Friday, June 18, 2021

Fathers' Day 2021

 

Like so many people these days I had more than one father. There was my biological dad, Joe Uknavage, who was in my life from conception until he passed away, my “real” dad. And always on Fathers’ Day I think of him, write of him, remember him with love.

 

 

 


Then my mother remarried in 1970 after she and Dad divorced and her new husband, Manuel “Talley” Talamantes, became my step-father. I was already married, had a son, and had recently moved from Illinois to Colorado that summer of 1970 so Talley was not a big presence, or a constant presence in my daily life. However, my younger sister was only fifteen years old and her life changed dramatically when Mom remarried for Talley had three children with his ex-wife and their kids lived with him and Mom most of the time.

 


Mom and Talley only had seven years together before she died unexpectedly at the age of forty-nine in April of 1977. Talley, six years younger, died in 1998. My purpose in writing this is not to tell the story of their marriage but to say that I have never fully appreciated this man in my life, my step-dad, who suddenly became a parent to three adult children and a teenager (me and my siblings), and handled that responsibility quite well, in my opinion. 


It was not easy integrating families but Mom and Talley did that successfully. And he loved my mother, treated her with kindness and respect, for which I am eternally grateful. Their life together had its challenges but for seven years they both worked fulltime, raised Talley’s three children and my younger sister, and looked forward to their vacation each summer when they towed their camper all across the west and southwest, stopping here in Colorado to visit us, then meandering down in to Texas where Talley’s father still lived, visiting tourist sites along the way.

 

Happy Fathers' Day, Joe Uknavage
and Talley Talamantes. I appreciate you both more and more as I grow older, and only wish I had told you both I loved you, thanked you for being my dad.


Monday, October 12, 2020

CAT FENCE


On the southeast corner of College and Mulberry in Fort Collins, CO, there is a historically significant building being refurbished, remodeled, re-everything. The yard is surrounded by a wood fence whose pickets are clipped at the tops to make them look like cat faces with cat-like pointy ears. The white paint is peeling which gives the fence the kind of weathered look I love. For years I've been lusting after that fence, imagining a short run of it enclosing my blackberry patch, the plants my sister brought me from Oregon. That is one of the busiest corners in our town and it's not easy to find parking nearby so my photographs of that fence, taken over the last twenty years or so, have been snapped from inside my car, waiting for the signal light to change.


But recently, as I've watched the changes taking place there and seen the fence vandalized, whole sections of it come up missing, I took the time to contact the city about ownership, hoping to buy some of the fence. The folks at the building permit office would not tell me the owner's name so I walked around the place, knocked on doors, tried to figure out how to proceed. 


Last week I saw a man with a bobcat (not the animal, a piece of machinery used to move heavy equipment or dirt) in front of the building so I drove around until I found a parking space, donned my mask, and approached him. He stopped his work to listen to my hopes for acquiring a piece of the fencing. He wasn't very encouraging, explaining he had a list of about thirty names of people like me who only wanted a piece of the fence. He said his plan was to find someone who wanted all of it. I figured that his reason for that was expedience, a one time sale, then done with the hassle. I gave him my name and phone number to add to his list of thirty names and walked away discouraged.

After I got home I told Bob about my encounter and how I wished I had at least asked the man how much he wanted for the entire fence. Then I realized I hadn't even asked him his name! Drat!


So, today I went back to town, saw the man on the bobcat, found a parking space on College Avenue, and marched back toward that building, determined to make one more attempt at purchasing my beloved Cat Fence. Even though I interrupted his work the man turned off the machine and listened to me once again. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this fellow is not only the owner of this high profile piece of real estate, he and his wife built and installed the cat fence themselves over twenty years ago! And his reason for wanting to sell it to one person is not about expedience. He loves that fence. He and his wife invested so much time and effort in it, she drilling all the holes with a drill press, he acquiring the 4 x 4 pressure-treated newel posts that became the corner posts, both painting every surface of the pickets to protect against rot, installing the pickets with stainless steel screws for the same reason - wow! I can relate to that. He not only wants to sell the entire fence to one person, he hopes that person will repaint and install the fence around the yard of their home in Fort Collins so that all of us can enjoy the cat fence for years to come. I like that plan. I thanked him for telling me the history of the fence, took a few more photos - oh, I forgot to say that he is replacing the old cat fence with a new cat fence! The new one is steel and will last a very long time. Not as charming as the painted weathered wood fence but longer lasting and more secure. Right now the owner is plagued with vandalism, theft of pieces of the fence, and even theft of his tools.

