybe I remembered doing the song, but I wasn’t sure. It was concerning enough that I called my doctor who said if it happened again I would undergo a neurological evaluation. Sure enough, in September, while out to breakfast with a friend, she told me that I experienced another similar episode. After a battery of tests including CT scans and MRIs which found nothing, I was prescribed anti-epileptic medication that successfully kept me seizure-free for six years. When I started that regimen I was told to avoid driving and other potentially dangerous situations for three months to ensure that the medication was effective.
In the late spring of 2023 after asking my neurologist about some side effect to the medication, he decided to reduce my dosage. I was already on a low dose of Zonisamide (150 mg per day) which was lowered gradually to 100 mg per day. I have read that a more typical dose is 300 to 400 mg per day. Regardless, on September 9th I was at a music party where some of us were performing live sets of music. I apparently had another event, my only one in over six years, after doing my second of four planned songs. I didn’t know this had happened until my female friend said she had to reorient me after the second song to “restart” me on my third song. When I told my neurologist about this he put me back on the higher dose and told me not to drive for three months to make sure the higher dose was sufficient to keep me seizure free.
On Saturday, October 21st it will have been (was) six weeks since I returned to the higher dose, and so far, so good. I had some strange side effects for the first two or three weeks after going back to the higher dose, but now I don’t really notice anything. I might try to describe those in a separate post, since they do make me wonder about the workings of the human mind. But I really want to write about what life’s been like without driving.
My woman friend, Ruth, and I had been planning for a year, since we made the trip last September, to go to the Walnut Valley Music Festival in Winfield, Kansas starting on September 13th. I decided to cancel this trip after talking to Ruth. Neither of us thought it a good idea to have her do all the driving, or to have me be away from home while adjusting to a change in medication. This was a big disappointment since there were several performers we looked forward to seeing, and we had hoped to meet up with good friends from New Mexico. I took advantage of staying in town during that time to take the bus to a local Kaiser medical office to get a flu shot. I checked out the route and saw that it was a short bus ride on one line going south and then another short ride on a different line going west. I assumed that any westbound bus that came along Alameda would be one that would pass the medical office, so I took the first one. It diverted south a few blocks after I got on and kept going, taking me several miles out of my way. By the time I got off I was facing a long walk to get back to a point where I could catch a different line that would get me close to my destination. Upon closer inspection, I saw that Google Maps shows the bus line numbers that take you where you want to go. I had not made note of these numbers, but did so on my return home. All in all, I kind of enjoyed the adventure of taking the bus, and had to laugh at myself for not planning better. This experience did make me realize how much less independence people have who must rely on public transportation. In Denver, which probably has better service than many cities, routes are limited, buses and trains don’t always run on schedule, and there can be long waits for vehicles to show up. Those of us with automobiles are spoiled by the luxury of being able to come and go as we please.
Although the doctor did not mention cycling, common sense says that if one should not drive due to the risk of a seizure, one should also refrain from riding a bike in traffic. But, as I sat on my indoor trainer for the fourth or fifth time in less than two weeks, I began to rationalize that a driver who has a seizure is a danger to others as well as himself, whereas a cyclist who has a seizure is likely only a danger to himself. I concluded that I could pick routes to ride along bike trails and on back streets that were not heavily travelled and resume riding outside. This has helped my mental health, since I now allow myself to resume my outdoor rides.
Taking a Break in the Mountains
Ruth is like I am in that she loves the mountains, the outdoors in general, and simply getting out and walking. She picked me up one day and drove us to Staunton Ranch State Park southwest on Denver for a six or seven mile hike amidst the changing aspen leaves. We’ve also taken some long, directionless walks through my very interesting neighborhood. I won’t write any more about our hike, but below this picture is a link to some other photos I took.
