El Jebel Grief and Glenwood Road Redesign Spark Community Debate

Glenwood Springs —The silence in El Jebel is different now. It’s the kind of quiet that settles after a storm has passed, leaving behind wet pavement and the faint, metallic scent of rain on dry earth. For Ida Burnaman, that silence was broken by something far louder than thunder: the collective exhale of a community holding hands.

Her husband, Jerry, passed on Sept. 1, 2026. In the vacuum left by his presence, the people around him didn’t just offer condolences; they offered logistics, labor, and love. Ida’s letter in the Post Independent reads less like a eulogy and more like a census of grace. She names Dr. Andrew Gisleson, the service department at Phil Long Subaru, and a "wonderful lady" at the Colorado Driver’s License Department. These aren’t just names; they’re anchors. They remind us that kindness isn’t an abstract concept floating above the valley. It’s a mechanic wiping down a windshield. It’s a clerk stamping a form. It’s the hospice nurse, Christel, walking into a room where the air feels thick with finality. When you look closely, you can see the threads connecting these disparate acts. The Blue Lake Homeowners Association, Vonday Williams, and the neighbors who showed up with casseroles — they formed a net. And when the weight of grief threatened to pull Ida through, that net held. There’s a warmth to that recognition. It’s the specific, local texture of survival.

But while El Jebel is processing loss, Glenwood Springs is wrestling with a different kind of emptiness. Dean Moffatt’s letter cuts straight to the heart of the city’s aesthetic crisis: the mile-long remake of Highway 6 from Linden to Donegan. To the casual eye, it’s an improvement. The road is new. The lines are crisp. But Moffatt calls it an embarrassment, and he’s right. The city has confused xeriscape with zeroscape. It’s a hot, glaring, bumpy, expensive, poorly designed redo. The pedestrian-bike path is too wide, creating a canyon effect that feels more like a parking lot than a promenade. The travel way is too narrow, forcing cars into a tight, stressful corridor. And then there’s the white, rock-filled buffer strip. It stretches for a mile, blindingly bright under the midday sun. It’s sterile. It’s aggressive. It’s a missed opportunity for shade trees, for soft, user-friendly growing carpets, for an inviting park-like entrance for people on their way to the tram, the hot pots, or the park.

Water runs the entire mile. There is ample room for trees. The white rocks can be used elsewhere. The city has mountains of organic soil. Public funds exist for shade trees and xeriscape elements. The council has the tools. They just need the vision. They need to show that they understand beauty, climate change, and proactivity. They need to stop treating the street as a conduit for cars and start treating it as a living room for the city.

Then there’s the third thread, the one that ties it all together: values. The third letter in the Post Independent is from a parent, writing to their children. It’s a manifesto of inheritance. The parent wants their kids to understand why they vote Democratic, but not to vote the same way. It’s about personal freedom — the freedom to make decisions about their own bodies, families, and futures. It’s about inheriting a healthy planet, supporting clean energy, and protecting the environment. It’s about fairness, ensuring the tax system asks everyone to contribute equally while funding good schools, strong infrastructure, and health care.

It’s a simple, profound argument. Civil rights belong to everyone. No matter someone’s race, gender, background, or identity, they deserve dignity, equality, and equal treatment under the law. This is the value that underpins the kindness in El Jebel and the demand for beauty in Glenwood Springs. It’s the belief that we are responsible for each other. That the stranger at the DMV is part of the fabric. That the tree on the highway is a gift to the future.

So, what do we take away? We hold onto the sense that we are not alone. We keep in mind the knowledge that our choices, how we treat our neighbors, how we design our streets, how we raise our children - matter. We carry the hope that if we keep showing up, if we keep naming the people who help us, if we keep demanding better, we’ll get there.

The sun is setting over the valley now. The light is turning golden, hitting the white rocks on Highway 6 and making them glow. It’s beautiful, in a stark, harsh way. It’s a reminder that even in the emptiness, there’s light. Even in the silence, there’s sound. Even in the loss, there’s love.

You can feel it in the air. It’s a subtle shift, a change in pressure. It’s the feeling of something new beginning. It’s the anticipation of what’s next. It’s the promise of tomorrow.

And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.