When I came home empty-handed Bob said he would make me a cat fence of my own but the more I think of it I would prefer he alter the design a bit and make me an owl fence. Yes, I am moving on with this obsession of mine, diverting my desire from a cat fence to an owl fence...stay tuned.

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

Delores Blehm Has Passed On

Delores J. Blehm, our friend and Bob's high school classmate, passed away in St. Louis, Missouri, on September 14, 2020. She was born and raised in Wellington, Colorado, the only daughter of Solomon and Clara Blehm. Her one sibling was brother Vernon Lee "Vernie" Blehm who died in Fort Collins in 2006.

This is not an official obituary. I won't try to list her cousins and other family members. Instead it is our way of saying goodbye to Delores.

Bob remembers Delores as a straight A student at Wellington High School, the only girl in her physics class. She took to chemistry like some take to sports, understanding, liking it and excelling in the study of it. She went on to get a degree in chemistry at Colorado State University before moving to St. Louis where she went to work for a large chemical company.


I asked Bob to describe Delores and he immediately said "she was exuberant!" He remembers she had beautiful penmanship, high intelligence, and a love of science. After she moved to St. Louis we only communicated with Delores when she returned to Wellington for vacations and class reunions, which was seldom. And, of all our Wellington friends only Bill West ever visited Delores at her home in St. Louis. That is fitting for she always had a special place in her heart for her friend and classmate, Bill. Delores never married, but she dated a man in St. Louis for several years, a man we never knew.

Afghan hounds became Delores's passion, raising them, showing them, and giving her love to them. She worked as a chemist all her life until her health failed. I am not sure when she was diagnosed with cancer but I believe it was in 2017. At that time she was gravely ill but after treatment recovered and moved back into her home with the help of good friends and her church family in St. Louis. Thankfully, Delores had three more years of life before succumbing to the cancer which moved into her brain. 

Our last visit with Delores was in 2011 at the 50th reunion of Wellington High School class of 1961 hosted by Janice and Ted Lind at their home in Fort Collins. Delores was vibrant, healthy, and happy to be together with her friends. The photograph included with this piece was taken that day.

Rest in peace, Delores. You were loved. We will remember the lively, animated, always smiling friend who breezed through every so many years to brighten our lives.


Sunday, January 26, 2020

The Big Hole

Somewhere between the time I met Bob Russell in 1970 and our marriage in 1972 he first told me about The Big Hole, a magical place about twenty-five miles north of Fort Collins, Colorado, but as inaccessible to me as if it had been on the moon. He regaled me with stories about this secret wonderland of tall pine trees and cold, clear streams of fresh water cascading over ancient rocks and fossils, populated with deer and other wildlife. The most incredible part of his description was the location of the place, this Big Hole, for it was not in the nearby Rocky Mountains as one might imagine, nor was it in the hogback formations of the foothills. No, it was in the flat prairie of eastern Colorado ranchland, a gash in the earth that opened into a ravine that could only be seen from the air. And it was on private property managed by a grazing association, a place I could never visit. He had been there, several times, he and his friend Bill Hartwig, two guys who enjoyed exploring northern Colorado natural wonders, like Crystal Cave, The Natural Forts, and little known locations of teepee rings, dinosaur tracks, buffalo wallows, and animal pits. And over the years the legend of The Big Hole grew and my imagination grew with it.

A little background might be helpful. Bob Russell's childhood took place in western Weld County, Colorado, on landlocked dryland farms without creeks, lakes, or even irrigation ditches nearby. Average yearly rainfall ranged between 9 inches and 12 inches but rarely came in thunderstorms or gully washes, so there weren't even mudpuddles for a boy to play in. Bob's dad farmed his own land for eighteen years in Weld County and most of those years he watched his wheat crop destroyed by summer hail and his optimism pounded into the ground with it.


