The Joy of Writing About It

4th of July, 2010

So, my novel has some fireworks.
Pretty scary.

Scott's photos sparkle

The big question is how to set them off,
without actually drawing a picture.

I'm not a total novice.
In fact, I wrote a post about it:

The S-Word

How did you find out? I was barely ten, chatting in my pink striped bedroom with Karen and Linda. Karen and I were the oldest kids in our family, and Linda was #3 in hers. Oldest kids are always a bit dorky in worldly ways. Our parents were content to assume we were too young. Third kids had knowledgeable siblings to clue them in, and Linda was passing on her wisdom.

I was horrified and accused her of lying; the story was totally unacceptable, and gross. I heard the same lie again from Brenda on the swings at recess. Later, I read a novel that hinted it was all true. By the time my parents finally told me, one very embarrassing Sunday night when I was in ninth grade (they had a booklet and everything) I figured I knew as much as they did. But I acted like it was all new to me, and just listened and waited (mortified) for it to be over.

It was obliquely referred to by my parents after that, but I was engaged before it really come up again in a conversation. Mom told me to "be careful because passion can be explosive." She said she and dad had "come close" before they were married, but they had "stayed strong." I was vastly impressed! Not only had they stayed strong...they had come close! Wow! These parents of mine had a past!

"Gotta tell 'em sometime."

Heroes 1984

I decided to take the bull by the horns with my own kids. Rather than have a huge tell-all discussion that would be uncomfortable for everyone, I'd keep them informed throughout their childhood, and make it all feel normal. I would answer every question appropriately and we would be an open, natural family.

Of course, I didn't count on questions being asked in front of their single uncle while they were splashing in the tub ("Is this where the baby comes out?") or on an elevator full of people ("How did daddy plant the seed?") or at a birthday party when I was calling out that I needed cooperation ("Oh no! Are you pregnant again?") There were many other times their appropriate questions were asked in an inappropriate setting. I must have given out vibes that this wasn't a subject I wanted to discuss on demand.

They stopped asking. So, I got a book, which I would occasionally break out for an ice-breaker when the mood was right for questions. Gabi, at 10, declared that I was perverted. "Why do you always talk about this stuff?" Josh left the room in disgust whenever he could tell I was about to bring it up. Micah, however, was fascinated. He loved the pictures and seemed mildly excited by the topic, even as a 7-year-old little boy. Dee sat in horror, hoping I would not bring him into the discussion. His parents had never told him, and he had discovered everything all on his own. Couldn't we just handle it in that time-honored way?

(I haven't read this.)

The last four kids weren't as difficult; they absorbed all the hush-hush information by eavesdropping on their sibling's conversations. The S-word was part of their vocabulary, although they obviously hoped we wouldn't get too technical. It's troublesome for kids to imagine that their parents are savvy in this area. "Mom, don't go there . . . too much information," is a phrase I became familiar with.

How do parents tell kids nowadays? Do they say, "Go watch channel five?" The whole truth is graphically depicted everywhere. My grandkids reassure me that carnal knowledge still comes gradually and in a piecemeal way. They hide their eyes when Superman kisses Lois Lane, and cover their ears so they can't hear "yukky kissing sounds." They innocently ask if the lovers in the movie are having "a sleepover" and hide the bare-naked Barbie from a baby brother's gaze.

Jake was eight when he told me he'd save me from a cauldron of spiders or snakes. He'd even save me from monsters. "I'm not scared of anything," he informed me. I said I had a really scary scenario for him. What if I was in a room full of giggling girls who all wanted to kiss him? Would he save me? "NO WAY!!" he screamed. "Unless I was older and they were pretty," he whispered.

Jake 2007

Hmmm, there's no getting around it. Those are still the facts of life.

Homework: Choose any or all, or be inspired.

~Comment on books you'd recommend (or not) to teach kids of all ages about sex.

~Write about how you found out about sex. Prompt: "My parents didn't tell me; I found out from____."

~"Do Oma and Opa do the special hug?" Record something funny you've heard a kid say about sex.

~Think through an answer for this: You're standing behind a very pregnant woman in the grocery store check-out line, and your four-year-old asks loudly, "Mom, how will her baby get out?"

