Editor’s Note: We recently had the opportunity to view a scrapbook created by the late Beulah local Shirley Klipfel. Inside we found a gem, a signed copy of an article Fran Weaver wrote for Vogue magazine in 1979. Yes, thee Vogue magazine. The article is prefaced by excerpts from Fran’s obituary, which offers an apt description of the legendary Beulah resident, columnist, National Public Radio commentator and senior editor of NBC’s Today Show. This is a reprint of Fran’s words written in 1979 and do not necessarily reflect the views of this paper.
Denver Post, January 25, 2004
Frances Weaver always said, "I never wanted to be a whining old lady," and she made sure she wasn't. Weaver got on the fast track in her 50s, said her daughter, Allison Swift.
She wrote books about having fun while aging, started a kite-flying club (Beulah Tethered Flight Association) and became a regular on NBC's "Today Show." Weaver, who also was a columnist for the Pueblo Chieftain, mother, grandmother and high-energy speaker, died following a stroke. She was 79.
Weaver, was 55 when her husband, surgeon John Weaver, died. She decided to take a writing course at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, N.Y.
She also started going to Alcoholics Anonymous and spoke openly about it. In her books, she made reference to her drinking only by using phrases common to AA members, such as, "Carrying a resentment amounts to nothing more than allowing someone to live rent-free in your head."
She wrote eight books, including "The Girls with the Grandmother Faces," "I'm Not as Old As I Used to Be" and "There's More to Me Than I Have Used Yet."
Weaver was a sought-after speaker around the country and became a regular on the Crystal Cruise ships that went all over the world. "Generally, we never knew where she was,"said Swift, of Utopia, Texas.
Weaver had speeches scheduled when she died. The self-proclaimed "recycled housewife" stressed that inside every woman is still the little girl with the capacity to be excited, and that women should take chances and be active in their communities.
She was famous for her line, "You have to decide if you're going to be the statue or the bird," recalled son Matthew Ross of Pueblo. She once told an audience that people don't want to hear about older people's ailments or loneliness. Widowed women must move on, instead of "sitting up on the side of the bed with your teeth out waiting for the kids to call." "Talking about your useless hearing aid and your bladder" are ways to make you appear old, she wrote in one of her books.
Weaver's children inherited her sense of humor. They warned her about taking college seriously. "We told her not to come home pregnant, not to get in with the wrong crowd. She listened courteously and did just what she wanted," said son Ross Weaver of Pueblo. "She was fun to be around and always upbeat and upfront," said a longtime friend, Sandy Stein. "She had a ton of friends."
Frances Allison was born Sept. 24, 1924 in McPherson, Kansas, and graduated from Kansas State University. She married Dr. John Weaver of Concordia, Kansas, on July 3, 1945, and they moved to Colorado with their three children. Another son was born in Colorado.
Before moving to Colorado, they lived in Prairie Village, Kansas, where Frances Weaver was on the City Council. She was referred to as the "Rat Lady of Prairie Village" because she ran on a campaign of getting rid of a particular plant that attracted rats to the city, said Ross of his mother.
In addition to her children, Weaver is survived by six grandchildren, two great-grandchildren and sisters Ann Leach and Middy Divelbiss, both of Colorado Springs. She was preceded in death by her son Chris Weaver, who died in 1999. v
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1979 Vogue Article:
Dwelling in Beulahland: Life can be exciting in the Colorado Rockies
by Frances Weaver
I really have no idea why this happens, but almost every time I am introduced to someone and asked, “Where do you live?” the reaction to my answer is remarkable. What is so funny about saying “I live in Beulah, Colorado”??? I am being honest, forthright, and friendly; but that announcement brings forth a variety of expressions ranging from disbelief to hilarity. A double-take is inevitable. Then my husband might decide to boast a bit, or I might play it to the hilt by adding (modestly, of course) that I am the mayor of Beulah. This is a sure-fire way to make an impression among first-time acquaintances at surgical meetings. “See that big guy? His wife is the mayor of Beulah, Colorado. “The mayor of WHAT?”