Finally, in 1953, Doyle Russell had had enough of that and moved his family and farming operation over to Larimer County, north of Wellington, to farm the land that would be their home until he died. Bob was eleven years old. There were no natural water formations on this land either, but it was bordered on the west by an irrigation ditch and that is where Bob learned to swim. Ironically, this dryland farmer's son joined the Navy in 1962, became an Underwater Demolition Team aka UDT/SEAL frogman where he spent years in the water, cold Pacific ocean water, where he swam, dived, blew up underwater obstacles, and participated in sneak and peek operations and ambushes in South Vietnam.

Back home again after his time in the Navy, reeling from the shock of leaving the humid jungles of Vietnam to living on the dry, treeless plains of eastern Colorado, Bob was also trying to adjust to the surreal animosity and disdain that greeted returning Vietnam veterans. Wellington was not welcoming. He remembered the lush greenery and solitude to be found at The Big Hole, and returned there several times with Bill Hartwig, gaining access without permission, finding solace in that place.
When I came into Bob's life I was new to Colorado...well, not totally new. Back in 1955, just a couple of years after Doyle Russell moved his family from hail alley in Weld County over to his new farm in Larimer County, my dad moved our family from a trailer court in Tuscola, Illinois, to an Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington, and we drove through Colorado enroute. Dad was a miner.
He had spent the winter of 1954 with a buddy from Illinois searching for uranium near Hot Sulphur Springs, Colorado, the coldest winter of his life, he told us. In May of 1955 he was back in Colorado traveling west with his wife and four young children making his way to Washington State where he had a job waiting for him with the same employer, mining uranium. We spent several days in Colorado, entering from Kansas, driving across barren eastern Colorado in our 1953 Kaiser, coming through Denver at night where we gawked in wonder at the golden dome of the state house, illuminated with spotlights for all to admire. The next morning we awoke in Idaho Springs, enchanted by our first view of mountains, covered in Christmas trees, my brother said.
We climbed to the summit of Berthoud Pass where we stopped to throw snowballs and take photographs with Mom's brownie camera...snow in summertime, such was the magic of Colorado. That night we stayed in a motel in Hot Sulphur Springs where we were treated with such thoughtfulness and consideration that I lost my heart to Colorado. Fifteen years later when my life was spiraling out of control in Illinois I remembered Colorado and hoped the magic was still there.

Just like my father, I pulled up stakes in Illinois and headed west. I was married and had a two-year-old son when I arrived in Colorado the summer of 1970. An attempt to resuscitate our failing marriage is what brought us to Colorado but six months later it was over. Our son, Patrick, and I stayed in Fort Collins while my husband returned to Illinois. Bob Russell and I met at our place of employment, Union Manufacturing and Supply Company. After we started dating he introduced me to his friends, and he had a lot of friends. Among them was Bill Hartwig, which brings us back to The Big Hole.

In 2004 I learned that Larimer County had purchased the land surrounding The Big Hole from the grazing association and had named the area Red Mountain Open Space. I didn't learn until years later that the city of Cheyenne bought the actual Big Hole property in 2005 and cooperated with Larimer County to make both properties available to the public in 2009. I was finally going to visit the area I had heard so much about and dreamed of exploring. I talked to Bob about my desire to hike into the Big Hole and came up with a plan. I contacted Bill and Linda Hartwig in Torrington, Wyoming and told them about the new access to The Big Hole and asked if they'd like to join me on a guided hike.
They agreed, even got excited about it. So, in September of 2007 we met with our guide and two other trekkers at Walmart's parking lot early one morning and headed north out of Fort Collins for the Red Mountain Open Space.

I was having some trouble with my feet at that time, nothing major, painful areas between toes, mostly. I should have bought myself a good pair of hiking boots and thick socks but instead I chose cheap sneakers a couple of sizes too big, thinking the extra space in the shoes would be more comfortable for me. Oh, my, what a mistake! So, off we went, five adventurers and a guide, headed for the parking area at the trailhead, wearing layers, carrying bottled water, and me with my sloppy shoes.

