I always seem to return to Arizona, from points east and northeast, by way of Colorado.  My uncle lives there, as do Penny’s next-oldest sister and her husband, several of her other relatives, and an honest, loyal friend.  Then, there’s the Blind Chef.

I went back to the Denver area on September 25-26, specifically to check on my uncle and give a bag of gifts to my friend and her family.  Both were in view of the floods that ravaged the west side of the Front Range, while I was back on the East Coast.  I also had to reassure my friend that I was in a good place, emotionally.

I first took care of seeing to it that my Uncle George was okay.  He was, and he wondered if I was okay.  After dispensing sage advice about widowhood, he headed back to his place, and I took care of my car, overdue for a good service.  The next day, I went up to Fort Collins, and found a town well-along in recovery from its waterborne travails of early September.

A brief meeting with my friend, surprisingly, left me in a calm, well-balanced frame of mind and emotional state.  I drove down to south Denver, stayed in a rough and tumble motel, and, the next morning, met the Blind Chef, fresh from his having whipped up some chicken chili.

,

We amused the noon day group at the corner Winchell’s, and, after an hour’s worth of bantering about social media and the joys of cooking, I was off again towards home.  One stop intervened between me and Cortez:  Mike’s Coffee Bar, in Walsenburg, CO.  This, of course, made up for the lack of wifi at the Winchell’s, earlier.

I arrived in Cortez about 8 PM, and easily convinced myself that AZ would be better off without me for one more night.  A good night’s sleep always makes for a better homecoming, anyways.  On September 27, 2013, at 12:45 PM,  I pulled into my garage in Prescott, and this year’s marathon came to an end.