Jere Burrell: Home, sweet Frisco |

Jere Burrell: Home, sweet Frisco

I’m driving west on Interstate 70. I exit at mile maker 203 onto Highway 9 south through Frisco. I’m distracted from the beautiful scenery by the hustle and bustle. I see many gas stations, hotels and restaurants. Many of these are like the ones back home.

I see the world’s largest distributor of trash, Walmart, but I don’t see a Home Depot. As I drive south I see mechanic shops, offices and what appears to be a quiet hospital. Driving by Main Street I see banners over the road, statues, and a brewery. I see baseball fields, and a skatepark. I don’t see a new Colorado Mountain College, and I hope I don’t see a tubing hill lit up at night.

But what I missed were the sirens blasting from the huge neon sign highlighting a marijuana leaf and mortar and pestle with arrows directing me to dissidence. I wish things in Frisco never changed. I want a train to drop me off on a dusty Main Street so I can buy a horse and gold pan. I want to smell burning pine and see it billowing into the sky from wood stoves. I want snake oils to take care of this dreaded cough. I want herds of buffalo roaming.

But I can’t have them. All of those things have changed to provide a better life to me, my family and my friends.

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