Copyright © 2026 J.P. Russell. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)
I didn’t know it then, but the summer of 1997 would transform my life in ways I couldn’t imagine. I was twenty; just finished my third year of college, one more to go before…what, I didn’t really know. I’d bounced from major to major, starting in Visual Art, then moving to Philosophy, then settling on History; I had no idea what I’d do after that.
College for me was as much about figuring out my place in the queer world as it was immersing myself in academic subjects and finding a career path for the rest of my life. I loved to read and I actually didn’t mind studying, but I was less interested in the constraint of being told how to read or what to think by teachers who’d never been out in the world or struggled like my family had. We were firmly working class and had been for generations: Mom was a waitress and Dad worked as a ranch hand with my brother Mark and Uncle Dennis. We were a close family, but life was always hand-to-mouth, and even though they never complained it was never far from my thoughts that my being away for school added to that strain.
Back then, Colorado was better known for mining, skiing, ranching, and the right-wing political influence of Focus on the Family than for legalized marijuana. In our little mountain community it was either work for the local mine, take service jobs for the summer tourist trade, or, if you stayed around long enough, work cattle on the Bar Stacked Ranch, one of the biggest in the San Luis Valley. None of these options really appealed to me. College was the best chance for something different.
I was academically strong enough to scrape together a few scholarships and think about different post-high school life possibilities than was possible for most of my classmates. Between those funds and summer job money I managed to cover tuition, books, and a dorm room at Fort Lewis College in Durango, just a few hours away, with just enough to cover an occasional Italian soda at one of the nearby coffee shops or, for a special treat, a trip to Dairy Queen. It wasn’t a fancy or stress-free life, but I could at least afford it without asking my folks for help. In another world I’d have moved to Boulder or some bigger and more exciting city for school, but this was still my first real taste of really being on my own and out of the closet, and I loved it.
If I’m honest, it was still lonely, but in a different way from high school. I didn’t have many friends growing up—my older brother kept bullies to a minimum, but between my budding queerness and the protective shyness that accompanied it, I spent most weekends hanging just out with my family, lost in my own world of books and classic Hollywood cinema. Even in college I didn’t date much, but I was out and proud in ways I couldn’t be at home, and I certainly had better boyfriend options than felt possible among the Skoal-spitting shitkickers or burned-out potheads I grew up with.
But summer meant living back at home and falling back into something of my old personality, like putting on a coat that’s two sizes too small—it still fits, but it’s no longer comfortable. And this summer promised to be tough on the work front. I’d found out when I got back home after finals that my promised summer job as a desk clerk at the Breeze-On-Inn wasn’t going to happen after all. Dozens of pipes froze and shattered when the main lodge had been closed up for the winter, and the combination of a neglectful caretaker and unusually cold weather meant that the damage was extensive. They’d be undergoing major repairs and couldn’t afford additional staff, if they were ever able to reopen at all, as there was community consensus that the place was a total loss.
Dad was home picking up some tools he’d left behind when I got back from my depressing chat with Patty, the hotel manager. I told him the news, but he shook his head and said, “I wish we’d have known, Ben—we just hired a couple of high school kids to work at the ranch for the summer.” He sounded genuinely disappointed. I knew he missed having me around, and a summer working with both his boys was about the closest thing to perfect that he could imagine.
“That’s okay,” I sighed. “Maybe I can find something else in town.”
“Maybe,” he said, but his tone wasn’t hopeful. “Lots of layoffs at the mine this winter, so there’s not much available right now.”
My shoulders slumped. “What am I going to do?” My folks supported my college dreams, but we’d all agreed that if I was going to go the higher-ed route rather than straight into the local workforce I needed to focus on my classes and not take on extra work if I could help it. Four years of me being without a full-time job was just about the limit of what we could handle, and I didn’t have the luxury of adding a year or two to “find myself.” With a summer paycheck I could focus and not add pressure to their already strained finances. Without it I’d have to make some hard choices, and I wasn’t ready to give up my college dreams just yet.
Dad smiled and patted me on the shoulder as he grabbed his sweat-stained cowboy hat and toolbox and headed out the door. “Let me ask around. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
Everything was still out on the dining room table from breakfast, so I set to tidying up the best I could before Mom got home. She never had the energy to clean after a long day on her feet at the Honeybee Café, and although Dad, Mark, and Dennis loved and appreciated her, they left housekeeping to her when I wasn’t around to pitch in. I liked things organized, but that wasn’t a good quality in our busy house, as nobody else seemed much concerned about leaving dirty cups on the counter or dirty plates in the sink or haphazard piles of letters and papers on every flat surface. As much as I loved my family and loved so much about being back with them for a few months, I was also grateful to get back to my dorm and my quiet little space without clutter and chaos.
But without a summer job, I might have to stay a lot longer—maybe even miss a semester or two of school—and the very thought of it filled me with a creeping desperation. School was my sanctuary, where I could be fully myself, and it chafed to be stuck back in a world where my gayness was something everyone knew no one really wanted to acknowledge.
Mom had the breakfast shift, so I had the kitchen cleaned up when she got home at around 2:00, and I started dinner prep while she had a little nap. Nothing fancy, just standard weekday fare: lasagna, salad, and garlic toast, with poppy seed lemon loaf for dessert. After an hour or so she got up and we caught up a little as I shredded the parmesan and cheddar and simmered the garlic-basil tomato sauce, and my employment hopes dimmed further at her report of how tight things were for jobs in the area.
