An eclectic website about Women, Christianity, History,
Culture and the Arts--and anything else that comes to mind.
After we moved to California, we returned often to visit family, first via
historic Route 66 and then on the Interstate. On one trip, when our
children were teenagers, we visited several historic sites of the West,
including Tombstone, AZ.
There, we saw the OK Corral, site of the famous gunfight between Wyatt
and Virgil Earp and the Clantons, the graveyard where those killed in the
fight were buried, and the offices of the Tombstone Epitaph, where we
bought a copy of the issue that had reported the event.
My dad helped with one of the last
working cattle drives in the Panhandle,
herding cattle on horseback from
Mulberry Canyon to the railroad in
My family took weekend vacations to
New Mexico and Colorado, visiting
sites of Western history like the jail
Billy the Kid broke out of in Lincoln,
NM, and the grave of gunfighter Doc
Holliday, at the top of a steep hill
accessible only by a one-lane road
near Glenwood Springs, CO.
In this monthâ€™s website, youâ€™ll find an article about the
beauty of the West, a timeline of some of the history of the West,
and a discussion about the changing view of morality in the West.
I hope youâ€™ll write me with your memories and reactions at b.
When I was a child in the
Panhandle of Texas, I loved to
visit our cousins, Macie and
Arnold Helms, on their ranch in
Mulberry Canyon. Mulberry
was an offshoot of the Palo Duro
Canyon (left), with its iconic
Our cousins' ranch bordered on
the large JA Ranch, which began
as a partnership between Charles
Goodnight and the widow of the
Englishman John Adair.
There were wild turkeys in the
canyon, and a small herd of bison
(we called them buffalo) on the
JA, which flattened even the
distinctive five-strand barbed
wire fences separating the two
That's my West--the feel of red earth caked to sweat from
climbing out of the Canyons soothed by a cold stream on hot, tired
feet. The soft sigh of the breeze through the cottonwood trees, the
hollow sound of boots on wooden sidewalks. Staring for miles
across flat prairies, then glancing down as a horny toad skitters
across your path.