Cross Purposes

But no sooner had they planted the first marker off Flagstaff Road in Boulder than someone called the American Civil Liberties Union. The caller had seen a newspaper photo of George in uniform planting a cross for an eighteen-year-old girl who was killed while joyriding on the top of a car. (She and her friends had been drinking.) The ACLU demanded that George scrap the program: Uniformed government officials cannot be seen endorsing religious symbols, its attorneys said.

Instead of arguing their case in court, George and Lloyd developed another design: a white, diamond-shaped sign with a red ribbon "X" on it. The new sign passed public scrutiny and also ACLU attorneys, and was soon adopted in Boulder County. When the idea reached the state, though, it hit a wall. The only diamond-shaped signs allowed on Colorado highways, George and Lloyd were told, were yellow notices that include traffic-related warnings.

So they went back to the drawing board. This time they came up with a rectangular sign with a blue background, white lettering and the red "X." And this version was applauded by state officials, who posted the first official marker in 1997 at Orchard and Parker roads to commemorate the death of sixteen-year-old Michael Wagner, killed at the site by a drunken driver the year before.

Since then, the blue-and-white signs have been adopted by a half-dozen cities and counties in Colorado, including Denver. They cost $100 and can be posted only under certain conditions, such as a DWI or drug-related death. Even then, they are allowed to stand only two years.

"Word is getting out," Lloyd says. "This program is going statewide. It helps people stop and think. It helps families, too."

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not this way. Not to Lloyd Elder.

He rarely drank. He never wanted to. He grew up on a farm with fresh air and hard work and lived his life clean and strong. He raised his family the same way.

When he retired from the dairy business four years ago, he took a job tending the grounds at the Vernon Taylor estate. He and his wife, Peggy, lived on the property. When they went to work, they walked across the yard.

On that day, a Tuesday, Lloyd was headed home after playing a late hockey match. By the time he showered and dressed, it was after midnight.

He loved hockey. Even at his age, which was 66, he was still out there giving them fits.

He had passed the intersection of Wadsworth and Morrison and was only a few hundred yards from the driveway when she hit him.

The 27-year-old had been drinking. She had borrowed a friend's Chevy SUV when she left the bar. Then she'd sped up the hill, jumped the median, plowed over two traffic signs and swerved into oncoming traffic. When the Chevy finally stopped, the speedometer was frozen at 77 mph. The airbag saved her life. She suffered only a broken wrist. Later, she was sentenced to community service and work release. This winter she's supposed to be released. Early.

Peggy remembers the sirens that August night. She remembers thinking, "Something happened. And it's bad. And it's close." But never in a million years did she think it was Lloyd out there on the side of the road with the flashing red lights and the paramedics.

When they told her about the DWI memorial-sign program, Peggy wasn't sure what to do. She didn't need a reminder of where Lloyd had died: She drives past the spot every day. Even after fourteen months, it's still a difficult thing to do. But if that sign can save even one life, she thought, then it's worth it. So on a bright October morning, Peggy stood by the side of the intersection at Wadsworth and Morrison with family, friends and a few highway department workers and watched two men raise a sign that reads: "Don't Drink and Drive. In Memory of Lloyd E. Elder."

"Thank you," Peggy said afterward. "It's a comfort."

She and Lloyd had been married 42 years. He was so close to home.

Scholars agree that official markers console grieving families and warn motorists of the dangers of drinking and driving. But they will never replace descansos. The identical white crosses, blue-and-white signs, lollipop-shaped memorials, non-controversial as they might be, overlook the reason many descansos exist in the first place: They personalize grief.

"This is one case where the states could just back off," Stephen Sapp says. "I think the states could give a little more leeway to needs of people who are grieving. And these roadside memorials seem to be a relatively benign way of doing that. I'd much rather have people be able to erect roadside memorials than have them standing outside bars and shooting everyone who looks tipsy because a drunk driver killed their little girl."