Sarah Haas, Peak to Peak. It’s just past 10 a.m. and I’m walking in to Red Dolly Casino in Central City, the namesake’s six-foot-tall portrait hovering above rows of flashing and clanging slot machines, never shy for players. Heeding the direction of the big red vinyl finger pointing to “food,” I walk past the gamblers and up the stairs, humming along to “Stand By Me” as it plays on the radio.

Breakfast is cheap here and I order a coffee, black, to go with my “Jackpot”—two scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and one pancake—$2.99. Everyone else at the table has already eaten. Eric Chinn, director of historic properties for the Opera Association, ordered the Jackpot too, but he also got a side of French toast. Karen Christiansen, volunteer for the Opera Association, also got the Jackpot. Sam Carrington, maintenance guy extraordinaire, got biscuits and gravy. Living off-grid in Dumont since 1980, he’s never been one for following trends. The trio is full and ready to answer my full-mouthed questions, one-by-one, to give a 360-degree picture of the Central City Opera’s 30 historic buildings.

Quickly, we pass over where they’re each from (Montrose, Colorado, Iowa); The fact that they are here in Central City is so much more important. Why they are here is the topic du jour. For all three of them it’s the Opera Association’s buildings, most famously the Teller House, Opera House, McFarlan House and Foundry, but also the 24 houses that sit on the hills as if the city were a scene on an Art Poulin puzzle. It’s these oft overlooked houses that one marvels at when ascending or descending onto the quaint town, the ones that offer Central City’s bucolic Victorian flavor, or as Sam might say, the ones he spends all day, everyday fixing.
Sam “the fixer man,” the DIY carpenter/electrician/plumber, roofer.

Arguably he’s the one who knows the buildings best and when I ask him if he loves them, he says he doesn’t know. All he can say is:
“As a maintenance person, and I think most maintenance guys would agree with me, you get to know the building better than anybody else because you go… she measures the rooms and stuff, but I go under the buildings and in the attics and on the roof—I am everywhere in the building and so I get to know it. Each building has its own personality.”

The “she” he is referring to is Karen who, having spent a lifetime in property management is lending her skills to a seemingly endless inventory of the houses, measuring every room or every house and detailing both its features and contents so that the data can be uploaded online where it’s easier to use. She seems inspired by Sam’s words, eager to jump in and show how she has come to love the buildings too, in her own way: “Each building has its own aura—its own smell.”

For Eric, the love is a bit more erudite, stemming from an aesthetic appreciation meshed with a near scholastic study of history. He’s the first one at the table to use the word love and when I push him on it, he starts to wax poetic.

“I am obsessed with them. I love them absolutely. In part it’s architecture, in part it’s history. You could rebuild these houses with the same architecture and new materials, and it would look the same, but it wouldn’t feel the same. It might look old, but there’s something else that’s in there—history, layers of time.”

“Soul,” someone else says, although I’m not sure who. Maybe it was Red Dolly’s portrait speaking from her place on the nearby wall.
“Art,” Sam says, as he and Eric start to praise Eric’s predecessor, Jim Johnson, who, for 25 years showed the steadfastness and patience necessary to herald 30 buildings from one generation to the next.

Just as I’m finishing (or more accurately, not finishing) my pancake, the crew begins to tell me what they’ll be doing for the rest of the day. Sam, the all-mighty-fixer, is off to examine some foundations and ready a house for the installation of heat. Boss-man Eric, who is new to the job since May 2018, has set a long-term goal to turn the now heatless, and thus seasonal, buildings into spaces that function (and make money) all year round. For now though, it’s bit-by-bit, “as time and money allows,” seems to be a mantra for the Opera Association.

As for “The Boss” and Karen, they’re heading back to the Teller House to take a first look at an archive of information they recently found that belonged to Anne Evans, arts patron and one-time owner of the Teller House (for which she paid just $6,500 in 1935).

Tempted by the opening of the treasure trove, I follow them back to the Teller House, through its maze-like halls, past the atrium, brought back to life by Eric’s collection of tropical looking plants. By comparison to the lush and decadent building, full of antiques, Eric’s office is drab—a sure sign of a hard-working guy. The walls are blank, save for a presidential bubble mirror on the wall, and the desk covered in papers, including the box of historic goods.

Carefully, Eric lifts off the lid and fingers through the contents: a playbill for “Libretto,” with rows of yet unidentified signatures on the inside cover. Suddenly Eric seems nervous as in, “we should really have white gloves on for this.” He closes up the box, exhibiting a patience I thought impossible, but still visibly licking his lips. And as I walk out, through the antique packed halls I wonder if that’s how it always is to work with these houses, everyday a treasure hunt that’s only ever partially satisfied.

Mountain Folk Tales is a weekly column about locals living along the Peak-to-Peak. To suggest someone for a profile please email Sarah at mountainfolktales@gmail.com.

(Originally published in the March 14, 2019, print edition of The Mountain-Ear.)