This hike took place two years before Red Mountain Open Space was open to the public so we were the only people out there. At times, looking back down the trail, I saw a light colored car off in the distance, a Ranger who patrolled the 16,000 acres alone. We walked at a gentle pace, across a meadow stopping to look at small log buildings whose provenance was unknown to us. Soon the landscape changed from rolling meadow to rocky outcroppings of red sandstone as we climbed higher into the mountainside.I lagged behind so that I could photograph the group of climbers and take my time soaking up the beauty surrounding me. We climbed higher and higher up the unmarked trail where there was no evidence of man, no plastic, no cigarette butts, and not much noise either. I listened for birds but mostly heard the wind as it blew across the canyon making an eerie sound that changed pitch from a moan to a whistle. And the conversation between the hikers above me on the trail fell down the crevice slightly distorted like the cry of children on a faraway playgound. I could have stayed in that state of bliss forever.
After a couple of hours we arrived at the highest point of this trail. I'm not sure the trail had been named yet. If so, I don't remember it. Our group of five stopped to rest, drink water, take photographs, enjoy the view. I remember asking Bill just where the Big Hole was and he pointed off to the north. It may have been then that I realized I was so close to this place I'd dreamed of for many years but still a long hike away.




Today, while writing this post, I googled Red Mountain Open Space and The Big Hole and found this written by someone who actually did hike into that place, Roger Ludwig, "The trek into the glorious Big Hole is a long one, typically only reached by mountain bikers. But if hikers start early, bringing plenty of water and a good lunch you can do it. It makes for a ten mile loop, covering the highlights of this geologic wonderland. Perhaps someday the city will grant access off of Harriman Road through the Belvoir Ranch."


The hike back down from the apex of the trail was painful. With every step I took my feet slid forward and my big toes slammed into the toes of the shoes. No longer was I admiring the view, listening for birds. Instead, I was thinking "how much further to the car?" I don't remember much about this part of the hike. At one point where the ground was smooth I removed my shoes and walked barefoot giving me some relief from the pain. Finally, we walked out of the canyon and onto the flat land, our destination in sight. The Ranger I had seen from afar drove up to check on us, asked if everybody was okay.

He even offered to give us a ride to our car, still some distance away. Oh, how I wanted to take him up on his offer but my pride wouldn't let me speak out. Instead I tried to send a mental message to our guide. He didn't get it. He said we would walk to our van and enjoy the view along the way. And some of us did, enjoy the view. Back at our departure point, the parking lot at Walmart, Bill and Linda thanked me for inviting them, for hiking together on this beautiful trail, and hoped for an invitation to go back to my house so we could tell Bob all about the hike. Instead I begged off, telling them about my painful toes and desire to soak in a tub of warm water.
Over the next days and weeks I lost both toenails on my big toes, and learned a few things from that experience. Did you know that you can lose your big toenails twice and they will grow back but if you lose them a third time they won't grow back? Hmmm... makes me wonder how that evolved.
I cherish the memory of this hike with Bill and Linda. Like so many experiences with friends, most only happen once, especially in our later years. Bill passed away in May of 2015. I can no longer hike and climb. But I am holding out hope that if an entrance to the Big Hole is created on the northern border I might still get into that magical place, pushing a walker or using two walking sticks, anything that works. But if not me, then maybe you. You won't be disappointed...and wear good shoes.