Dad was right—the mine cut about fifty positions, so even the seasonal jobs were taken, and some families had had to move away to look for work. Mom was sympathetic about my situation but also pragmatic—if businesses were going to hire someone, they’d go for the parents looking to keep a roof over their kids’ heads, not some shiftless college kid looking for extra money for his fancy Italian coffees or whatever the stereotype was at the moment. We both knew that wasn’t my reality back in Durango, but I got it. I’d probably make the same choice in their position.
Dad and Mark got home a little bit after five. Mark was two years older than me, and unlike me he was born for ranch life. His shoulders were wide and his hands were like shovels; like Dad, he was quick to grin but slow to speak. He liked nothing better than working outdoors, no matter the weather or the job. Also like Dad, he was a friendly, solid guy, the sort of man you knew you could depend on no matter what. We’d always been close. He looked after me like a big brother should; I was luckier than a lot of kids, and even the hint of trouble brought him to my side with fists curled and eyes blazing.
Mark never even flinched when I came out to him my first Christmas back from college. He just grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and told me we’d always be brothers and he’d always be there for me. I’m grateful that my family never changed how they behaved toward me after that, not even Uncle Dennis, who’d said some homophobic things in the past but seemed to mellow after I came out, at least around me. I don’t think they were all that surprised that I was gay, to be honest. The thing that mattered most to them was that we all carried our weight and helped the family. As long as you did that, and as long as you did your best to treat people right and live with honesty and integrity, the rest wasn’t important. I’ve always been grateful for that old Colorado live-and-let-live attitude.
They didn’t really ask about my private life, but I knew they wanted me to find someone who made me happy. I knew Mom worried that I was going to be lonely, or worse: AIDS was still a visceral terror, and for someone like my Mom—loving but almost entirely unfamiliar with gay people outside of biased news coverage and community gossip—I’m sure it was hard for her to wrap her head around my life or my own hopes for a fabulous gay future. To her credit, she didn’t try to pressure me to stay home even though I knew she didn’t like me going away—she knew the likelihood of me finding someone to love in the valley was pretty slim, and she hoped that would mean I’d be safe in other ways too.
As we settled down to dinner that night, Mom mentioned my predicament. I’d gotten up to grab drinks for everyone: Dr. Pepper for Mark and Dad, ginger ale for me and Mom, and black coffee for Dennis, who never seemed to get the jitters despite drinking it all day long. Mark grabbed a couple of big slices of lasagna at once and piled them on his plate. “I know someone who might be looking for help.”
“Really?” I said from the kitchen, hope kindling for the first time that day.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s nothing fancy, but I think it’ll pay as good as the hotel would've.”
“Well,” I said expectantly, handing him his drink. “What is it?”
He grabbed it with a nod, then pulled a chunk of garlic bread off the loaf. “You know Doug Kinsley’s place up County Road 12? Saddle Mountain Ranch?”
I nodded, my heart dropping a bit. “But didn’t Doug die?” I asked. Dad had mentioned it in passing on one of my calls home a couple of months back. I didn’t really know Doug, as he kept to himself and wasn’t around too much. He didn’t have a wife as far as I knew, or any kids, so I only ever saw him on occasion, usually when I was working with Dad and we’d go to the café for burgers. Most of what I could remember was how he’d just sit in the far booth with his eyes down, never eating, never talking to anyone, just nursing a single cup of coffee for hours at a time. He always just seemed sad, and that kind of sorrow was scary thing for a sensitive young kid.
“Yeah,” Mark said, “but his nephew came in from Arizona to look after him the last few months. Doug left him the place, and Grady stayed on. I think he’s going to try to make a go of it.”
“Good luck,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Doug let the place fall completely apart.”
Ever the optimist, Dad beamed. “Good for him. Boy’s got ambition, which is more than that uncle of his ever had. Maybe he can get Saddle Mountain back in shape.”
Mark nodded, “It’s a lot of work, but I think he’s serious. I’ve seen him at Chapman’s store. Big guy—he definitely knows how to work. Not much of a talker, kind of quiet like Doug was, but yesterday I overheard him tell Martin he’s looking for some help but having trouble finding someone.” He turned to me. “You should go up there and see if the job’s still available.”
“I don’t know,” I hesitated. “Look at me—I’m more ‘hotel clerk’ material than ‘ranch hand,’ don’t you think?” My occasional workouts at the campus rec center hadn’t given me much in the way of bulk, and with my retro ‘80s t-shirts, floppy brown hair, and prescription lenses, I’d undoubtedly give off nerdy math tutor vibes if I went to talk to him. He’d probably laugh me off the property--that is, if he didn't take one look and kick me off.
“Bullshit,” Dad said, thick brows bristling. He didn’t often get annoyed with me, but he didn’t like it when I ran myself down. “You know how to dig post holes and fix fences; you know how to work cattle; hell, you even know how brand and cut calves, even if you don’t like it. There’s nothing he needs at that ranch that you can’t help him with. And you need a job, pronto. So you head up there and talk to Grady tomorrow. The worst he can say is no.”
I sighed and nodded, and we all tucked back in to dinner.
