Telluride and a "Patch of Common Ground"

It’s interesting to hear the stories of the way some “distinctive” takes root in a city and in retrospect can be seen as defining its community spirit so well that its importance grows beyond its practical role into a greater symbolic role.

One of the best examples of this is Antonya Nelson’s story of the Free Box in Telluride, Colorado:

". . . I suppose it was an early form of recycling: a bookcase-like structure into which people placed what they no longer needed and took what they liked.

"The Free Box, situated a mere three blocks from my family’s remaining house (still an uninsulated miner’s shack resting on rocks rather than a real foundation, surrounded now by Victorian-style manors and manicured lawns), soon became the town’s hub. There, locals would linger, glancing over its labeled shelves – boys, girls, men, women, books, housewares, jackets, shoes, etc. – to see what might be of use.

"Over the years I’ve retrieved a down sleeping bag, coffee table, hammock, headboard, ice chest, file cabinet, sink, television and several typewriters (invariably with exhausted ribbons). My children have brought home countless toys and gadgets; guests have picked up temporary necessities, ski poles or sweatshirts, and returned them at visit’s end. . . .

"The Free Box is even a useful navigational tool. Place yourself there and west is out of town; east is toward the dead-end box canyon and inimitable Bridal Veil Falls; south is Bear Creek Road, the most popular hiking destination; and north leads – among other things – to our little house, crooked and dwarfed, on whose porch sit two perfectly good chairs carried home a few years ago from the Free Box.

"In the old days, a man nicknamed the Polite Motorcyclist (he never revved his engine when he went by, coasting on gravity) stationed himself at the box, handrolling cigarettes and monitoring visitors. Brother Al, priest and civic servant, swept the sidewalk. For a while the city had essentially taken over the box’s maintenance, which, the town manager estimated, amounted to something like $50,000 a year. Last fall some residents wanted to get rid of the box or at least have it relocated, complaining that the upkeep was costing the city too much and that it had become an eyesore – and it’s true the contents were often of dubious use (broken crockery, half-filled food packages, outdated catalogs). To preserve the landmark, a local citizen’s group, Friends of the Free Box, stepped in and since the winter have taken over the care of the box, posting a bulletin board to list big items and hauling away trash.

"Still, in a town that every year seems to grow closer and closer to that place it feared becoming – movie stars and other extraordinarily wealthy people live here now; the gated communities and private jets have arrived; articles on the need for “affordable housing” run alongside the ubiquitous Sotheby Realty ads in the town newspaper – I don’t think I’m alone in clinging to the markers of Telluride’s resistance. The Free Box is one of those, a small patch of common ground. Drop off a DVD of a Cary Grant movie and see it fly into a stranger’s parka pocket; hold up a black cashmere sweater and get a nod of approval – lucky you, to grab it first – from the thrift-store maven. Send the kids out to occupy themselves, to discover some curiosity or treasure there. Later, you can give it back.

"You take and you give, give and take. Maybe we can assure ourselves we won’t entirely turn into Aspen if we still have the Free Box."

To read Nelson’s full story, see Smithsonian, August 2009, p. 11.