I suspect I have a brilliant botanically-inclined neighbor, though I do not know his name.
He seems to have developed the perfect species of tree to grace Wyoming landscapes.
Yes, it’s true. Well, sort of true.
I was young, I had car money in the bank and I dreamed large dreams of buying a red convertible that my collie Laddie and I could pilot across the country to Cody, where we would live happily ever after.
Boy, was I stupid.
Not for dreaming of Cody. I'd dreamed that one ever since I bought my first pair of beaded moccasins at Frost Curio here as a young girl.
But a convertible in a Wyoming winter? How smart is that?
The end of June means it's almost July, and July always brought that bane of my much younger existence: Summer Camp.
Yeah, yeah - most children dearly love summer camp, which always means snickering with friends, fireside sing-alongs, marshmallow roasts, canoeing, staging skits and plunging into cold lakes after long nature hikes to the top of Bald Mountain.
My Summer Camp experience was sorta different from all that.
“I have something to tell you, Mom,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Son?” I asked, dreading his reply.
I feared the worst: somebody had contracted cancer or some other terminal disease; their new car was stolen from the driveway, just like the old one had been; their cat died; or ... who knew? The world is filled with disasters.