Saturday, January 25, 2020

Marilyn

You know the kind of friend who is ready to go with you on any kind of crazy adventure you come up with, says "let's do it!" rather than, "Uh, I'm not sure"? I have a friend like that in Marilyn Hodges. We've been friends for over forty years but it wasn't until I saw a meme on facebook with Lucy and Ethel that I realized, "Yes! I have a friend like that." I want Marilyn to know I appreciate this special friendship, appreciate her.
As I reflect on the fun times we've shared I've most enjoyed the outdoor adventures. Like the time we went to an abandoned farm outside Cheyenne, Wyoming, for a guided tour of the trees and shrubs that have survived decades of neglect. Not exactly a trip to Disneyland, but not as boring as it sounds. Marilyn and I both live out in the country where we grow trees and shrubs. We know the challenge of planting species that will grow in our dense clay soil, ever present wind, and scant rainfall.
This property in Wyoming was an experimental range station, planted and maintained by the U.S Department of Agriculture until it was abandoned in the 1930s for lack of funding. For the past ninety years some of the trees and shrubs on that property have survived without any help from man. Our guide that day, Scott Skogerboe, a Fort Collins nurseryman who so loves trees that he tracked down the last known descendent of Johnny Appleseed's trees (he tracked down the tree, not the person), cloned it, grew trees from the clones, then sold them to tree enthusiast across the nation. I blogged about Scott Skogerboe  years ago. When you have a guide with Scott's knowledge and enthusiasm, a fieldtrip to a weed-filled property west of Cheyenne is exciting.
And then there was the time we participated in a guided tour of Soapstone Prairie Natural Area prior to its grand opening to the general public. This time our guide was Dr. Jason LaBelle, an archaelogist at CSU with a special interest in the Native Americans of our area. As with Scott Scoberboe, Dr. LaBelle's enthusiasm for his subject and depth of knowledge of the prairie that is now Soapstone made this field trip thrilling for me. Thanks to my husband's decades long, in-depth study of the Lindemeier Folsom archaelogical site, discovered in 1924 and located within Soapstone, and Bob's sharing much of his knowledge of this remarkable, 12,000 year old site with me, my enjoyment of LaBelle's presentation was magnified.
Our tour that day moved from the Lindenmeier site eastward to the location of remnants of cabins and old homesteads slowly deteriorating in the wind and harsh sunlight. I knew a little about the Bear brothers who homesteaded up there, short in stature, but stout men who adjusted their surroundings to fit their needs. Apparently, they baled hay in smaller bales than was normal and their neighbors joked about the little Bear boy bales of hay, difficult to stack but easier to use. We had limited access to the homestead sites for they were protected by fences, as they should be.

Marilyn and I have several mutual friends, all from Wellington, Colorado, who love to get together for lunch. At one time we even had our own Red Hat Society chapter. During those years we ventured out to Menopause the Musical, the Molly Brown House in Denver, the Cheyenne Botanical Gardens, and more. But that got to be "old hat", pardon my pun, so we put those red hats away and continue to meet for birthdays, music, and lunch, always fun to have lunch.

My lifelong friend Cathy Safiran introduced me to a new author, through his writings, of course, not in person. Months later she told me he was coming to Denver, to the Tattered Cover Bookstore, one of my favorites, and that I would have the opportunity to meet Luis Urrea in person, March 24, 2018! How exciting was that!
I first read "The Hummingbird's Daughter" and so enjoyed it, followed with "The Devil's Highway" and "Into the Beautiful North". By then I was hooked and wanted to read all that Luis had written and eager to meet him, for Cathy had told me that his booksignings were so much more than standard booksignings where the author sits at a table with a stack of books, looks up at the person standing in front of him long enough to ask how to sign the book, then looks back down while quickly signing his name. There is that process at the end of the evening but before that Luis Urrea takes his place on a podium in front of an adoring audience and entertains with stories and confessions punctuated with outbursts of exclamations only understood by the Spanish speaking members of the audience. By the time he wraps up his presentation we all feel close to this man, a part of his family, and he a part of ours. But I digress. This is about Marilyn, and yes, she went with me and so did two other of our book-loving friends, Carol and Leta. And when Luis came to Fort Collins in 2019 Marilyn joined me at his booksigning for "The House of Broken Angels".
Most recently we got to meet our neighbor and acclaimed author Margaret Mizuchima at the Northside Aztlan Center in Fort Collins. Margaret has written five great novels in her "Timber Creek K-9 Mystery" series and we were there for the signing of her latest "Tracking Game". I call Margaret our neighbor because she lives with her husband and dogs just west of Wellington. Anybody that close is a neighbor. I love that when Marilyn realized she was going to meet Margaret she bought her books and read them prior to the signing, making that event more meaningful to her, and supporting Margaret in her career.