Creative Writing

School Days

I've learned most of what I know by teaching it.
That's why I did my School Days seminar last fall.
Read all about it:

EXPOSE'

Busted

In a surprise raid, a local blogger was apprehended today for impersonating a writer. TravelinOma was indicted on several counts of fraud, including teaching without a license, extorting hush-hush particulars from "students" and philosophizing sans a Ph.D.

TravelinOma (a Mormon, of course,) was nabbed on her way to church Sunday morning. An onlooker was heard shouting, "School Days was a scam! I want my money back!" Oma has published over 57 posts (the equivalent of 390 pages) since September 1st, presenting herself as a wordsmith of sorts. More than 300 different readers have been conned into leaving comments or sending emails, many on a regular basis!

In an exclusive interview she answered the question, "Why? Why'd ya do it?"

Behind Bars

TravelinOma said, "Honestly, I never thought I'd be found out. I know I'm just a scribbler, a hack. But I wanted to give it a shot. Writing's the only thing I've ever been good at. And I thought if I set myself up as a woman of letters, I'd be able to practice—you know—be motivated. It just grew from there. It got out of hand.

"I devised School Days hoping ace writers would sign up, hand in their work, and I could learn from them. They did. I admit it—I preyed on innocent young bloggers. What got into me?

Booked

"I'm guilty, but I'm not sorry. I've learned a lot these past few weeks, from my students and from my research. Jail won't silence me. Lock me in a cell with my books and a pad of paper and I'll carry on. Other (legitimate) writing teachers give me hope:

"Anne LaMott said, 'Try not to feel sorry for yourselves, when you find the going hard and lonely. You seem to want to write, so write. You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories . . . This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.'

"Monica Wood wrote, 'I have been asked why I teach writing, since statistics hold that 99% of writers will never actually publish anything. True, perhaps. But what an appalling criterion for teaching people to write with more intention, more craft, more delight. To write means to live thoughtfully. To respect your inner life. To engage with the world. Why shouldn't everyone aspire to this richness?'

"Natalie Goldberg said, 'Writers live twice. They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning. But there's another part of them that they have been training. The one that lives everything a second time.

'"Writers are more interested in living life again in their writing than in making money. Now, let's understand—writers do like money; it's just that money isn't the driving force. I feel very rich when I have time to write and very poor when I get a regular paycheck and no time to work at my real work. Think of it. Employers pay salaries for time. That is the basic commodity that human beings have that is valuable. We exchange our time in life for money. Writers stay with the first step—their time—and feel it is valuable before they even get money for it.'"

Writer's Block

TravelinOma will not be gagged; she will continue her scribbling even while in exile. She pleaded with this journalist to communicate her motto:

"Word warriors, unite!

Write, write, write away!"

Homework: Do any or all or be inspired

~Write a newspaper article about yourself.

Being a Writer

Will, 2008

"Oma! Are you still writing that cowboy book??" asked Will (who's seven.) "I already gave you all my good ideas at Easter." He looked at the others and grinned. "I suggested violence."

While I work on the violent parts, you can check out this re-run:

Class Presentations

OK, kids.
When I call on you, just stand up and make your presentation.

One author said, "It's easy being a writer. You just cut open a vein and bleed all over the paper."
That's what it feels like sometimes; but we want to do it, anyway. We wouldn't be participating in this class if we didn't want to write. So why is it so hard to do? Audrey?

Audrey:

"Fear is my main excuse. I am afraid that something that seems really funny or meaningful in my head will sputter and collapse and end up displayed for all to see as the inadequate and incomplete thought that comes out when I write. I will have exposed myself and be left standing while everyone points their fingers and laughs. Or worse, they will walk away bored and confused."

Judy? Your hand is raised:

"You reminded me of a book title that I quote all too often . . . 'Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am?' The answer is . . . 'Because you may not like me.'"


It's interesting that we all feel that way. When I've written something light and witty I can't wait to get some feedback. I'll call Dee and read it to him over the phone, I'm so pleased with myself. I don't even care if he thinks it's dumb.

On the other hand, when I've poured out my heart on my blog, I often regret it the next day, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed. But, ironically, that's the kind of blog I like to read. When I read something sincere, it lets me know a writer is genuine. That's when I'm touched.

Some of the homework assignments these past weeks have been so brave and honest. I've read them with tears in my eyes, touched by the way a writer has opened her heart. I'll entice you with a couple of paragraphs, and you can click on the name for the whole presentation.