https://michaelshainline.com/staunton-ranch-state-park-hike-october-9-2023/
My Changing Neighborhood
My neighborhood is in northwest Denver, near the intersection of 23rd Avenue and Federal Boulevard. My sense is that it is a part of the city that has always been changing, but I’ve seen a lot of transition in the more than twelve years I’ve lived here. The area is often referred to as the Highlands, with smaller sections some call Lo Hi (Lower Highlands) and Slo Hi (Sloan’s Lake Highlands). Adjacent neighborhoods include Berkeley and Jefferson Park. A few blocks have been designated the Witter-Cofield Historical District. City of Denver documentation describes the area thusly:
The Witter-Cofield neighborhood, once in the town of Highlands, is a streetcar suburb with an eclectic mixture of homes built predominantly from 1880 through the early 1940s. To a greater extent than other residential areas of its time, Witter-Cofield housed a mixture of Denver’s wealthy, upper middle and working class citizens. It’s not uncommon to see a large, ornate Queen Anne style residence adjacent to a cluster of simple Victorian, pyramidal cottages and early 20th century row homes. Queen Anne is the predominant style of architectural; however, scattered examples of Denver Square and bungalow homes are found, often with Classical or Craftsman detailing. Dutch colonial style and other early 20th century revival styles are also found in the district.
The above description applies accurately to the area bounded by 25th Avenue to the north, 21st Avenue to the South, Irving Avenue to the west, and Federal Blvd. to the east. This district falls under regulations intended to preserve the period character of the structures as much as possible. The further one strays from these boundaries, especially to the south and to the west, the less one sees Queen Anne and Victorian architecture, and the more one sees new duplexes and multiplexes having been built on lots where Denver Squares and bungalows have been cleared from expensive real estate.
Below are two examples of Queen Anne- / Victorian-style homes in the blocks near where I live.
Many of the Queen Anne and Victorian homes are well preserved and maintained, while others are in need of repair, and still others are no longer structurally sound. I’m not sure what mandates are placed on property owners whose structures are unstable. In my walks around the neighborhood I see some abandoned homes that appear to be near collapse, and others in various stages of restoration. Outside of the designated historical district, I don’t think there are any regulations preventing the sale and demolition of older Denver Square, bungalow, cottage, and row homes, but between 21st and 25th Avenues I haven’t noticed the demolition of any Queen Anne- or Victorian-style homes. It would be a tragedy to see any of them brought down, but at the same time I can only imagine the expense required to maintain them at modern standards of comfort, safety, and efficiency.
In early 2011, when I first moved into this part of town, the area east of Irving and south of 20th avenue bordered by Colfax Ave. on the south and Federal Blvd. on the east was almost all bungalows and row houses. My assumption is that they were owned by people who did not live in the neighborhood, but they were affordable to working class renters. In 2011 there was still a housing slump, but that rapidly changed, and within a few years property values doubled and even tripled in the area. Since I’ve lived here I’ve watched the bungalows and row houses get scraped from their lots as the properties are sold to developers for the price on the land. In place of the former affordable rental properties multiplexes have sprung up. Some call these structures slot apartments because of the way they’re places over alleyways with carports or single garages on the ground floor and six or more two- or three-story units lined up in a long, narrow row. North of 20th avenue, based on what I observe, the zoning allows for single homes and duplexes, but virtually all the new construction consists of duplexes like the structure pictured above. South of 20th avenue almost all the new construction consists of multiplexes of six or more units in a single structure.
After seeing all the changes taking place in my neighborhood I wrote a song about them, which I was lucky enough to perform, along with Ruth Price, at the Walnut Valley Music Festival several years ago.
My East Bay Subdivision
The subdivision I live in doesn’t conform to any of the characteristics I’ve described so far. It’s called East Bay, and was developed in 1995 on the property that once housed the Jewish National Home for Asthmatic Children at Denver. This center was later renamed simply the National Asthma Center, and was a national residential treatment facility for children with intractable asthma, as well as a research facility. The campus where East Bay now sits was sold in 1981, so I’m not sure of the history of the the property between then and 1995 when the houses were completed.
