Archive by Author

Animals at the Train Station Depot

30 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Bowers Lites

 

 

Brownie look alike from Pixabay

 

Animals have been important to our family for as far back as I know.  When we first moved to Westcliffe (the town’s spelling has an e on it, but the school’s does not.) Dad learned by the grapevine that one of the ranchers had some part Border collie pups. He may have offered one to Dad, I don’t know about that.

“Get your money and let’s go, Dad told us.” He believed in paying for what he got and he drove us out to the ranch to pick out a pup. In the barn,we held some soft, wiggly puppies trying to get closer to us. I don’t know how we decided which one to take, but whichever one it was, we ended up calling him Brownie. We’d brought all our earnings from working in the restaurant and around the house. We had killed flies with a swatter to keep the café clean, washed dishes, cleaned off tables, and taken out crates of empty pop bottles to send back to the bottling factory next time the delivery truck came up from Canon City.  We had thirty-five cents. Dad was satisfied and so was the rancher.

 

Clover (Pixabay)

 

A few years later Dad bought each of us a calf so we could get started in the cattle business. My calf’s name was Clover and she was a sweet and pretty little thing. David named his calf, Red,because as a Hereford, that was his color. One morning when I went out to the shed to feed Clover, she was sprawled in the straw not moving or breathing. It was the saddest day of my young life so far. If I ever needed to call up tears for any reason, all I had to do was to remember Clover. Red, however, grew up thinking he was human.

 

Goose (Pixabay)

 

Another time Dad bought a white goose we knew was for Thanksgiving. I suppose Dad meant to take it, all nicely dressed, or undressed, so to speak, so Grandmother could cook it for us. The goose was majestic and tame. We loved her and decided we couldn’t let her become a cooked goose. We opened the shed door and let her out. When Dad noticed that she was gone, he made us go out to look for her. Thinking goose-swan what’s the difference, we ambled down to Grape Creek where the willow bushes grew. We ducked and pushed our way through them until we came to a small woven hut. Inside we saw a pallet, an empty whiskey bottle, and the picture of a lady from another time…but no goose. Dad was cross, but apparently,our misdeed didn’t warrant a spanking.

 

Trail Horses, Pixabay

 

Dad was a restaurateur, a builder, a flyer, and a budding cattleman. He also kept trail horses for the tourists he took up into the mountains to fish in the lakes. We kids also had a horse we kept in the feedlot. I think Dad got him cheap. His name was Yankee and Dad said judging by his teeth he was elderly. Part Shetland pony, he was also small, no match for the quarter horses most people kept. At first, Yankee and I had a hard time getting used to each other. I’d get on and he immediately trotted to the feedlot where he stopped on a dime and looked up to see me sail over his head. Dad only allowed that to happen a couple of times before he taught me to let Yankee know who was boss.

 

Tiger Kitty, Pixabay

 

Mouse (Pixabay)

We had a tiger kitty to keep the mice down, and he mostly lived outside because that was where the mice mostly stayed. Dad seemed like a tough guy, but he hated mice. In a small mining town in Nevada, he worked in Safeway as a meat cutter. For some reason,mice in the back room loved climbing up inside the worker’s pants. Dad shuddered even at the thought of mice. On the other hand, Mother thought they were adorable as long as they stayed out of the restaurant pantry. She told me that when I was a baby, we were delighted to sit and watch a nest full of baby mice romp and play with their mama invisible, but nearby. I like mice, too, but I’ve never been thoroughly tested by them.

Sometimes on the inside, I still feel like the little girl I was decades ago. My peers say they feel that way, too. For a lot of us, good memories like these are silver and gold and unfortunately for our poor families, we tell them a lot.

 

 

 

 

Author, Poet and Artist

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.”

Tags: , ,

The Depot

23 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Bowers Lites

 

 

 

My parents renovated the old train depot in about 1950. My friend from childhood Patricia Franklin sent me the above photo from the Pueblo Chieftain, and I really appreciate it, and her. The two of us met in our two-room schoolhouse, when she was in first grade and I was in second. She was the only person in her class, so the teacher moved her into second grade where there were at least four students. We’ve been friends ever since.

This is how the house has looked recently. There were no Amish in town when our family lived there and the building closer to the range wasn’t there, but the mountains were, and I think my dad planted the big pine trees on the property when he renovated the house.

 

 

This is the third building from my younger years that is being turned into a museum. The second two were the Westcliff schoolhouse and the original women’s prison of the Colorado State Penitentiary in Canon City. That was where Granddad worked as a guard for most of his adult life. Being this familiar with the history of historical museums makes me downright ancient.