Heather wrote:

"I spun in my chair and angled my head to get a look. I had to see what they were all laughing about--why they were all laughing at me. My legs numbed. My stomach iced. I was betrayed. I couldn't understand how an adult could set up a kid for such humiliation. My ears burned, but that paled in comparison to the fire at the corners of my eyes. I searched the room like a hunted animal looking for a place to hide. I was painfully aware of everyone's eyes on me. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. The tears came, and to my relief, the bell. In that instant I bolted out the door and locked myself in the oatmeal colored bathroom stall. In four minutes I'd have to go back in there. I didn't know what to do.

"I typically did well in school because I worked hard to earn recognition in class. I'd always tried to please my teachers. I had no fear. I'd try anything once, and I wasn't afraid to get up in front of the class or participate. This day changed everything. This was the day where I learned that not all teachers have a student's best interest at heart. Not all teachers are considerate. Not all adults are trustworthy. She hurt me at my core, and that day shaped me for the rest of my schooling."

Mrs Organic wrote this about her experience with panic attacks:

"As soon as the sun went down and my children were tucked in bed, I would wait while my gut would tighten, and I'd wonder if that night would bring the dreaded anxiety. Often, my heart would race as if I'd just taken a leap off a cliff and discovered my chute wouldn't open, fairly hammering out of my chest. At the same time it would feel as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room leaving a vacuum in my lungs and a heavy pressure on my rib cage. I would tremble violently as fear overtook me. My brain utterly deserted me. I knew that what I was feeling was coming from my own mind but I felt completely powerless to stop it.

"I spent many nights sitting on the cool, hard tile of our master bath, my back pressed to the wall, facing the closed door with the light on, and my scriptures open in my lap. I sobbed uncontrollably; I was so very afraid. I don't think Mr. O understood it, but he was very patient and very kind."

Isn't this what being a writer is all about? Sharing experiences, and trying to make sense of life? I think it's a way of supporting each other. It's a gift. We have a responsibility to train ourselves and practice our craft, so we can use it in a positive way.

Another favorite quote says:

"I love being a writer. It's the paperwork I can't stand."

Yes? Diane?


"Over the years I’ve found that I put off doing things I want to do until mundane chores are done, sort of like keeping dessert until last. One thing I’ve found is that if I do the fun things first, the other stuff usually gets done anyway. At least the stuff that really needs to get done. Now I just need to remember all that, and I’ll get more writing, reading, and quilting done. Hope springs eternal!"

Thanks for your contributions to class today!

Homework: Do any or all or be inspired.

~Your best friend just called and said, through her tears, "I know you've had experience with_____. What did you do?" What would she be calling about? Answer her question in a note.

~Write about a time you made a presentation of some kind. Were you nervous? Excited? Prompt: "After I was introduced, I stood up and said_____"

~Remember someone who poured out their heart to you. How did you feel towards them after hearing their story? Were you sympathetic? Shocked? Disgusted? Understanding?

Write away!



*If you do any part of this assignment on your blog, please link it back to TravelinOma and provide proper attribution. Leave a comment here (with a link to your homework if you want to share it) and/or a link to your blog (so we can get to know you.) School Days has open enrollment so join anytime. No make-up work required! If you're new, click here for an orientation.

Dash to the Deadline

Photo by Kurt Hutton

"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens,
but a writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time—
the wait is simply too long."
—Leonard Bernstein

A deadline is looming and I've got to finish my book! So, for the next few weeks I'll be posting some summer re-runs from my School Day's Seminar. This one is called:

Just Musing.

Woman Writing by Henry O'Hara Clive

"Every writer I know has trouble writing."
—Joseph Heller

My muse showed up unannounced at 8:37 am. "I've been hoping you'd come!" I said as I rushed around, picking up pillows. "Just a minute . . . I'm almost ready." She sat on the couch, browsed my bookshelf, and then wandered into my office where she clicked impatiently on the computer keys.

I scrambled to do the dishes, dashed to the bathroom to make myself presentable, dropped in a load of laundry, and decided to fold the clothes in the dryer. The phone rang, and I answered with, "I can't talk right now," but then visited for a few minutes while I made the bed. "I'm coming! Are you still here?" I called to my muse as I scurried into the office. "Oh, my gosh! Let me find a place for you to sit!"

