from the Archives, "The Lake"

When I was a kid there was a favorite place to cool off in the summer. About 10 miles west of the ranch was a lake that boasted great sand beaches and refreshingly cold water. Stealing away from the hay fields in July as the sun was making its way to the other side of the world, I would languish in the cool water as it washed away the dust and worries of the day. Just a few days ago, I was driving by that lake, the sky was hazy from a dramatic summer fire a mountain range away. The glorious and tragic thing about fires in the west is that they make the sunsets beyond beautiful while they wreak havoc on the landscape. I couldn’t help but stop and snap a shot of the scene before while Aspen was wondering what in the heck her mother was doing shooting into the smoky sky.

Back at my desk, I was digging around in an old file, I came across an essay that I wrote 15 years ago for a Composition Class while a student at Chadron State College in Chadron, Nebraska. It seemed very fitting that I share it with you. It is as fitting today as it was then about the lake that was my retreat

The Lake

A cool breeze reminded me that it was getting late and I must go. Darkness was covering the summer sky just as a blanket covers a child, gently, and with promises of a new tomorrow. The sun had gone, leaving traces of its glow on the horizon in hues I had never been able to find in my crayon box. Dark silhouettes jutted into my colors, striking granite poses that almost came to life in the endlessly rippling lake, which so graciously reflected their majestic power. The water carried with it a rhythm that lolled my senses into worlds where I could dream, walk backwards in life or ponder the day. And it never let me go away feeling empty, as its tender, frothy edges tickled the sand with whispers of advice; leaving me to create my own resolution. As I sat beyond the outstretched fingers of its edge, I watched the sand being carried to and fro; all the while marveling at the beauty God had created.

I hope you, too, have a place like The Lake.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007

from the Archives, "Tribute to Grandma Nona"

We’ve been grouchy at each other, cursed each other silently, appreciated the companionship and loved each other immensely.

She’s 55 years older than I am. She’s seen both world wars, the Depression, the telephone, radio, tv and lots of other new-fangled gadgets. And she’s not afraid of any of them. You can spot her any day of the week, writing her memoirs on the computer and chasing about the state with her cell phone.
She’s helped her mother bake bread for the outlaws of the Hole in the Wall country who served as the Robin Hoods of the time. She’s herded cows, sheep, horses and drunk cowboys… Oh! The stories she can tell!

I am the lucky one who gets to share the life of this beautiful lady every day. She is my grandmother: my Rock of Gibralter. Her steady, gentle kindness is a nice balance to my run-a-muck energy that goes zooming off in a thousand directions each morning as the sun comes up.

Grandma slept on my college couch when I stayed out all night and hugged me when I had a broken heart. She made me the only new clothes I had when I was a little girl and taught me how to sew when I was old enough. She believed in me when the rest of the world thought I was off my rocker and she’s never doubted I would come out of a funk.

Grandma Nona is the one who sneaks treats to the cats, dogs, pig and my little one. She is the one who giggled with onery delight at her 90th birthday when everyone had to draw eating utensils from a paper bag for dinner. (Yes, we ate with beaters and potato mashers, giant spatulas and tenderizing mallets). She is the one who can fix anything, give the most sound advice on the planet and make me pray that my genes are graced with just some of her joi de vivre.

For this Mother’s Day, I want my grandma to know that she is the most special lady in the universe. I want her to know that she is loved beyond love in my heart and that I thank her every moment for her undying love and patience that she so freely gives to me and the rest of the world.

Originally published on the first ContemporaryWesternDesign.com site May 2007

from the Archives, "Dancing in the Street"

There is something about whipped cream on the end of the nose that makes one giggle, even if you are ninety one.

We all dressed up and went out to dinner at a local favorite called the Proud Cut Saloon. The copper topped bar, lodge pole pine tables and rodeo pictures everywhere create a fun ambiance. Of course, we had to sit in the back across from the kitchen because we had a minor with us. No worries here, the giggling began before we even sat down. We were dressed to the nines, surely everyone in the front thought that we had just come from some fancy event. It’s not often that you get a chance to get out of jeans and boots but it sure is fun to dress up, smell good and put on pretty things.

Dinner was full of the hearty entertainment that you get from a four year old and 91 year old at a table. I just couldn’t help myself when desert came with whip cream on the top. Thinking ahead, I managed to get it into my possession doling out spoonfuls of peanut butter pie around the table. There is a thing with whip cream in my house. Many times it ends up on someone, usually with a little girl chanting, “Food Fight”. What started out at a birthday picnic has turned into a Marx household tradition. Whipped cream is not meant just for eating.

So it goes that as the desert bowl emptied out, there was a mound of whip cream left and, ,I with the lucky spoon nabbed the end of the nose of that little girl across from me and the unsuspecting grandmother beside me. (Surely, I would never do that to her). Her giggles and those of the folks next to us made me think that you are never too young to be silly, even if for a moment. But the fun of the night didn’t end there.

As we walked to our car, reliving the good dinner and laughter, we heard strains of music wafting toward us from the porch of the Irma Hotel. All of us looked longingly at the empty sidewalk, but decided we should just go home. But in the car we couldn’t stand it and piled out, down the street in our dresses and heels to where the band played an old Johnny Cash song.

Much to the amusement of the crowd of local cowboys, we danced on the sidewalk. A little girl swaying from side to side, her eyes closed in her mother’s arms and a grandmother digging in her memory for the right rhythm for the two step. We didn’t care who was watching, we danced every song until the band ended their set.

