BY NATALIE MILLIS

PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS

    Over the course of the summer we’ve been watching the “progress” of the Cheesman Park sidewalk project with a sense of mild amusement.
    First there were the inexplicable plastic walls that the dogs used to piss on during illegal off-leash playtime. Followed by wide swaths of turf cut in almost whimsical twists across the hill. Then, of course, the perilous streams of mud.
    The whole process remained slightly mysterious and hilarious until the day I was riding past a construction vehicle and hit a vicious pothole on Franklin. Of course my back inner tube gave out on the spot.
    After I had finished cussing, I sat down for a moment on the curb and looked at all of the new sidewalks gashed and freshly poured into the sides of the park. Why was this refreshing green expanse cut apart? Why all this ridiculous concrete while the streets in and around the park are falling apart?

BY NATALIE MILLIS

PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS

            In our quest to save the world and our energy bill, my sister and I have decided to forgo air- conditioning for the summer. Having grown up without it, it seemed like the sensible thing to do.

BY NATALIE MILLIS
PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS
    Ok, I admit I am not always the most communicative roommate.
    Case in point: When my sister heard that I had signed our apartment up for “couch surfing,” she freaked out. On the surface, it’s easy to see why.
    Couch-surfers is an international registry of couches that hosts are willing to lend out for the night free of charge, which essentially amounts to inviting strangers from all over the world that you met on the Internet to stay with you for a night or two. However, it’s not quite as sketchy as it sounds. You register on the website, verify your identity with a credit card, and other people who you’ve stayed with can post references for you (e.g., “He was a nice guest who cooked us dinner and didn’t try to rob us.”).

BY NATALIE MILLIS

PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS

     I see him often–a man dressed in a ragged black hoodie and filthy jeans, pushing an elaborately stacked grocery cart of neatly sorted recyclables and other useful junk. He makes the rounds down our alley every day or two.

     Upon seeing him, visitors or guests in my apartment sometimes express fear or bewilderment, but he’s just making a living in his own way. It’s a hard living, but he makes it work as best he can.

     This recycling process is, of course, inevitable in our stratified society; and so is resistance from property owners. Some dumpsters are locked in an attempt to prevent “dumping or tampering.”
     My ex-boyfriend berated what he considered to be a glaring “hobo problem” every time we heard the familiar clatter of a cart bumping over the potholes outside the window.

BY NATALIE MILLIS
PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS

    Tax day is inevitably a time of involuntary reflection about the state of one’s finances.
    Looking over my income and expenditures, I am amazed at how much money I spend on food for us. It seems we can afford either quality or quantity, but never both. Do I go to Whole Foods tonight and get few gorgeous tomatoes that actually smell real, or do I admit to myself that it’s almost the end of the month, rent is due, and I should get a can of tomatoes from King Soopers instead?
    In the end, the brutal hand of the financial bottom line wins out, as usual. I peel the can open and there is that faint metal smell as I pour the tomato product into the pan without further fanfare. As I stand there with the spatula I think, briefly and longingly, of being on the Appalachian Trail last summer.

BY NATALIE MILLIS

PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS

            Like the rest of life itself, some things change and some things don’t on Colfax.

            Scooter Liquors, down the street from where we grew up, still looks and smells like it always did (I wonder if they still give candy to the kids in the backseat at the drive-thru window).

BY NATALIE MILLIS
PHOTOS BY LEAH MILLIS
    “Church” isn’t a word you hear much among my set. But unhip as it may be, the fact of the matter is that our church was an important part of the cityscape around us.
    In light of the disaster that has struck Haiti, we feel it appropriate to relate how a small congregation at 13th & Vine changed both of our lives.
    I was a little “wild” as a teenager. Shortly after my 17th birthday my ma told me I needed some perspective and was going with her on a medical trip to our sister church in Haiti, located in Petit Trou de Nippes in the south. Although I was physically present as the church tirelessly raised the funds, I went to the slideshows and meetings without paying any attention. I recall only a vague sense of amazement at the pile of enormous duffel bags stuffed to bursting with basic medical supplies.