In the 1920s, for example, it was the Estes Park Welfare Association. In the 1990s, it was the Estes Valley Improvement Association.
These groups operate outside the purview of the town government. In fact, part of the reason they form may be because they either recognize the limitations of the board's ability to correct what they perceive as significant problems, or because they can do things the town might like to accomplish but can't, because of bothersome things like taxpayers and majority rule.
In the 1950s, that group was the "Public Relations Council," assembled from heads of various entities in town, whose ostensible mission was to act "as watch dog over the recreational development and improvement of the area." We all know the code: some of the elites at the time got their panties in a wad about the direction Estes Park was heading, and wanted to impact its future beyond a single vote.
I hate to be so cynical about what some of these groups accomplished for Estes Park and the surrounding region. If your sewage runs to the Upper Thompson Sanitation District, you have EVIA to thank for that. If you like the look of downtown compared to what it used to be, you have the quasi-governmental organization EPURA to thank for that.
The "Public Relations Council" was the brainchild of Mrs. Convers Goddard of Storer Ranch. (Storer Ranch seemed to be a breeding ground for these early advocacy or improvement efforts.) Naturally, dues were charged, to keep out the riff-raff, and naturally, probably just a lot of talking was accomplished (or a lot less evil unloosed on innocent bystanders, again, depending on perspective) before the group tired of each other and faded into oblivion. I only bring it up because Elery Virgil Shugart was among the list of "Public Relations Council" charter members. For me, this confirms that, two years in, and quicker than anyone else in town, E.V. Shugart had arrived.
Were the Shugarts rich? Good looking? The 1940 census indicates Mr. Shugart was regional manager of a paper products company in Omaha. His son Wayne was close to graduation from Benson High School. Both Mr. Shugart and his son lived fast, drove fast. There were no paper companies in Estes Park in the 1940s. So why did the elder Shugarts (and by elder, we're talking 44) move to Estes Park in 1948, and, more importantly, if they really did buy "Windy Woods" in May 1948, what did Mr. Shugart do to keep himself busy for a year before getting the Lake Estes concession?
You'd never know from the Trail, which, before and after their coronation, mentions almost nothing of consequence about them, socially or professionally. Besides this inclusion on the 1950 "Who's Who" list, and occasional updates from "Cap" Shugart on the number of trout hauled from his lake, their life in Estes Park as recovered from the papers is no life at all, and something as innocuous as the Nov. 16, 1951 entry "Mr. and Mrs. E.V. Shugart left Tuesday for Marion, Iowa, where they will spend the holidays with their children" ends up carrying disproportionate weight. Glenn Prosser, the Trail editor at the time, obviously didn't know the Shugarts all that well either. They only had one child, a son, and they never made it to the Cedar Rapids suburb for Thanksgiving.
Thus the limitations of a small-town weekly newspaper: Elery and Gladys Shugart were both dead by the time the Trail and its subscribers learned of their departure.
The only witness to the horrific accident (or at least the only one still living) that accordioned the Shugart's Allard convertible, pushed the front wheels back into the passenger seats, is 80 years old today. A teenager at the time, he was charged with manslaughter while still in a hospital bed recovering from serious injuries of his own.
His wife (likely a second wife) sounds pleasant enough when she answers the phone, although her concern becomes audible when I attempt a clumsy confirmation that I am indeed talking with the right family. Sometimes my need to get at the truth goes beyond other's rights to be left alone.
Last chance, Estes. Shugart. S-H-U-G-A-R-T. Either somebody is going to remember, or I will be forced to tell a story no one wants to hear.
(to be continued)