Free Box Give and Take

(Originally Published in the Telluride Times Journal--many, many moons ago)

 Of all the institutions that set Telluride apart, the Free Box is one of the most defining. It sets up a paradox that takes a bit of experience and investigation to unravel.  Why, after all, would a community as wealthy as Telluride have a give-away station in the midst of downtown? It is possible for the casual visitor to miss the Free Box: We did on our initial forays into town.

            I learned about it only after reading of various and sundry Free Box adventures reported in the paper. From my distant vantage, I wondered about the contents of the Telluride Free Box. Slightly used Guccis, perhaps, or chipped Waterford? Could I find an old script with margin notes by Tom Cruise, cast aside? Maybe a pair of presidential long-johns? (No, that’s Jackson Hole.)

            I also wondered about the practicalities of such an undertaking. I imagined the reaction of the city fathers in my own town (Sarasota, Fla.) if the citizenry started leaving castoffs in the middle of town for anyone to take.

            Aside from the fact that items left unattended in the Florida heat and humidity either melt or are overtaken by jungle in a matter of hours, local sensibilities simply could not tolerate a year-round, 24hour flea market, even a small one, on the city streets.

            Not only did Telluride have a Free Box, the mere mention of outlawing it seemed enough to raise an armed insurrection among the populace. I made it my business to seek out this venerable institution on my next trip.  Necessity actually forced me to the Free Box.

            The Family had decided to make a pilgrimage from Fall Creek into town to hide up the Bear Creek Trial to the falls. Unaccustomed to the sudden changes of summer weather, we found ourselves stranded by a violent thunderstorm.

            We hunkered down in our 99cent Wal-Mart emergency plastic rain ponchos, in high-visibility orange, and perched under the rim of a huge boulder just below the falls.  The overhang of the boulder was slightly less than my own, so I spent an hour or so crouched under a few tons of rocks, water dripping onto my head and oozing around my boots. I personally prefer watching nature’s pyrotechnics from the safety of a dry, cozy house.

            We distracted the children from the fact that the trail is surrounded by lightening-rod sized trees by spinning a tale about the origins of the big, flat stones that cover the trail (leftovers from a bear who was carrying them up to build a fire place for his cabin, in case you’re interested.) When we finally unfolded ourselves from our roost, we were tired, cold and soaked to the skin.

            Back at the trailhead, a quick inventory of our rented chariot confirmed the worst - no dry clothes.

            Aside from a premature end to a day we planned to spend moseying about Telluride and enjoying one of its summer festivals, the possibility of pneumonia loomed large. The storm had been the leading edge of a front, and the temperature was dropping even as my groom and I exchanged light hearted invectives about whose fault it was that the sweatshirts were not in the car.

            Never on to be thwarted by circumstance or to ask permission when forgiveness would do, my son disappeared up the street and returned a few minutes later, pulling a clean, dry Telluride Blues Festival T-shirt over his head and clutching a chipped Boy Scout cup that he announced would form the nucleus of a collection of “Boy Scout stuff.”  When queried about its origins, he replied, “The Free Box.” Hypothermia overcame any residual timidity about using a local resource, and the rest of us followed. My daughter found an oversized cotton sweater and a rakish beret, and immediately became or resident beatnik for the remainder of the trip.  

         

            My own treasure was a fuchsia pullover that has become the staple of my camping clothing. It’s warm, comfortable and makes me easy to spot in a crowd. I also discovered after being repeatedly dive-bombed by tiny, aerobatic birds, which is a great attraction to the local hummers, who think of me as just another giant flower, rather than an aging flower child.

            Thus provided for, we doffed our wet gear, decked out in our Free Box duds, and spent the rest of the day at a magic festival enjoying a Telluride summer day. Since then, the Free Box has provided a swimsuit for a visiting relative who wanted to take a soak in the local hot springs, reading matter for inclement days, and most recently the gravalox recipe I’ve been searching for all my life.  

 

            In return, we’ve taken to packing with an eye for what we can leave at the box as we depart sort of and offering to insure a good and timely homecoming. I’ve come to appreciate (I think) the integral part the Free Box plays in Telluride culture.

            Everybody seems to take, and everybody seems to donate. I came to understand that it is not just an exercise in largess from the well off to the deserving needy. The Free Box is an expression of neighborliness among friends who share among themselves out of their abundance, inherent thriftiness and community.

            I’ve never left Guccis- or seen them there, for that matter. Free Box donations really seem to be pretty ordinary, but with a Telluride slant. The same well-used baby toys I remember my kids playing with turn up in the Free Box alongside a syllabus for an advanced course in physical anthropology and the latest New Age literature; ski boots with built-in heating units and first children’s hiking boots lie beside cheap sneakers with little wear left in them.

            An enterprising graduate student could do a thesis about Telluride’s economy from Free Box leavings. After all, the dearth of Waterford proves that despite its over-the-top prosperity, Telluride’s strength is in people who wear ordinary clothes and do extraordinary things. Like keep the Free Box working against the odds.