Remember you are never too young or old for whipped cream or dancing in the street.


orignally published June 4, 2007 on the first Contemporary Western Design.com

from the Archives, "First Ride"

Spring is the beginning: a rebirth, a fresh new start. It seems only fitting that I am launching this website as the earth turns from a gray and brown landscape to one rich in color and new life. Since entering western design 11 years ago, I’ve never been able to duplicate the joy in my professional life as I did when I was working directly with the talented artists whose hearts, hands and souls created pieces for our everyday lives. Not only did I learn a tremendous amount about life from being in their presence, but I was constantly inspired. So here I am again, on my own terms, doing what I absolutely love, building, writing, marketing: immersing myself into the world of western design. It has felt a lot like the first mountain bike ride of the season for me: being scared silly, while practically tasting the adrenaline that would shoot through my system as I powered up the first hill and made it upright through an unsuspecting mud puddle. The ride putting ContemporaryWestern Design.com into motion is comparable to putting tread to the new earth of the season, daring my body to push itself to euphoric exhaustion full well knowing the results are well worth any pain the universe dishes forth. I hope you will become a regular on the site perusing the newest items and chalking up your favorite hot picks of the week.

Twenty Years to Sink In

He looked familiar. The voice triggered something in my memory. I had that nagging feeling that I knew him. It would haunt me until I figured it out.

Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.

As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.

Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.

English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.

As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.

So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.

This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.

Lose the lid....

The cashier was a pleasant young man who couldn’t have been more than 16. He was helpful and had given me a curious smile when I put my two purchases down at his register. The gentleman who had helped me retrieve a bottle of eye drops from behind a display case door in the little grocery store was equally as nice and had also given me a nice smile, in fact, every one did as I came through the door and found my way around the store.

It had been a disjointed day where juggling work and caretaking responsibilities had left me distracted and needed to stop at three different grocery stores by the time I got home to retrieve everything I needed. I hate to admit to this as it makes me seem senile in my young age, but with a four year old tugging on my sleeve and my cell phone ringing and me gently watching out for the friend I’d taken to the doctor, I wasn’t as organized as usual.

At the first grocery store, I ran across a smart little coffee kiosk. Though, I don’t drink coffee, the proprietor was gracious to make my favorite, a green tea latte. The day was very cold and snowy and a warm treat seemed appropriate. When it came it had a coffee bean wrapped in white chocolate neatly resting in the divot on top. Wondering if I really should leap that far into the world of caffeine I let it sit for a while as I made my way around the store, through several phone conversations and pit stops by my four year old. At last I determined that it wouldn’t hurt, I was lugging down a little in the late afternoon.

For a reason that may also explain my temporary senility, I was mildly surprised when I picked it up and the chocolate was melted to the bean on the bottom leaving a nice white puddle on the lid. If I had been a teenager witnessing the scene, I would have said, “well duh” which is exactly what I said to myself.

It was still a good half hour before I made it to the car and really had a chance to drink my tea. Then I was driving for 20 minutes before I realized I had forgotten two key items on my first stop. Quickly pulling into the little store that served a rural community on my way home, I found myself smiling broadly at the people inside as they seemed to be doing to me.

Jumping back in the car and stowing the items away, I felt an itch on my nose. As I reached up to rub it a hunk of white chocolate neatly fell away into my lap. I’m sure all those people in the store I’d just left were really very nice and right at the moment giggling at the silly girl with the chunk of white something on her nose.
I looked around my car and demanded, albeit, jokingly, why no one had told me that I was spouting white chocolate from the end of my freckled nose. I was indeed embarrassed and glad it wasn’t a place I frequented and quickly made a note to self. Get rid of the chocolate covered coffee bean right way or lose the lid on the tea.

Christmas Wish

One of my favorite seasons of the year is upon us. I enjoy almost everything about Christmas; to me it means a change of pace, the excitement of decorating the tree, cutting pine boughs for the mantel, hanging the stockings and watching young and old light up on Christmas morning when there is a special surprise waiting for them. What I don’t enjoy about the season is the overt commercialism. It really struck home this year when I ran to Wal-Mart for a last minute fix for my little girls Halloween costume and they were putting out Christmas stuff?

This year my family has decided to give only presents that are handmade. It could be a poem, heartfelt letter, a painting, hand sewn Barbie doll clothes or anything created not purchased. We intend to put our energies and efforts into baking “good for you” cookies, doing good things for others and focusing on the best gift we possess: our love for each other.

We’ve also been stashing “the funny pages” as my grandmother calls them, from the Sunday paper. These colorful papers along with brown paper sacks are going to be our wrapping paper this year. When I was growing up, we never tore into our packages. We carefully untied the ribbon and used a pocketknife to cut the tape at the seams, folding the paper nicely and putting it into the paper box for next year. There was a time, when I was embarrassed about paper that had obviously been used before or wrapping a large package in several different papers so it looked like a patchwork quilt. Now I am much wiser and thoughtful. I understand the reason for re-using paper. It is expensive and wasteful. I read recently just how many million pounds of garbage wrapping paper adds up to each December. It was startling and sad.

My Christmas wish this year is to make a difference, even if it’s in my own little confines. About 6 years ago, a dear neighbor and friend, called me bright and early Christmas day and asked if I would go to the nursing home with her to sing Christmas Carols. Sure why not. I wasn’t spending the day with family. I should do something for someone. I didn’t know how much of an impression it would make on me. I’ve tried to put it into the mix for every Christmas morning since, whether Edith goes or not. It’s a beautiful way to start out a special day and I can only hope that the residents get as much joy out of if as I do.

So this Christmas, let the spirit of giving reign. Give back to the environment, your family and those around you. I promise, you will never feel better about Christmas!