Mother and Dad along with my brother, David, and I moved to Westcliffe right after dad came back from WWII in 1945. They bought Min’s Café with a low-interest loan from the G. I. bill and money they’d been saving since marriage.

In a small town like Westcliffe (at the time…population about 500) it was a big job to build or renovate a house as building supplies had to be hauled to the valley from Canon City or Pueblo and there were few people who could help. Mother said she never wanted to restore another house. But Mother and Dad were business people and they wanted to live upstairs and make the downstairs into rooms for rent. We ended up calling it, “The White Cloud Motel.”

You can see in the original picture that the station had a boardwalk around it that isn’t there in the more recent picture. I have a rather sad tale to tell about that. When dad lifted the first boards, he found nests of baby rabbits underneath. Dad let me play with one and carry it around for a day, but then I had to give it back because rabbits multiplied like … well, you know like rabbits, and they were overrunning much of the ranch grasslands.

The White Cloud motel was finally finished and we moved into the upstairs apartment. It had the main floor, a cellar, and an upstairs, as well as a baggage room. Dad used the big room for storage, mostly of camping gear for trail rides and as a place for the game to cure.One of the giant shelves he built was open underneath and just the right size for a small bed and a play-house for me. I read, played with my dolls, and tried to keep my brother out. But one thing we did together was to go out the bathroom window on the second floor and slide down the roof until we got to the gutter, then climb back up and do it again.

Here’s someone else who lived in the Denver and Rio Grande Western railroad station.

“Cornelia Caroline Wadleighwas hired (at nineteen) to teach at the Ula School for the 1911-1912 terms…she lived with her parents at their home in the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad Station at Westcliffe. She rode the train to the school each day on its morning run to Texas Creek, and caught the afternoon run back to Westcliffe when the school day ended.”*

Because the building was derelict when my parents bought it, I have never once in the sixty-seven years since we moved in the thought of another family living there. I wonder if Miss Cornelia Caroline Wadleigh loved it all as much as I did. And did she slide down the roof? And how would she feel about it being made into a museum if she knew? Does she know? Maybe I’ll meet her in Heaven and we can talk it over.

*Quotation from One Room Schoolhouses, Custer County, Colorado, by Irene Francis.

 

 

 

Author, Poet and Artist

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.”

Tags: , ,

Horseshoe Lake

16 Jul

 

My Take

DiVoran Lites

with

Patricia Franklin

 

 

If you see the video first you will better appreciate the rugged terrain in the story.

 

 

 

 

This is a reply about last week’s blog from my childhood friend: Patricia Franklin.

Dear DiVoran,

Your blog, “Hermit Dam” reminds me of the time when I was a kid and I went to Hermit Lake with three of my brothers to go fishing (what other reason was there?!)  The older ones had done odd jobs to earn money to buy the pickup, and once they had it, they used it for all kinds of work around town, and for going fishing. Since you had to park at the beaver dams and hike to the lake we always started out about daylight to get there in time for plenty of fishing.

But, we never stopped at Hermit really, everybody fished there, and the good fishing was up higher at Horseshoe Lake. The problem was, it was a cool, cloudy morning, and instead of clearing up, it just got worse. By the time we got to Hermit, we were in the clouds.

We started on up to Horseshoe and got to where there was a break in the clouds and you could look down into the valley between the two lakes. There are (or were) three ponds between Hermit and Horseshoe. We got to that point and, looking through the fog, the ponds looked large enough to be a lake. At first,we thought we had reached Horseshoe, but we walked up further, and then back down again to the ponds, and knew we had a ways to go. By then it was raining and I was freezing cold, even though I was wearing a waterproof poncho.  We were above timberline, and there was not much shelter there. I sat down next to a large boulder that gave me a little protection from the rain while the guys decided what to do. We were never worried, just cold and wet. Our parents would only have worried if we had been out after dark.

 

Google search

 

Our eldest brotherBill, a teenager and a Boy Scout decided we would go back down to Hermit where we might find more shelter among the trees and some wood for a fire. We got down by the lake and started looking for some dry wood, and twigs under the bushes.  Bill started a nice little campfire to keep us warm and give us a comfortable spot to eat our bologna sandwiches.

 

 

By the time we finished lunch we were too cold and too wet to go fishing, and as there was no sun to dry us out, we walked back down to the pickup. We were home soon after not disappointed about the fishing, but satisfied with the fun day we’d had trekking into the mountains.