The development consists of five or six blocks of probably 75 to 100 individual homes, all built in a similar style. Each home has a pitched roof, front porch, rear garage with alley access, basement, and a main and second second floor. All the homes have wood siding and might remind some of New England architecture. Casual observation from the outside would lead one to believe that there are four or five basic floor plan variations, with at least three plans somewhat derivative (at least with regard to the interior) of the Denver Square, but lacking the little window peeking out from the center of a pyramid-shaped roof, as well as other external characteristics.
When my wife and I moved to Denver we rented an apartment in the southeast part of town while we looked for a home. In 2010 there was a housing slump which meant we listed our home in Albuquerque for less than we had paid for it about six year previously. We didn’t want to buy a house in Denver for more than we were going get for the Albuquerque house, and even though Denver was also in a slump, we were prepared to downsize. One day we rode our bicycles from our apartment to Confluence Park along the Cherry Creek Trail, and as we were wondering where to go next someone suggested taking the short incline up 23rd avenue and heading west to Sloan’s Lake. We had no idea that there was a lake there, but the ride took us just two blocks north of the upper edge of East Bay, and we decided we wanted to explore home options in this part of town. It didn’t take us long, though, to decide that we didn’t want to pay that much for a home, even though we looked at one that we really liked in East Bay.
We spent another few weeks looking at homes in the suburbs and were ready to close on a house in a newer development in the northeast part of town, but discovered some plumbing issues on our final walkthrough. We told ourselves we didn’t want that house anyway, and immediately made an offer on a house we’d been looking at in East Bay. That’s where I’m living now by myself as a widower of more than eight years.
From my house it’s a five minute walk to the east side of Sloan’s Lake – a great destination at the end of a day. I’m also only ten to fifteen miles from the foothills and can easily reach the roads behind Golden or Morrison for beautiful, challenging climbs on the bicycle. Although I’ve greatly reduced my alcohol consumption since my latest epilepsy event, there are at least six small brew pubs within walking distance of my house, and another half dozen within a fifteen-minute drive. I also have a great selection of restaurants, pastry shops, and cafes nearby.
Some photos captured while walking around Sloan’s Lake.
Some photos captured while out cycling.
The Other Side of Life in Northwest Denver
Since I’ve been walking or taking the bus to my destinations the past weeks I’ve encountered people I wouldn’t have otherwise run into. On one of my first pedestrian journeys to the grocery store I met a young man of not more than 25 years of age who approached me in the aisle and asked me in Spanish if I could help him with the purchase of food. He apparently didn’t speak any English and was taking a chance that I either understood enough Spanish to know what he wanted or could just deduce his needs. With my meager Spanish I told him I didn’t have any extra cash but I would get some when I checked out. I found him waiting outside as I exited the store with a backpack filled with the goods I had purchased for myself. We stood together at the edge of the parking lot, where we had a short conversation.
He told me that he and his family had recently fled Venezuela due to economic and political conditions there. After crossing the border in Texas they were bussed to Denver, where they were led to believe they would be able to find work. In the meantime, his daughter had become sick and was in the hospital, where his wife was waiting for him. He wondered if I could give him a ride, but I was on foot, and under a driving restriction, so I could not help him. He let me know that he had a work permit and was not in danger of being deported.
A few days later Ruth had intended to drive us to the mountains for a hike, but we changed our minds and instead decided to see how much of the neighborhood around Sloan’s Lake and the Lower Highlands we could cover on foot. Somewhere near 25th and Perry we were approached by a young adult man who spoke only Spanish, asking us if we had any work for him. He explained that he, too, was from Venezuela and had been bussed from Texas. He hoped to make money any honest way he could, by painting, landscaping, cleaning, doing small construction work, or any kind of labor anyone would hire him to do. He did not ask for money. We apologized and said we could not help.
A day later as I was walking to the bus stop on the way to get a flu shot a young woman asked me in Spanish if I needed a housekeeper, or knew anyone who could use her services. Like the others I had recently met, she was a Venezuelan, bussed up to Denver from the Texas border. I was heartbroken to think about the vulnerability of this young woman, the conditions she must have been living with in her homeland that led her and the others to flee, and the anxiety they must be feeling about their futures. I wondered if they had encountered much hostility and contempt since they’d arrived in Denver, and I wondered what our city was doing to make things as comfortable as possible for them, realizing that Denver has it’s own substantial population of unsheltered people that it fails to help.