Thank you, Marilyn, for these fun times, educational adventures, shared memories. I don't walk as far or as fast as I use to so that hike we were going to take along the trail at Cathy Fromme Prairie Natural Area might not happen. But I would love to visit your hometown, Lander, Wyoming, some day. The Wind River Reservation is a place I'd like to see, not only because you grew up near there but because another of my favorite authors, Margaret Coel, has written some great books that take place on the reservation. I wonder if Margaret ever has booksignings in Lander? Wouldn't that be a fun adventure? And the Colorado Native Plant Society has outings, field trips where small growths of rare native plants are protected and studied. And do you know about the Stone Age Fair sponsored by the Loveland Archealogical Society? Ahhh...so much yet to see and do as we grow older and wider. No! wiser, I meant wiser.

Friday, January 17, 2020

Hallstadt, Germany Was a Long Way From Home


An Internet search today produced an unexpected result and like a time machine instantly transported me back to Hallstadt, Germany, New Year's Eve 1967.  I was married to an Army PFC, living on the economy (off base), renting an apartment from the Josef Horcher family. My husband and I had put the twins to bed, two little girls we were hoping to adopt, having gained custody of them just five months prior, when there was a knock at our door. Cautiously, we opened it to find our landlady's twenty-one-year-old son standing there, holding a bottle of liquor, smiling. We invited him inside with a sweep of an arm and the three of us sat down to our small kitchen table. Rainer was a handsome young man, a professional soccer player, and he was deaf. His mother had told me about Rainer, and it was he who drove us to the orphanage when we first met the twins, but other than that we didn't know him, couldn't talk with him because of our limited German language skills and his inability to hear. So, his appearance at our on New Year's Eve was a surprise.

From our kitchen table we looked out a large window high above the Horcher family's courtyard. Sitting there in low light so that the sky and stars were visible to us we shared Rainer's liquor in silence, nodding, smiling, clinking glasses together in a toast to the New Year. Apparently Rainer's mother, Doris, has told him our good news, that we had just found out that I was pregnant, for he reached toward me with his glass, extended it over my belly with a shy smile, then raised it again so we could once again touch glasses before drinking. Rainer didn't stay long, stood, shook our hands, smiled and walked out of our apartment and out of our lives. I never saw him again that I recall. But I never forgot him, the kindness he showed us, a lonely American couple far from home on New Year's Eve.

Tonight I googled Hallstadt near Bamberg plus Horcher, hoping to find a photograph of the Josef Horcher home at Mainstrasse 9, their street address. Instead my search found a death notice for Rainer. He died this past summer at age 73. I translated enough of the information to learn he worked for the town of Hallstadt for many years, was well respected by his employer, and mourned by two sons and two daughters. There was also a mention of his sister Renate whom I remember fondly.

And there is more to this story, like most stories. Rainer's mother, Doris, confided this to me over coffee and kuchen, that when Josef was gone off to war she, like many of her friends and neighbors, struggled to survive and feed her family. Near their home in Hallstadt was an American Army encampment, probably a supply camp of African American soldiers. (I came to that conclusion after some research years later). They had flour, sugar, and other provisions so badly needed by the mothers like Doris in war torn Bavaria. So she traded what she had for groceries and found herself pregnant. When her son was born she planned to place him in an orphanage but before that took place Doris was told that Rainer was born deaf. She didn't think that anyone would adopt a deaf, black child so she kept him, and when Josef returned home she told him the truth. Josef accepted Rainer as his own and did not blame Doris for her survival decision. When I read today that Rainer stayed in Hallstadt, worked for the town, married and raised a family, probably inherited Josef's home and business, and died there, my heart swelled with love for the Horcher family, every one of them. And I remembered how good they were to me and my family, encouraged me to call them Opa and Oma, tried to teach me their ways. God bless you, Rainer, and those four children you brought into this world. And thank you Josef and Doris for a beautiful lesson about life and love.

Monday, October 21, 2019

Sue Foster, Who Really Knew Her?

A woman I was friends with a long time ago has passed away in the last few days. I learned about her death last night and have been thinking of her ever since. For the passed forty years we have lived only ten miles from one another but I've not seen Sue Foster more than a few times since our friendship faded in the 1970s. Yet my memories of her and the impact she has had on me are strong, and good, so I want to write about Sue today.

