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Julesburg, Colorado is a rather unremarkable place. The town of 1,200 lies a couple miles off the interstate, just south of the Nebraska border. It’s a small collection of buildings, neatly arranged along the grid that is typical of Western towns. Fields of corn grow all around Julesburg and the small state highway that takes one from the interstate to the town weaves and curves through them. The railroad runs through the town, as did the Pony Express, and one can imagine that years ago this must have made Julesburg an important place. Tales of vagrant cowboys and virtuous lawmen fill the town’s history, at one time earning it the moniker of “The Wickedest City in the West.”
But this is no longer the case. Now, to any passing observers, Julesburg feels as unimportant and uninteresting as the miles of cornfields that surround it. A small town on the Great Plains, it has no tourist attractions. It has produced no notable residents. Seemingly, it has nothing to offer the world other than a local Sinclair station that gives customers a bag of popcorn with each fill-up.
My friends and I stopped at that Sinclair station as we drove home to Kentucky this past July. We had left Jackson Hole that morning and were eager to get back across the country after spending several days hiking in Wyoming. We did not have to visit Julesburg—it was not directly on our path—but we wanted to drive into Colorado, and Julesburg was the town closest to our route. We took the “highway” from the interstate, and marveled at the flat expanse that lay on all sides of us.
There were, I believe, only three vehicles on the entire road: a bright white Honda Civic (carrying myself and two of my friends), a stone grey Ford Escape (carrying my three other friends), and an older beat-up pickup truck (carrying, I assume, a local farmer). Upon first observation, this scene struck me as empty. Empty in the complete sense: devoid of importance, devoid of life, devoid of all things that make places interesting.
Yet as we drive further into town, and I observed the place that I was in, I began to notice a fullness in Julesburg. I could feel my mind take wonder with the place, and I came to marvel at its startling uniqueness. The old men wandering down the street, the popcorn from the Sinclair station, the brand new Ford pickup that stood out from its aging environment; all of these things began to enter into my perception. I realized I had become interested in this place...enthralled even.
Why did Julesburg become something fascinating to me? As I said, it’s not particularly interesting. My friends and I drove away, resuming our hurried voyage home, and it would have been too easy to forget Julesburg, being not much more than a dot on a map. Yet Julesburg did not allow me to forget itself. Something about the place—a small, lonely town on the Colorado plains—rooted itself within me.
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We live in a society that prides itself on being full. Full of activities, foods, adventures, movies, products, buildings, people...the list goes on. What I first perceived as emptiness in Julesburg served as a breath of fresh air. There were no crowded shopping malls, no congested streets, no brand name retail stores offering the latest and greatest. If these harbingers of modern society bring fullness to a place then Julesburg was starkly empty.
But the places that filled the space left by consumerism’s greatest symbols were of far more value. They were rows of small homes on the Colorado plains, local businesses populated by local people, and a Sinclair station offering popcorn to its patrons. In these places, one feels the importance of community, tradition, and independence from the corrupting influences of modernity. One feels that they are in a true place; not one that is empty of development, but one that is full of uniquity.
Will Randolph is a McConnell Scholar in the Class of 2022. He is studying Spanish and Political Science at the University of Louisville.
Commentary presented here is not necessarily a reflection of the McConnell Center. Thoughts are those of the author.
Will Randolph is a McConnell Scholar in the Class of 2022. He is studying Spanish and Political Science at the University of Louisville.
Commentary presented here is not necessarily a reflection of the McConnell Center. Thoughts are those of the author.