Later, they improved the road and people could drive all the way up to Horseshoe. I do not know if that is a wilderness area now or not, but I too am deeply grateful for adventures like this in another time and place.

Love,

Patricia

 

 

 

Author, Poet and ArtistDiVoran 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.”

Tags: , ,

Hermit Dam

8 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

Our family, Ivan, Dora, DiVoran, andDavid moved to Westcliffe after Dad came home from WWII. We lived in the Wet Mountain Valley with the Sangre de Cristo Range to the west of us.

 

 

 

This is part of the 9.6-mile road to Hermit Dam. Nowadays it is considered one of the most dangerous roads in America and one of the ten highest in Colorado. The road becomes a trail before you get to the lake, so you must get out of your four-wheeled vehicle and walk. No horses are allowed on the road or on the trail. I have a bit of news about that. Tell you later.

 

Hermit Lake

 

Dad became involved withthe local men who hunted and fished in the mountains. He enjoyedhelpingstock the lake with Rainbow, Brown, Cutthroat, and Brook trout from a small private airplane. He also took tourists on tours up into the mountains, on horseback.

By the time he was eight, David was a better horseman than I, so he would ride Dixie, a skittish paint, and I’d ride Derby a more gentle soul. One time going back down, we got ahead of the parents and came to a fork in the trail. In that spot we were on flat ground, so we decided to gallop. David and Dixie went first and as always, Derby and I followed their hard pace. Then the trail forked and Dixie took the left side. Fully expecting my horse to follow I leaned left. This was one time, however,that my horse sense failed me. Derby served to the right and I flew off, thus receiving my first flying lesson. Thank the Lord I was not hurt. The parents were still lollygagging behind and never knew a thing about our shenanigans.

Another time I went swimming in a freezing cold alpine lake made by a beaver dam. When I got out I couldn’t stop shivering, but everybody thought I was pretty brave, so it was worth it.

One fine spring day we were in the mountains and mother made a camping stew. We always kidded her that she put everything in the pot including cans of sardines and peaches. This particular day, she found dandelions growing and stripped them of their leaves to cook apart from the stew. She had been a campfire girl and knew a lot about camping and nature. She would never pull a wildflower out by the roots because then they wouldn’t be able to grow again. As we sat down to eat, giant snowflakes fell, but it was only one of those spring storms and uskids enjoyed catching the cold flakes on our tongues.

When I grew up, I married Bill and we had two children. Bill got laid off from work at the Cape and we took a six-week camping trip out west with our children.

We went to Westcliffe so the kids could see the schools I’d gone to, and where I had lived with my family. While we were there, I urged Bill to go on up to Hermit Lake so they could all see where good times with my family took place. We didn’t know it required a four-wheelvehicle. I will let Bill tell you rest:

 

“This was the roughest road (if you could call it a road) I had ever traveled in any kind of vehicle.  Here we were in a 1958 Ford station wagon (adjusted for sea level operations), pulling a pop-up camper up that one-lane road to an altitude of almost 12,000 feet.  Once we started up that road, we had to keep going.  At some points,we were moving no faster thana slow walk, having to steer around large boulders.

“I was getting worried that we would not be able to find a place to turn aroundwhen after two hours we came to the end of the nine miles of road. Luckily there was a flat space just large enough that we could turn around. Since it was getting dark we decided to set up the camper and spend the night there. Even though it was summertime, at that altitude the night was cold. The next morning we cooked breakfast, packed up the camper and got ready to head back to Westcliffe.  Well,guess what?  The car wouldn’t start!

It seems we had developed tiny cracks in the spark plugwires.  Now, with the air at this high altitude being so thin, the spark was jumping from the spark plugwires to the block, and not to the plugs. I removed the wire from each plug, cleaned and dried it, wrapped electrical tape around it, and reinstalled it. That coupled with the rising afternoon temperature, seemed to do the trick. With the car running, we now embarked on our two-hour adventure back down the mountain to Westcliffe.  WOW– What a trip!  I sure don’t want to ever have to make a trip like that again.

As I remember it, the reason we didn’t walk on up to the lake that morning was that the clouds were covering the mountain below us and we could barely see the road to get down, so we wouldn’t have been able to see the lake which was higher than where we camped.”

 

Thanks, Bill, not only for writing your take on itbut for getting us out of every jam we’ve been in for most of our lives. I thank God for you.

For years I’ve thought my life was regular and uneventful, but when I look back now and see the things I was privileged to participate in I know I had many adventures that perhaps others had not had. I also thank God for my mother, father, and brother and for all the things we did together.