She was a private person, calm and self-contained. A Texas girl who graduated from a Christian college, moved north to Colorado when she married Jim Foster, a local artist. I believe they met in college. Sue was a strong, capable woman who saw life with an artist's eye. Well educated with a love of literature she chose a rural lifestyle, supporting the career of her husband, raising her children in a modest home on the outskirts of town. I won't pretend to know the real Sue, have only had small glimpses into her inner life of hopes and dreams and disappointments, but I liked her and trusted her and cherish the friendship we shared when we were young.
A favorite memory of mine is the vacation trip we made together to Taos, New Mexico, in the early 1970s, two couples on tight budgets with young children at home. We left the kids with grandparents and drove to Taos in my company car, stopping many times along the way to stretch our legs and gas up the car. At that time Jim was going through a phase of hanging upside down every chance he got as a health enhancement tactic. At one gas station he spotted a horizontal bar and promptly straddled it before hanging from his knees, the first I knew of his latest health craze, surprising me and imprinting a visual not soon forgotten.
In Taos we rented a two-bedroom motel kitchenette unit so we could do a little cooking to offset the high cost of dining out. Jim had artists friends in Taos who invited us to their studios where we viewed their latest works in process, and later dined together at a local restaurant. It was my introduction to a new form of art, living art or performance art. I'm sure that is not the correct name for it, but I remember an example that was told to me. A graduate of an art school chose this as his masterpiece, to gather his class at the shore of the ocean where they watched him row away from them into the limitless horizon of the ocean. That was his art form.
My favorite part of the trip was our visit to the Indian pueblo where we took many photographs of the ancient adobe dwellings and searched out local jewelry artisans.

As we walked along the hard-packed dirt trails at the Pueblo Sue bent down and quickly arranged a couple of rocks and nearby sticks to create the spider in my photo. And then with her enigmatic Mona Lisa smile she walked away, leaving the spider for others. Later, on our way back home, we pulled off the highway to rest and eat a sack lunch. There was a small dry creek nearby. Sue took a little walk and came back with her hands full of smooth rocks, small pieces of driftwood, and tiny plants. She nestled them into bowl and created a beautiful still life. I was in awe. It was during this trip that I realized Sue was an artist too, like Jim, but she kept her light under a basket. She also had beautiful handwriting, a calligrapher's precision and grace.


On our return from Taos we took a side trip east, out near Lamar, Colorado, where we visited Bent's Old Fort, an amazing place which Bob had studied thoroughly. It is a recreation of a trading fort along the Sante Fe Trail which in the 1840s was a bustling marketplace and rest stop where buffalo hides were traded, wagon trains were restocked with supplies, and travelers could find a real bed to sleep in. It is my favorite Colorado tourist destination.
We parked our car far from the fort, parking designed that way so as visitors walk up over the rise and see the fort for the first time it looks like a step back in time, no cars, no electrical lines, instead a herd of horses and donkeys milling around the building. And once inside the adobe walls of the old fort that illusion of being present in 1840 is enhanced with the costumes and demeanor of the blacksmith, the storekeeper, and traders. We thoroughly enjoyed our time there with Jim and Sue.

Sue once told me she didn't spend much money on clothes but when she bought something to wear she chose quality and versatility. An example of that was a multi-colored poncho, the one she is wearing in the photo above taken outside Bent's Old Fort. It was probably a Pendleton wool blend and I have seen it on her many times over the years, always looking stylish and comfortable. I admired Sue's confidence and poise, ever present whether she was milking goats, making adobe bricks, or attending an art showing. She wasn't a talkative, exuberant woman but when she said something, she meant it. My sister recently told me that she ran into Sue one day in Fort Collins and Sue smiled and said, "Now here is someone we love!" Fran never forgot that. That simple sentence conveyed the warmth, acceptance, and kindness that endeared Sue to her friends.

Sue was brought up in a Christian home, graduated from a Christian college, and continued to study the bible as an adult. She and I belonged to a small bible study group for awhile and I enjoyed her depth of knowledge about the scriptures and their application to our modern lives. I hope that she has moved on to her promised victory, to a place without pain. Thank you, Sue, for being my friend.