Straightening the books and papers, I quickly jotted some notes and filed a couple of bank statements. The telephone bill sat unpaid on my day-planner, so I got out my checkbook, rifled around for a stamp and envelope, and sent that worry to the mailbox. Finally I sat down at the computer (wow . . . eleven e-mails?) and announced, "OK. I'm ready."

No response. I looked around. She was gone! I stared from my blank mind out at the blank computer screen. "I have nothing," I realized. "It's happened again. Writer's block. Maybe if I read a few blogs I'll be inspired." And that's the story of the unwritten page.

Have you ever missed your muse? They are capricious little friends, I've noticed, unmoved by schedules and routines. Dismissive of children, errands, chores or TV favorites. My muse delights in whispering poetic lines when shampoo is bubbling in my eyes, or when I'm negotiating a left turn with a bus coming towards me. She's usually late for the appointments I set when we're scheduled to write. But, after years of experience, I've discovered ways to profit from her unpredictable visits.

1. Notice when she comes and try to be available. She works me in about 11:00 pm many nights. If I'm awake, I get up and let her rouse me into writing something. When the clock strikes three and I'm still pounding away at the keys, I admit that this joyful expression of myself is why I love writing. I'll take it when I can get it.
2. Have a notebook and pen handy. I have one in my purse, by my bed, on my side of the couch (Dee has one on his side, too, and one on the bathroom counter.) There's a little pad and pencil clipped to my visor in the car, and another in the glove compartment. When I feel her spark, I write down the actual words I'm thinking, not just the idea. ("Santa's stomach: jar of jam" doesn't inspire like "Santa's belly—bowlful of jelly.")
3. Keep a file for jottings. I have a few files stacked next to my computer where I stash the blogs I've scribbled on napkins, and the Oma Books scrawled on restaurant receipts. When I clean out my purse every night I drop them in the folder just as they are, knowing I'll find them when I'm desperate for a brainstorm.
4. Define my motivation. "The best cure for writer's block is alimony," said one writer. While I don't have to pay alimony, I know that an incentive or deadline stimulates my muse. I write goals on my calendar, and expect completion. The secret here is to give myself targets that fit my life at the moment. I can't burn myself out with a Christmas deadline for The Lundgren Family Since 1700 (which I haven't even started.) One goal I set for this summer was "Collect stories about mom for a biography." I outlined steps: Read mom's journals. Write a description of mom from memory. Interview mom's sisters. Take photos of the houses mom lived in. Bite-sized chunks motivate my muse to come along for the fun. After all, she doesn't have to stay all day.
   
5. Schedule writing into my schedule. I read a children's book the other day which was totally dumb. It had no plot, no rhythm, no cute characters, and the illustrations were unappealing. "I could have written a much better book than this!" I thought. But I hadn't. My much better books are all sitting organized in their folders, waiting for my muse to come and finish them up. Maybe if she knew I would be working on my book at 11:00 am each morning for an hour, or for 15 minutes during the weather broadcast every night, or for 30 minutes every month while I wait for my hair to color, she'd fit herself into my schedule. We could set appointments. I'd start without her, and she'd promise to show up eventually.

My Inspiration Files

"I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork."
—Peter DeVries

"You have the right to write," Karen E. Peterson wrote. "If you are a writer at heart, you need to express yourself to feel fully alive. If you don't write, then something might go unsaid—and you'll remain hidden. Hiding provides safety, of course, but it also keeps you from knowing yourself—which may be the point of writing."

I know myself. I want to be a creative writer, but I am at my most creative finding excuses not to write. Usually I just blame my muse. She's such a slacker.

Homework: Choose any of the assignments that apply, or design an exercise that will inspire your muse.

1. Put a few manila folders somewhere handy, with labels like: Quotes, Characters For My Novel, Funny Things the Kids Said, Clippings That Made Me Think, Plots I'd Like to Thicken.
   
2. Buy a package of ten small notebooks and pens (in the dollar aisle of Target) and stash them in places where you often get ideas.
   
3. Every day for a week, write down and file three random thoughts, just to get you in the habit of using your notebooks and files.
   