It isn’t quite that I’m mayor. Beulah is unincorporated. If we did have a mayor however I would be it. As it is, I am the ranking local politician in the Valley—chairman of the Steering Committee—an awesome position.
Every ten years or so, someone tries to incorporate Beulah. That could happen any time now; the last attempt was ten years ago. It came about when some Young Turks from the faculty of the college organized a meeting at the Valley-Ho Building [now called Beulah Community Center -Editor]. Bring your own chairs. Nobody really knew the exact procedure for incorporation, but the discussion raged for three hours. Just as disorder was about to dissolve into mayhem and the name-calling was ferocious, one old-timer (a Swede) shouted, “I make a motion we keep the Beulah Valley chust like it iss!” Cheers. Boos. Shouts. The bedraggled chairman declared discussion be in order (by this time he was slightly deranged). Mr. Anderson jumped to his feet. “That’s not the way it iss! First you make the motion, then you vote on it, then you fight about it!!!” Ten years later, the Beulah Valley is “chust the way it iss” and that’s fine. Good for Mr. Anderson.
Regimentation is hardly the way of life in the Colorado Rockies, anyway. Attitudes of the locals are usually relaxed unless some newcomer from Town moves in with Big Ideas. Generally, we take it pretty easy. There is an insatiable curiosity about rumors but very little interest in facts.
One summer day lives in our memories because of the excitement generated. There was a fugitive from justice on the loose right here in the Valley. He was wanted for a Federal offense. You can imagine the rumors about that one: they ranged from draft-dodging to white slavery. The town was overwhelmed. In came FBI men, the state patrol in droves, the sheriff’s department en masse, television news teams, the works—all on opening day of the Outdoor Art Show.
Children on horses volunteered to look for strangers lurking in mountain caves. One little boy was sure the wanted man was his Cub Scout leader. There were rumors that the man made daily trips to the post office to look at his own picture. In the midst of all this, our own local deputy sheriff wandered into the Gaway Cafe to join a group of us for a cup of coffee. Dependable Norman. It seemed a logical question: “Why aren’t you out hunting for the fugitive?” “It’s too hot.” Logical answer. Norman shook his head in wonder. “You know, I went to Town to report to the Sheriff’s office and nobody was there but the girl at the switchboard. I asked where everybody was and she said ‘Beulah.’ I just said, ‘Well, I’ll be dogged. I knew that town would go bad some day.’”
Norman had no reason to be alarmed. He had known the wanted man for several months and knew he wasn’t dangerous. Norman even knew the man’s pistol was broken. Several times he had taken the gun away from the man when he had driven him home drunk. Norman always gave the gun back; he knew it wouldn’t shoot.
Actually, the suspect was wanted for cattle rustling in Oklahoma. It seems that his father had stolen his wife, so he helped himself to two cows from his father’s herd. To the people of Beulah this seemed fair, so the matter was dropped as far as we were concerned. The memory of that day lives on; however. It was a big one.
City dwellers, even the people in Town, usually have a lot to talk about. Here in the mountains, we make comparisons and claim local records. Who recorded the most rain; whose snow was deepest; whose hailstones largest; whose temperatures the most extreme; whose carrots are biggest; whose well has never gone dry—all of those important things. This reached a peak as far as I am concerned when old Mr. Coleman told me that the store had some really good new sausage. Said he: “Dick Burns claims he got the first pound of that new sausage but he didn’t. I got the first pound, and I can prove it!” He probably could.
That’s how life is here. We brag about little things, we complain about local telephone company (I doubt the Bell System would touch it with a pole of any length), we tolerate a few folks who would have to be “locked up” in a more densely populated area, and we have a New Englander’s attitude about outsiders. We can hardly wait for the summer people to go home. When it comes to a discussion of Growth or Development, forget it. Every person who moves here wants to be the last one. We spread our own rumors about a dearth of water and an abundance of rattlesnakes (neither true) just to discourage increased population. We like Beulah “Chust like it iss.”
If you are interseted in finding Beulah or (God forbid!) moving here, don’t ask me where it is. I’ll never tell. I wouldn’t dare to tell you where Town is, even. I might be run out on a rail for promoting development of the area. v