I wondered if the recent arrivals from Venezuela were viewed suspiciously by law enforcement? They were non-white, did not speak enough English to account for themselves to people who didn’t understand Spanish, were out on the streets in neighborhoods where residents did not recognize them, were clearly poor, and were forced to confront strangers to ask for help. It seemed a ripe circumstance for a tragic misunderstanding. I thought about the extreme contrasts in wealth and living conditions which perhaps exist in the country today to an extent that has never been greater in my lifetime. Within a two mile radius of my home there are beautiful, multi-million-dollar homes a stone’s throw from Sloan’s Lake, while just west of Sheridan Boulevard and south of 17th avenue lies the most run-down, crumbling mobile home park I have ever seen. I suspect it is one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in the Denver metro area, if not in the entire state. Although it has not been subject to any recent natural disasters, it looks like photographs one sees of communities that have been devastated by hurricanes or tornadoes. Yet these derelict trailers are the permanent homes to many families.
According to the 2021 U.S. census, the median household income was $75,000, with only 15.5% of Americans earning between $100,000 and $149,000. At the same time, 11.6% of Americans lived below the poverty line, considered to be $28,000 for a family of four and $14,000 for an individual. Elon Musk’s estimated wealth is $225.2 billion, Jeff Bezos’ is $148 billion, and Bill Gates’ is 108.5 billion. Given these numbers, three million average American households could live for a year if Musk’s worth were divided among them. Nearly six and one half million average American households could live for a year if the wealth of the these three richest American men were divided among them. I cannot comprehend wealth in the billions, nor do I want to imagine what day-to-day life is like for someone who is chronically unsheltered. Unsheltered, by the way, seems to be how many are now referring to individuals who are homeless. It seems that any neutral, useful, descriptive term, when used long enough, becomes associated with stigma, and ends up falling out of favor.
The View From the Bus
Denver has a fairly extensive network of bus routes and is constantly expanding its light rail system, but I’ve learned over the past month how inconvenient it would be to always rely on the bus to get where I need to go. I assumed that they ran more frequently headed north on Federal blvd than they do, so I simply left the house at my own convenience to head to a medical appointment not long ago. It was a hot day, and I ended up waiting for nearly half an hour to be picked up. I was naive in not checking the schedule before making the ten minute walk to the stop. I was able to make the transfer to the correct bus this time, but missed the stop where I needed to get off. When I realized the clinic was not visible from the street where the bus ran, I was several blocks past my destination, so I ended up walking along a street that was not pedestrian friendly. By the time I reached the clinic I had been ninety minutes in transit – a trip that would have been twenty minutes if I had been driving myself. After my appointment I took Lyft home so that I would get there before dark. This was a luxury not available to most who depend on public transportation.
I can only speak for myself, but I assume that what I say is true for others like me as well. I have a middle class income and live in a middle class community, and unless something unusual happens, such as being forced to use public transportation, I am not regularly exposed to the world of those of lesser economic privilege. This allows me to live under the impression that poverty is not widespread, and where it exists there are services and programs to ensure that the needs of the poor are met. While I was never naive enough to really believe this was true, just a few days of taking the bus to get around makes it apparent how widespread poverty is in my community, and how much suffering it causes.
As I waited for a connecting bus on my way to my appointment a man approached me and told me that he hadn’t eaten in three days. Of course he asked if I could spare any money to help him out. Even if he was exaggerating his state of hunger, it was clear he was not doing well, and had to humble himself to ask for help. A day or two earlier an elderly, toothless man stumbled off the bus and began complaining to me about “those damn kids” who didn’t know anything but would find out some day. He reeked of urine and other foul-smelling bodily odors, and most of what he said to me was incoherent, but I assumed that he was the subject of harassment from youngsters on the bus due to his lack of hygiene. Surely if he had the means to keep himself clean he would have used them. Who knows where he slept or how he found meals. These were extreme cases of people who were down and out but nearly all the passengers I rode the bus with were non-white and seemed to be of meager economic means. Most of the words I heard spoken were not English.