Here’s a YouTube link that shows the road to Hermit Dam as it is now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iRqcN1Ozv0

 

 

 

Author, Poet and Artist

 

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.”

Tags: ,

Fireworks

2 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

 

The Fourth of July is a fine celebration of the freedoms won and wrangled for us. Churches and families have get-togethers and picnics and later in the day the sky lights up with exploding stars. I always think of the Star Spangled banner “…and the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that the flag was still there.”

“After all,John Adams did say he hoped the anniversary of independence would be marked for years to come by “guns” and “bonfires” and “illuminations.” Because the first July 4 fireworks display happened in the middle of the Revolutionary War, some historians believe they were supposed to be a “morale booster.” The celebrations at the time would have also included the firing of cannons and guns, adding to the explosive nature of the festivities. With the war’s end and increasing concern for public safety, those firearms were eventually phased out of the celebrations and replaced almost entirely by the fireworks, which were often given the official stamp of approval in the hope of drawing citizens to public celebrations instead of more dangerous private firework shows.”

Do all boys and men love fire or just 99% of them? Bill is one of the Ordnance engineers who was responsible for the second stage/interstage separation system of the Saturn V Moon rocket that you sometimes see on TV.  And our son, Billy, is now an environmentalist who never misses a controlled burn to keep the woods healthy if he can help it. I jokingly call the two of them pyromaniacs. I use the word lightly, though. The on-line synonyms are arsonist, firebug, and incendiary. It always startled me when I called Bill at work and the person who picked up answered with, “Pyro!” But, they probably meant pyrotechnics, not pyromaniacs.

 

 

Anyhow, when the kids were small we always drove down to the river to watch the fireworks off the cape. AND one of the most enchanting things the Bills liked to do when we went camping was to build our campfire and if a grill was available to start it up, too. They’ve always used fire safely, except once for the younger Bill. One day, he found a match and thought he’d just burn a little dry grass behind the house to see the pretty fire, but it quickly got out of hand and someone called the fire department. By the time we got the fire out we heard the whee, whee, whee, of the fire engine in front of our house. Two burly firemen came around to the backyard and one of them asked. “Who did this?”

“Me sir,” Billy said pulling up to his full Cub Scout height.

The fireman seemed gentle and understanding, but Billy’s voice quaked as he explained what he had done and exactly how he had done it.

Then the fireman had his say. “Now son, you know you could have burned down some woods here and maybe even some houses. You look like a fine young man to me, you don’t want to be arrested for arson do you?”

“No, sir!” Billy said, even though he couldn’t have recognized the word arson.

As the fire engine pulled away, Billy was more excited about the fireman talking man to man with him than afraid. He always remembered, then, to be as careful as his dad had continually taught him to be.

The great and beloved Christian, Peter Marshall said, “May we think of freedom not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.” Thank you, Lord.

 

 

So okay, I concede, God probably has reasons for putting a love of fire into men. Protecting, and eating would the most obvious, but celebrating is good too, especially if you’re safe with it.

 

 

 

 

 

Author, Poet and ArtistDiVoran 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.”

Tags:

Dog Attack!

25 Jun

My Take
DiVoran Lites

 

As I walked through our subdivision a big German Shepherd ran at me from across the street. He barked as if it were his job to protect the house he’d come from. But I’d never seen him before and wondered if he had strayed off or been left abandoned. In my terror, I thought I might raise my trekking poles to fend him off, but right away I realized that wasn’t an option. He’d just mow me down even if he ran into one of them.

 

 

Suddenly I recalled that you’re much better off not to show a dog that you’re afraid. I calmed down right quick.

“What’s the matter old friend,” I said keeping my voice soothing and light. “Where are your people?” At that moment he stopped barking and looked over at the house he had come from.

If I could have read his mind I might have heard him thinking, “Yeah, I’m all alone here with a monster that wears a floppy hat and walks with six legs.”

Suddenly he turned and trotted right back across the street. I stood still not wanting anything to remind him I was there. He disappeared into the shadow of the front porch. Could someone have whistled on one of those dog-training whistles that humans can’t hear? Or did God just calm us both so we could let it go?

 

 

A dog bit me when I was about twelve years old, and visiting my aunt and uncle. Skipper, their black and white border collie was tied to a tree in the front yard and I was petting him. Without warning another dog ran across the lawn and barreled into Skipper. He growled and my hair stood on end. They were biting each other and I knew Skipper was at a disadvantage because he was tied. I thought I’d better help, so I grabbed the strange dog’s tail and pulled with all my might. That was when I saw my mistake. That other dog whipped around and bite three bleeding holes into my hand. Then he turned and ran away.

