Falling Off the Wagon: A Parable You are the driver of a wagon, looking ahead, going down a road. You are also riding in the wagon,...

“In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning.”                         F. Scott Fitzgerald,   The Crack-Up...

This morning I considered, for about sixty seconds, letting my hair go gray.  Let's call it a Dorian Gray moment.  If I were to go gray,...

Second Runner-Up When I tell about being second runner up to the Wells Rodeo queen the summer of 1958, I  make sure the listener knows...

Another Tuscarora Tale June 21, 2011 The phone rang.  "Go look out your window."  I recognized Linda's voice. "What time is it?" I said,...

​I (Heart) Fernet I asked the bartender, “What’s the name of that aperitif made from artichokes?” My husband and I had walked down past...

Bambi, Anna Karenina and Dramatic Irony When I was five years old, so the family story goes, my mother took me to see Walt...

Another Tuscarora Tale ​I pulled away the cardboard I had tacked over the opening.  Both Linda and I saw something move in the white...

Another Tuscarora Tale My neighbor said, “They were gathered…a thousand swallows.  Last Wednesday.  Where were you?  You missed it.  Now...

Spatchcock the Turkey Lately, I’ve had the thought  I could have been a butcher.  I wonder why you don’t see many women butchers.   Is it...

Here’s a description of the class in the 2012 Cowboy Poetry program. However, it doesn’t mention that Roy’s business partner, Bernice...

Another Tuscarora Tale June 21, 2012 Tuscarora, Nevada      I went to the post office to see if Julie, the postmistress, needed  anything...

Don’t Be a Stranger I have been thinking about Nevada women in the Forties and Fifties who lived in godforsaken places:  remote ranches,...

Skipping       I was visiting her in her room at the assisted living facility, and she was reminiscing about her college days at Utah...

My Dad and I Ride in the Rain        Maybe it is the golden autumn light or my November birthday.  Whatever the reason, November takes me...

We get to a certain age and realize we are the old-timers.  Some of our stories seem like chronicles from another century.  They are.  My...

In the early 1950’s we spent five summers on a sheep outfit my father managed near the Flattops, a unique mountain range in northern...

In April 2012, I went on my first trip abroad.  Having turned seventy, I was in no mood to delay anything. My sixtyish sister was...

One of my clearest, actually, one of my fondest childhood memories was of riding the gut sledge to the dump a mile or so from the 71...

The winter of 1946, Dad was managing  a small outfit on the southwest flank of the Ruby Mountains, five miles from the hamlet of Lee,...