This opinion piece reflects the views of John Hazlehurst only and are not endorsed by the Pikes Peak Bulletin.
We Americans have always admired entrepreneurs, seeing them as bold risk-takers who have built and rebuilt our beloved nation for centuries. Yet sometimes these fearless men and women have disappeared from history. Let’s consider the voyage of the Mayflower, the ship that brought the pilgrims to Plymouth Rock and launched the Plymouth colony.
Decades ago, every child in American public schools would learn about the Mayflower and the brave men and women who dared cross the North Atlantic and establish a brave new world. But times change, and the pilgrims have been recast as the first wave of ruthless colonizers who would eventually displace New England’s indigenous people.
History is history, and we can’t undo it. My parents and grandparents were proud of their Mayflower heritage as descendants of Edward Winslow, the acknowledged leader of Plymouth colony. Growing up, I thought that was kind of cool, and was sure it had to be true. After all, my maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Winslow, and her brother Edward was named after one of the most prominent members of the Plymouth colony.
A few days ago, I thought it would be fun to research the Winslow connection. And just as DNA had revealed that I’m not descended from the Hazlehursts on the paternal side, I found that I’m not descended from Edward Winslow on the maternal side. My ancestor? His younger brother Kenelm Winslow, who came to Plymouth Colony on Mayflower II in 1629. His occupation? Coffinmaker. He wasn’t a leader – just a decent guy doing what had to be done. He died in 1672 at 73, about the average lifespan for New Englanders, and 20 years above the English average.
The goal of the colonists was to build a town. It was meant to be a safe and pleasant place to build a house, learn a trade, raise a family and live a good life. Four hundred year s later, our goals haven’t changed.
Few of us meet our wildest childhood expectations. Having grown up in the North End, I was glad to shake off the dust of dingy little Colorado Springs, head off for a couple of adventurous decades and, much to my surprise, come back to my natal city. Flitting from house to house, in 2000 we finally settled in our beloved 1899 Westside home.
Four hundred years later, our goals haven’t changed.
It’s a hometown rendition of turn-of-the-century elegance, a three-story beauty that deserves dog-free owners who can revive both the house and its landscaping. It’s unpretentious and beautiful, but it’s too big for the two of us, too expensive to maintain, and too full of junk that I’m reluctant to get rid of. But it’s also a supremely comfortable home, with enough wall space to accommodate art that I’ve collected for all of my life, as well as precious paintings that have been in my family for generations. As I sit in the house and reflect upon its history and mine, I dunno about selling. In your 85th year, you don’t want to waste any of your days, let alone wasting months in selling the house, buying a smaller place, packing, moving, dealing with the dogs and then missing the grand old derelict.
Meanwhile, it’s time to plant the garden, hope that it’s not destroyed by hailstorms, and enjoy spring, summer and fall – winter, not so much!