For someone who needs to be punctual, either to show up for work on time or keep an appointment, buses present a challenge. I started thinking about someone seeking employment and having to take the bus to get to various locations at specific times. One can only be as reliable as the bus schedules are, and twenty or thirty minutes from one bus to the next can make it hard to be on time for anything. Would anyone be hired if they showed up late for an interview and blamed it on the bus?
Most of the time when I got on a bus it was full, and I had to stand for the first few stops. The further the bus traveled from the center of town, the less crowded it became. By the time I reached the medical clinic in Wheat Ridge I was only one of two passengers. The other passenger was asking the driver if there was any way he could get to the casino in Black Hawk. I had seen a side of my city that I would not have seen if I hadn’t had to depend on public transportation to take care of my flu and Covid vaccines. I was reminded of a song “Streets of London” by Ralph McTell. The setting and the details are different but the sentiment is the same: a side of the city and the lives of individuals that are overlooked or ignored by many of us, but the people are just as much a part of our community as our next door neighbors and the young couples we smile at as they play with their children in the local park.
That Might Have To Wait
Ruth and I talked about going to the Desert Nights Acoustic Music Camp’s Southwest Mandolin Camp several months ago. When I found out I couldn’t drive Ruth said she would be willing to do all the driving from Denver to Kingston, NM, where the camp was to take place. So we headed south on October 24th for the six hundred mile one-way trip, with an overnight stop in Cedar Crest, NM to stay with my friends Janet and Joseph. Ruth did all the driving without complaining, and I had the luxury of enjoying the New Mexico fall colors without having to pay attention to the road. I can be an uneasy passenger when someone else is driving but Ruth is a steady, competent driver and I was completely relaxed the entire way.
I’ve played guitar for many years but have only picked up the mandolin occasionally and don’t know the instrument well and don’t play it well. I thought this camp would help me decide if I wanted to devote time to becoming an accomplished mandolin player. It was humbling and inspiring to be one of the least skilled players at camp, but I felt as though it would not be too difficult to apply what I know about the guitar to the mandolin with a little dedication. Besides being one of least skilled players, I found that my mandolin was a cheaper make than those that most of the other campers had. It had a flaw in the neck near the body that caused notes played above the seventh fret to buzz, and be completed muted above the ninth fret. This would require more than just a truss rod adjustment to fix, so I started to think about a trip to The Pickin’ Parlor in Olde Town Arvada or the Folklore Center in Denver to both discuss repairs and sample some more expensive mandolins.
Thinking about repairing my mandolin started me thinking about many things that would have to be put on hold until I could drive again. I could not just hop in the car and take myself up to Arvada. I wanted to replace the filter in my furnace, but a trip to the hardware store would have to wait. There were open mics taking place are various spots around town I could not drive myself to on the spur of the moment, or drive to a restaurant if I was restless come dinner time. When we left for Kingston, Denver was still enjoying summer-like weather, but we returned to snow and freezing temperatures. A week ago walking to the grocery store or taking care of other errands on foot was fun, and being out in the elements for several hours at a time was pleasant. Now, when it’s windy, overcast, and twenty-five degrees, some things will just not get done if they require a long walk. Swallow Hill, a music school and performance space to which I belong, is having a members-only gathering on November 10th. I will probably have to miss it this year.
Up until now I’ve enjoyed the challenge and change in routine that the driving restriction has presented. I’ve appreciated the generosity and friendship of Ruth, Carl, JoAnna, Glenn, Jenny, and others in keeping me company and helping me get around. But with less routine tasks now presenting themselves I will have to be patient and a little more creative these last five weeks until I can drive again. Until then I will have more experiences to write about, the mandolin to master, new virtual cycling routes in Zwift to explore, and generally good health to be grateful for.