
The song that came back on Monday
After the Aspen Acres fire pushed families into Pueblo shelters, neighbors answered with donations, a one-day telethon and a jug band that kept returning to play for evacuees.
The first sound Deborah Beauchamp heard that morning was not a siren. It was a jug band outside an evacuation shelter in Pueblo, Colorado, playing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" while Aspen Acres fire evacuees waited to learn what was left of home. 1
That is the detail I keep sitting with. Disaster relief usually gets measured in acres, structures, containment and dollars. All of that matters. But at the shelter, help also arrived as borrowed guitars, bottled water, pet food, phone chargers and people willing to stay on the line after the formal telethon ended.
The shelter became a temporary family
The Aspen Acres fire started on June 29 and had burned 91,982 acres across Pueblo and Custer counties by Monday evening, July 6. By that point, officials said it had destroyed at least 263 homes and four commercial businesses, forced nearly 12,000 people to evacuate and drawn more than 1,500 firefighters. 1
Those numbers are the scale of the emergency. The smaller scale is a cot, a dog named Elvis, a shelter manager trying to solve the next practical problem, and evacuees listening to one another because nobody else in the room needs the situation explained.
At the Pueblo County Recreation Center, one of three Aspen Acres evacuation centers, Red Cross volunteer Sandy Nebl said the shelter housed 42 people on Sunday night and helped many more with medical care, showers, hot meals, shoes, chargers and pet food. 1 "The humanity has been amazing," she told The Denver Post. 1

Beauchamp, who fled Colorado City, called the shelter a kind of salvation. "In the midst of all this, there's been so much good," she said. "I've done a lot of crying, but that's not because I'm sad." 1
That sentence has room for the whole mess: grief, relief, exhaustion, gratitude. Good news does not mean the fire is good. It means people found one another before the worst day had the final word.
A band did the one thing it could do
The Grass Seed Jug Band first came to the shelter because one of its members, Dave Bokel, had been staying there after leaving his Beulah home. He borrowed a guitar and joined the group outside the recreation center. 1
By July 9, KRDO reported that the band had come back again. Many evacuees had been at the Cooper Place evacuation center since the fire broke out, and donations of food, water, blankets and necessities had poured in. 2 Music was a different kind of donation.

"I can't fight fires. I can't build a new house. But I can sing a song," band member Myra Filler told KRDO. 2 Band leader Elliott Ring said the group planned to return every Monday morning at 10 to keep playing for evacuees. 2
I like that because it is a clean answer to a question that makes people freeze: what can I possibly do here? Filler did not pretend a song could replace a roof. She named the limit, then did the thing inside it.
The phones kept ringing
The practical help was moving just as quickly. KRDO and United Way of Southern Colorado ran the Southern Colorado Cares Telethon for Aspen Acres fire relief, with every dollar staying in Southern Colorado for affected families in Pueblo and Custer counties. 3
The station reported that the original $100,000 goal was quickly surpassed, then raised to $200,000, $250,000 and $275,000. Volunteers kept taking calls even after the telethon ended. 4 The campaign page later thanked Southern Colorado for raising more than $300,000 in one day. 3
Volunteer Karen Yescavage said a $500 donation from someone near the evacuation zone moved her to tears. "It's helping restore my faith in humans," she told KRDO. 4 United Way of Southern Colorado President Shanna Farmer said the community was always willing to step up, but the speed of the donations surprised her: "We're talking numbers like we have never seen before." 4
There is still hard news underneath this. Roads close. Air quality changes. People wait. Some homes are gone. But for one week in Pueblo, the recovery also had a sound: phones ringing, carts rolling across a parking lot, a washboard and guitar starting up again on Monday morning.
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