4. Place scissors and a red pen wherever you spend time reading. Clip or tear newspaper and magazine articles that provoke you, underline the passage you want to remember, and file them away.
5. Written Work: List ten things that get in the way of your writing. (My life is boring; my mom would be shocked; I don't know where to start; I don't have time, I have seven kids.) Go back and write a sentence about how to deal with each issue. Idea: "I have seven kids. I'll sit down with them during homework time and write a paragraph using their spelling words." "My mom would be shocked. I'll write my love story as if it happened to someone else." Now, use your ten sentences to write a mission statement called "I'm Going to Write, and Here's How."
   

Go for it—Write Away!

Ten Tips for a Budget Family Reunion

Cousin's Club

(minus seven)

All twenty grandkids (plus their fourteen parents) are buzzing in and out of town this month, and that means a bunch of reunions. The fun is priceless, but can also get pricey.

I've discovered memories don't need to be expensive. Last Saturday's party-in-the-park (for 22 people) cost me under $20! Each family brought their own picnic, I furnished tablecloths, and the dollar store provided the entertainment:

Lars and Will

1. Funky plastic teeth for skits.

2. Jump rope (even the adults were jumping!)

Eliza and Jill duet

3. Two plastic microphones for an impromptu talent show: sixty seconds to prepare. There were songs, jokes, skills—we called out states and Chloe named the capitals; we called out states and Jacque named the teams. Scott did math problems in his head; Will climbed a tree. No practices or instruments necessary, and nobody was left out.

4. Critter hunt. (Again. $4 worth of plastic bugs has paid off big time.)

5. Squirt guns: Fill 'em up at the drinking fountain. Rule: You can't shoot at anybody who doesn't have a squirt gun.

Chloe and Lucy

6. Straw Relay: The teams passed gummy lifesavers with straws.

7. Paper Relay: Use the same straws. Suck up a piece of paper, run the course without dropping the paper—no hands. Repeat until one team finishes.

Jillian June (I think)

8. Soap on a rope: Carve ivory soap with plastic knives, and hang from a piece of string.

9. Flying High: Put together and fly wooden glider airplanes.

10. Glow-in-the-dark bracelet tag.

Family reunions don't have to be elaborate, painstaking or expensive. The preparation for this party was minimal—a group e-mail, thirty minutes in the dollar store, a bunch of cousins and a lifetime of memories.

Do you have any cheap, fun suggestions?

This post is part of a blog carnival hosted by Susan Adcox, About.com's Guide to Grandparents.

Camping With Kids

Hey Liza! Looking for fun?
The Oma kit has the makings for
Fire Power!

~Give each kid a magnifying glass.
~Gather round the cold campfire (or any rocks)
~Each kid makes a tiny pile of twigs and scraps for kindling.

~Position the magnifying glass to catch some rays.
~ Sing "Here Comes the Sun" whenever he peeks out from behind a cloud.
~Coax him with "You are my Sunshine."
~Repeat the magic chant: "Come on baby, light my fire . . ." whenever a ray appears.
~Direct the sun through the magnifying glass onto kindling you've lovingly put together.
~ Watch for smoke wisps above your piece of napkin.

"Hey, I'm thmokin, don't you think?"

~If you are a smokin-hot 2nd grader, that lucky old sun might shine for a second right through your magnifying glass.

~Finally, you scream giddily, "FIRE!!" For you, city slicker that you are, have created fire without a match.

Then, you sleep in the sunshine.

Tooting

I'm tooting my own horn!

I was inducted into The Mother Huddle.

Thanks Destri. You've re-jived me!

Family Ties

Chloe
(pictures by Scott)

One kid's relaxation is another kid's "What shall we do?"
Out comes an Oma kit:

Eleven kids, eleven balls of yarn (eleven different colors.)

Instructions:
Unroll your yarn to make a giant web.
It can't touch the ground or any other color, except to cross over.
The first person to run out of yarn wins.


Very ingenious, Emmie!


Now, rewind!


Luke's almost finished—
This prize better be good.

Tickets to a Mountain Mama concert?

"Too much of a good thing," said Sam.


And now, it's Opa's annual bubblegum contest!



Yeah, whatever.


Just put your lips together and blow.

Bubble boy.


Almost . . .



Perfect!

Make some family ties.

Grandma Shelly, Heffalump and Grandma Lizzie gave me great ideas for campout activities. Check them out!

