Frozen Dead Guy Days

I'm such an idiot! I'm unable to check into my hotel. Eat! Buy souvenirs! I've ruined my vacation before it even got started.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Okay, get a grip, Pam. Think calmly. I need to retrace my steps. That's all. I probably dropped it nearby.

But what if someone already picked it up? Panic clawed to regain control. They could be buying "Frozen Dead Guy" t-shirts and eating Frozen Dead Guy ice cream purchased with my credit card. I'm so stupid! Why didn't I download the app? How can I freeze my card without the phone number? A number I don't have because it's on the back of my card? 

Stop it! Just breathe and retrace your steps. I found a bench and sat, trying to remember the last time I used my card. The coffin races kept coming to mind. Did I buy something there? I returned to the area, hoping a familiar sight would jog my memory.

I arrived just before another race began. Seven-man teams lined up: six carrying the coffin and one riding inside. Laughter and beer flowed freely throughout the crowd who gathered to cheer on the racers.

I pulled my attention from the race and resumed searching for a familiar booth or food truck. Lemons! The giant lemons on top of the food truck looked familiar. I bought a frozen lemonade there. I hurried to the window and asked if someone had turned in a credit card. Unfortunately, no one had. I covered the ground several times without success.

The crowd erupted. I turned to see the end of the race and the winning team of men jumping with fists raised, their beer bellies jiggling as they shouted like they had won the Daytona 500. I also felt like shouting but for very different reasons. If I don't find that card, my vacation is over. I have no backup, no debit card, no checks, and no cash on hand. Curse my impulsiveness. I have enough gas to get back home, but the thought of giving up depressed me.

I continued searching and made my way back to the Tuff Shed, where Grandpa Bredo was still frozen. I remembered taking the tour, so that meant I had to have used my card to pay for the ticket. I asked, but none of the employees had seen one, and no one had turned one in.

Depression began to set in again. I had hoped this crazy vacation to the Frozen Dead Guy Days festival would help free me of my seasonal depression. I fight it every winter, and March is the worst. However, this year, I came across an advertisement while scrolling through Facebook—a unique and crazy festival celebrating the cryopreservation of Grandpa Bredo in Estes Park, Colorado. I decided to go at that very moment. It was only a three-hour drive. I quickly packed and headed out for adventure. I had no idea this would be the "adventure" I would find.

The hearse parade was gearing up to begin, and volunteers set up the pedestrian barricades along the parade route. I shrugged my shoulders and lined along the route with hundreds of other festival-goers. The parade is free. I'll enjoy it as much as I can and then head back home.

A sparkle of light bounced off something in the middle of the road. I looked closer and almost shouted. It was my card. I almost went under the pedestrian barricade before I noticed the first hearse leading the parade. It had begun, and my card was directly in the middle of its path.

I watched helplessly as hearse after hearse straddled my card. I'll have to wait it out. After all, the vehicles are not hurting it. But a drumming sound put an end to my ease. The marching bands followed the hearses. My card got kicked around by the synchronized marching. I tried getting the attention of a baton thrower while she walked past, but she either didn't hear me or pretended not to hear me.

My fear rose as my card got kicked dangerously close to a street gutter. The only positive thing was it got kicked to my side of the street. I slide through the crowd along the barricades, trying to get closer to my card. I finally lined up with my card and attempted to reach under the barricade, which drew the attention of two policemen standing nearby.

They came over and told me to remain behind the barricade. I tried explaining, but the bands were so loud my voice got swallowed up. I tried yelling, but that only alarmed the officers, who gestured for me to step back even further.

I began to cry. My card sat only a few inches from the street grate. One more kick would knock it into the sewers. The people around me began moving away from me. No one wanted to stand near a hysterical, mad woman who the cops were watching.

My scene also grabbed the attention of the Frozen Queen of the Parade. She sat in a tricked-out convertible hearse at the end of the procession. She told the driver to stop, and she got out. She walked straight to my card, picked it up, and walked to me.

"I saw that you were upset, and then I saw this credit card and figured it might be yours."

Every eye, including the cops, looked from me to the Queen. No one who could hear what was going on said a word.

"It is, thank you so much." I reached out for it, and she handed it to me. It struck me how kind and considerate it was of her to stop a parade to return my credit card, and I teared up even more. "Why did you do this?"

She smiled and said, "You looked like you were having a bad day. I hope this will help change it. Besides, it's what Grandpa Bredo would do."

The tension dissipated with shouts of agreement and laughter. The Queen returned to her hearse, the cops moved on, and the crowd rejoined the festive activities.

With that one act, my depression disappeared. I stayed and enjoyed the entire weekend, happily spending more money than I should have. It was all worth it. My depression did not show again that winter, summer, or fall. Something magical had happened – the magic of kindness.