Saddle Sore: An RSVP is requested

The letter comes once a month, announcing only the time and place. An RSVP is requested. And that’s it. 

It’s a message concerning what might be called “The Men’s Club,” but it isn’t, not formally. But it is a group of men who, quite informally, sit around a huge, round table, enjoying lunch and conversation. It’s not the “Round Table” of old, Sir Gawain and the lot, but trust me, every man at that table is a “Knight.”

There are no tickets to be bought, no reservations to be made and certainly no advertisements to draw in new members. In the beginning, you might get a phone call from a good friend, mentioning the lunches and the type of attendance, asking if you’d like to join. You have no idea how big a deal that is until you come into the room. It’s a long walk from the door to the table, across a wooden floor, but there’s no hoopla when you arrive the first time, no announcement that you’re new to the group. No one asks why you’re there — it’s understood by all. 

Rumor has it that this writer is the youngest in the group, although having just turned 80 last month doesn’t seem to make that something to brag about, although it ought to give you some idea of the mileage represented around that table.

These aren’t necessarily the famous people who came to Aspen, although some of them could hold their own in that discussion. They cover a wide spectrum of the heart and soul of Aspen, men who made a life here, put down their roots, who raised families, watched the place change and collectively carry an enormous amount of its living memory. 

Conversations don’t start with “Do you remember…?” No, they start with “Remember when…” Some of these guys I’ve been friends with for 50–60 years, and no story gets told without someone who can add verification, clarification or correction.

There really isn’t any general table talk. Chairs fill as people arrive, sometimes with a little thought given to who might be sitting next door. Conversations break out among two, three or four people within earshot, often one-on-one. Stories cross the table occasionally, but mostly, there are little pockets of conversation going on all around it. At the last luncheon, I sat next to a kid I grew up with, whose birthday is two days before mine. And he’s a year older. 

The membership list is devoid of detail: Name, birth date, email address. One of the longest-running members takes it upon himself to bring a cake to the festivities — a birthday cake. Period. No candles, no associating anyone with the cake, no singing. Just cake, for dessert. We’ve all had birthdays before. If no one has a birthday that month, there’s no cake. 

As happens with men of our longevity, there is the occasional announcement from our fearless leader that there will be an empty chair at the table going forward. There is no big deal made about it, other than the buzz in our small groups — perhaps the reason, perhaps just surprise. Stories work their way around the table, with the realization it was a voice we will no longer hear.

Then lunch is over, chairs push back and we go our separate ways until the next letter arrives. 

Maybe that’s what keeps us coming back. Nobody has to explain much. Mention a person who’s been gone 30 years, an old business, a ski run, a ranch or some foolish thing that happened downtown, and chances are the fellow beside you knows exactly what you’re talking about. He may even know more about it than you do.

There aren’t many places left where that happens. Aspen has changed, as places do, and so have we. But for an hour or two once a month, scattered around that big round table are little pockets of an Aspen we all remember.

“In the Company of Wolves” screens at the Wheeler Thursday, Oct. 15. Tickets are going fast. Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.