Mountain Oma

Art by Lucille Patterson Marsh

Annie, of Annie's Song fame, told how she and her husband (John Deutschendorfer) spent a night camping in the Rockie Mountains with friends. Away from the city lights, they watched a meteor shower, and John penned the words, ♫ "I've seen it raining fire in the sky . . . folks around a campfire, everybody high . . . Rocky Mountain high . . ." ♫ He was John Denver when he sang it to us.

Although I've lived my whole life less than five miles from the mountain tops I've never thought of myself as an outdoor person. I don't like dirt, bugs, bees, buzzing, raccoons, rocks under my pillow or ashes in my hamburger bun. Natural is not a look I look good in. Bathrooms with spiders building webs and moths flitting in the corner are not where I want to go.

But I understand a Rocky Mountain high. I've got one! I'm packing for our annual 4th of July Campout, and I just calculated that I've been camping every summer (except four) since 1980! That's a lot of dirt under my fingernails. In a pinch I know I could pitch a tent, start a fire without matches, and dig a latrine, because I have. I've cooked a turkey in a pit, slept directly on the ground and hiked 26 miles pushing a handcart even though I was out-of-shape, old and cross.

These are the lows that contribute to the highs. Although there's dirt on the ground, the air is clean and crisp. It's quiet enough to hear a raccoon rustle in the bushes and a bee whirring in the wildflowers. After listening to wood crackling and loved ones laughing, their chatter soothes me enough that I don't care about the boulders beneath my shoulders.

Mountain kids wash up, 2008

I can't wait to unpack my Oma tent, and have a dozen little grands buzzing around my campsite. Maybe I've turned into a Mountain Mama after all!

Happy 4th of July!
(See you after the fireworks.)

Detective: Summit County, Utah

I married a detective. We're always looking for dead buildings,and the story of how they got that way. The cases are mysterious and the techniques are fascinating. For instance, there's a special kind of DNA to identify age: this broken-down old soul had personal, hand-made nails holding her together. (It's a little like having natural nails in an age of acrylic.)

At the autopsy, Dee modestly lifted up her floor boards, exposing private clues: old newspaper petticoats with dates like 1927. The tongue and groove herringbone boards, laid in specific patterns, were as time-specific as stocking seams.

He had to pronounce this old girl dead on the spot. Exposure, lack of fluids and no loving care had done her in. She collapsed right where she stood. Witnesses stood back and waited for help but she was old, gray and unbalanced. Her family run business dried up and blew away with the sheep industry, and she must have felt unnecessary like many folks do in old age. We paid our respects.

Dee attracts Ghosts and this week we're off to do some ghostbusting. Don't worry about me. I'll be with a history detective. I think of gathering history like gathering autumn leaves. We are finding the brightest examples of a former glory that beautified now barren places with life and growth. The people who created something from nothing, who raised huge families filled with hard working, inventive folks, while feeding vast numbers of citizens from the food they produced; these are the unsung heroes who built our country. Did they make any less of a contribution just because we don't know about them?

We've got our maps and our magnifying glasses and we'll bring home some news!

Photo Shoot in Midway, Utah

Getting Our Bearings
on the top of Memorial Hill

Mount Timpanogos from the back.

Drive straight South and you'll get to Provo Canyon. You'll never see it greener or more lush and beautiful. Wonder about the families who hiked up it 150 years ago,when there was no road, and a baby floated away down the river.

Look at all the canyons layered on top of each other. Hike one to get over to Sundance, another to get over to Park City, or go over Guardsman's Pass to end up at Brighton. Our valleys aren't that far apart if you go over the top. Dee's new book will name all the canyons, tell who they're named after, and the spectacular story that earned them that honor.

So many lives were lived in this peaceful valley. Indian raids, military containment, sons killed in war. Stand-offs, uprisings, or freezing winters didn't discourage early artists, musicians, photographers, teachers. Monuments to them are scattered all around town (in the form of homes, statues, businesses, ranches, and families.) Even the mountain peaks and canyons bear their names.

When you're halfway to heaven in these moutain valleys, you can hear those already gone still telling their stories. Anyway, Dee can. He found some new ones today.

Link here to see the dangerous adventurers of
a mild-mannered historian!

We're off gathering history this week!

I'll send you a postcard!