My Take
DiVoran Lites
By Dora Bowers as told to DiVoran Lites
Crowley, Colorado 1942-43
Around the time that David learned to walk well, we had a Mama goat named Petaluma and a baby goat named Billy. We also had a dog named ginger and a black cat. Sometimes in the afternoon between washing and drying dinner dishes and starting supper, we all walked along beside the irrigation ditch to the factory to see Ivan. For some reason, we always fell into a line, maybe according to whose legs were longest. First came Dode (which was me) then Doo Doo (which was the only way David could say DiVoran’s name) then David who we called Dab because of the letters of his name: David Allen Bowers.
Then came Billy the little goat. Billy liked to detour, his divided hooves clicking over the glass which covered the new tomato plants. He stepped so daintily, he never cracked a single pane. After Billy-goat came Ginger the Heinz 57 dog with short forays to check out rabbit smells, and then the cat, always alert for field mice. Momma goat, Petaluma never went along and she wouldn’t tell me why. I suspected it was because she wanted some time to herself, or maybe I thought that because I was in tune with mamas needing just that.
Chanticleer the banty rooster was another member of the family that didn’t go along on the walk. He was a cocky and colorful little character, but he had a bad sense of timing. Day and night trains carrying troops and equipment for the war came down the railroad tracks behind our house. At night, when it was dark, Chanticleer couldn’t tell the difference between light from the streamliner and light from the rising sun. Whenever Chanticleer saw the light, he crowed, even if it was only 3:00 a. m. The noise would wake us and all the hard-working neighbors out of a well-earned night’s sleep. Chanticleer had to go.
He ended up in the pot, but no matter how long we stewed him (and we even served noodles with him) he turned out to be awfully hard to chew and for a while, we lost our taste for chicken. DiVoran’s tears when she guessed what we were trying to eat.
There in Crowley, we had young friends with children the age of ours, so Dave and DiVoran had playmates. We wives cleaned our houses on Friday then raced to see who could get to the other’s house first so their own would not be messed up with the children’s play.
In 1943, when Dave was two and DiVoran 5, more and more countries became involved with the war. In the United States, some men were being drafted and others volunteered for service. Although deferments were usually given to men with small children; as well as to men who produced and preserved food, Ivan felt he must at least go down to the draft office and see if they needed him. They needed him—even though he worked in a canning factory, had small children and even flat feet. “By that time in the war all they required was a man with warm blood.”
DiVoran has been writing for most of her life. Her first attempt at a story was when she was seven years old and her mother got a new typewriter. DiVoran got to use it and when her dad saw her writing he asked what she was writing about. DiVoran answered that she was writing the story of her life. Her dad’s only comment was, “Well, it’s going to be a very short story.” After most of a lifetime of writing and helping other writers, DiVoran finally launched her own dream which was to write a novel of her own. She now has her Florida Springs trilogy and her novel, a Christian Western Romance, Go West available on Amazon. When speaking about her road to publication, she gives thanks to the Lord for all the people who helped her grow and learn. She says, “I could never have done it by myself, but when I got going everything fell beautifully into place, and I was glad I had started on my dream.”
Old Things R New 
Thank you for stopping by and reading our posts. Your comments are welcomed.