Roz Brown continues to be a voice and pen in the Colorado media.  She's been here in Boulder nearly as long as I have.  She knows Boulder well, and loves it.    

 

But this mother's lament must be a solitary case.  Who could complain about a town where paying a quarter million dollars for a fixer-upper is a deal, because the average house now costs close to forty percent more, and where the budget for the children's soccer leagues would startle the Pentagon, and where going out to dinner, a movie, and hiring a baby-sitter is easily paid for out of your second mortgage?  Really?  Who?  Not you, surely!

 

“Oh Mom!”

“If you expect me to be seen in a car from the last century, you might as well paint your high bowling score on the door and put a pizza delivery sign on the roof!”

 

My teenage daughter will be driving in a few days.  Her uncle has given her his 1992 Isuzu Rodeo, and her dad has installed a killer stereo system. It's been detailed at Boulder's Puddle Car Wash, and new tires mean the decade-old navy blue SUV doesn't look half bad.  But that's not the half of it.

 

I was nearly 18 when my dad bought me a car. He wouldn't have done so but my parents moved across the state line when I was a senior in high school to test their luck at running a small town saloon. I was starting my senior year of high school and probably would have threatened suicide if they insisted I switch schools-a requirement had I moved with them. In case you're curious, I'll tell you now that my folks only lasted three years.  They were successful enough, and very well-liked as bar keeps go, but in the time it took to empty the first ashtray, my father realized that he preferred standing at, not behind the bar.

 

Naturally I would be joining the folks for dinner on the weekends so I thought a nice little Volkswagen Bug would be the perfect solution. As I reasoned, it would take a lot less gas for the trip, the huge total of 16 miles.

 

I probably don't need to tell you my father wasn't persuaded. Instead, one day a 1958 turquoise Dodge appeared in the driveway and being always just a little afraid of my old man, I smiled hard.  This was 1973, so the car had seen better days.  Along with a push button transmission, the radio was mostly static and the windshield wipers had expired some time back. Also, the heater had given its best days to the previous owner. If I had anticipated joy rides through Iowa farm country, this wasn't the car. This baby would serve a utilitarian function, only.

 

I had to face it--this was one ugly car. But it was a car, and that's what I'd wanted.  My father was a man of few words, but I could read between the lines. Volkswagen-smolkswagen.  He figured I'd smash it up within a few weeks and was counting on the beast to prevent my premature death. I also knew something else.  A 1958 Dodge was all the more 'car' my folks could afford for a 17-year old.

 

As you've probably guessed by now, I'm from a town the size of one of Boulder's smallish-sized blocks, and it was rare for a girl to have her own car.  Hell, it was rare for a boy to have his own car. We could drive our parent's car, when they weren't going out, or we could not drive at all.

 

My daughter is dumbfounded by such old-fashioned ways. She's only recently come around to the idea of driving the stick shift with the not-so-nice interior. But what did I expect? Why shouldn't she be a little peeved that she too isn't getting a reborn Volkswagen Bug?  Several of her friends have one.  Kristine's is yellow. Ashley's is blue. But Justin wouldn't be caught dead in one.  He's 16 and drives a 2001 BMW. John, on the other hand drives a 2002 Volvo. OK, so Aaron is saddled with a 1996 Mustang, but it's OK because occasionally his parents let him drive the Lexus. 

 

In 1984 when my former husband started making $30,000 a year I thought we were rich.  I thought it was enough.  But as talent will out, 15 years later he was making $100,000. I thought that was enough.  But I wasn't living in a town as big as a block anymore.  I was living in Boulder, and hell, $100,000 is just barely middle class these days. 

 

My teenager has a closet full of clothes, a decent bedroom with her own bathroom, $20,000 worth of dental work and $50 haircuts.  She has a new dress with matching shoes for every dance and more than enough money in her pocket when she goes out on Friday night. That's just it. In Boulder, it's never enough.  It's not just that one or two kids have more; my daughter is often convinced everyone has more.

 

Two years ago when she was still at the neighborhood middle school, the disparity was less noticeable. Welcome to Boulder High. Within days my daughter had new friends and began making the rounds, hanging out at other student's houses.  The following day would not pass without the inevitable, "Oh Mom," refrain.

 

"Oh Mom.  You should see their house."  Their pool in the basement, their movie theater, their view.  "Oh, Mom." You should see her bedroom, her closet full of clothes, her four-poster bed.  "Oh, Mom."

 

I happen to think my daughter is spoiled rotten, but she's not a monster.  She's just at that age when material stuff seems so critical to life.  She sees what money can buy and how the truly wealthy live in Boulder. Meanwhile, I see what kind of money it takes to be truly wealthy in Boulder. 

 

Observation can be a cruel gift when you're 16, or 46. 

 

How did this happen?  How did I end up living in a town I can't leave and a town I can't afford to live in?   When did a middle-class lifestyle require an annual income of a half-million dollars or so?  

 

My daughter will be driving the Rodeo for two years until she's off to college.  She may or may not need a car then, but the SUV will likely still be drivable. Will some Boulder teenager smile hard when that 15-year old SUV shows up in the driveway? Or will they look at dear old dad with that "you are pathetic" teenage glare and howl: "You expect me to drive that?"