 

 

Leaving Skipper where he was I ran into the house to show my aunt and uncle the hand. Of course,they reiterated that I had made a mistake. Doesn’t the Bible tell us not to get involved in a dogfight? My relatives talked it over and decided there was no need for stitches or rabies shots, for which I was grateful. But those puncture wounds ached for a long time before it finally healed.

I appreciate the lessons taught by dogs and other animals all my life. I really appreciate the miracle of the German Shepherd just walking away from me, and no matter what the circumstances were, I attribute it to the guardian of my body, soul, and spirit. The Holy Spirit and the best teacher ever.

 

 

 

 

Author, Poet and Artist

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.”

Tags:

Carrots and Tomatoes

18 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

 

 

“Your garden is wonderful!” I said to the man standing in his side yard tending pots of growing vegetables. His big faded yellow lab came over to say hello.

The neighbor and I introduced ourselves.“Do you like tomatoes?” he asked.

“Sure, we like tomatoes,” I answered.

“I’ll give you some cherry tomatoes then,” he said, pulling them off the vine. He popped one and then another into his mouth. “Somebody’s been eating them.” He said with an innocent grin. “There aren’t many ripe ones.” He handed me six, then went to the vine with baseball-sized almost ripe tomatoes and picked three.” He held one out and ran his finger along a seam. “They split because we’ve had too much rain, but they’re still good.” He put all three into my hand. By this time I had hung my trekking poles from my wrists so I could have my hands free. In case you haven’t seen trekking poles before, they’re like ski poles and they’re supposed to strengthen the muscles in your upper back when you walk or hike. They’re great for stability on uneven sidewalks, too.

“How about carrots?” he asked.

“Yep, we like ‘em.”

He pulled a small but fat carrot from a pot. Then he went to another pot and started pulling on a feathery top. “Whoa, this is a really big one. I got to get my knife.”

I wait, holding my produce in both hands and my poles dangling from my wrists until he comes out with a butcher knife. He digs it into the soil and into the big carrot as well, the sliced places fill with dirt on the way out of the pot.

“You like green beans?” …another question.

“Sure,” doesn’t everybody?

He goes in the house and brings out a large package of frozen green beans—enough for two meals for Bill and me. When he sees that my hands are full he takes the beans with him and goes into the house. He comes back with the frozen bagful in a bigger grocery store bag. He holds it open for the carrots and tomatoes. I drop them in, put the thin handles over my wrist and take the trekking poles in my hands. The plastic bag handles dig a line into my wrist, and I wonder if I can walk the half-mile home with them. I must take it all because of the great pleasure it gave him to share. “We’re from West Virginia,” he says. Families always raised their own food back there. My wife’s an excellent cook, too.

It was like old home week. Mother always had her flowers: sweet peas, roses and nasturtiums, plus she took care of her own chickens. Dad contributed vegetables, fruit from his trees, and whatever fish and seafood he caught wherever they lived. They too shared with everybody who would receive and it gave them the greatest joy in their lives (next to grandchildren, of course.)

When they lived in Vista, California, Mother and Dad would get into their Datsun King Cab and head for a major growing area where big produce trucks lined up to haul tons of produce heading all over America. The trucks, piled high, drove fast and when they turned corners some of the produce rolled off. The law of the land was that if they were off the trucks the gleaners could have them. Mom and Dad filled the bed of their pick-up and brought the veggies home to share. As the Bible says, it is more blessed to give than to receive. I am, however, learning that it is also blessed to receive. A giver must have someone to give to and then everybody is happy.

 

 

 

 

Author, Poet and Artist

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.”

Tags: , ,

Walking

11 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

 

 

 

I started walking in 1939
And thank the good Lord I haven’t stopped yet.
Mama and Daddy were there for my first steps
And I was with Daddy for his last one.

Believe me, he walked plenty in his lifetime
He walked to school,
Walked to fish and to hunt
Walked on his paper route
Walked to his girlfriend’s house
Then he went into the war
And marched and slogged through mud up to his ankles.

He bought a business and stood behind the bar
Listening to the problems of his customers.
Once he walked down off Pike’s Peak after he and his friend,
Sweak Jeske got caught in a downdraft in a Piper Cub.
God was with them that day.
All Daddy got was a ruined plane and a chipped ankle bone.
His friend walked down the mountain and brought help.
After Daddy retired he walked at least a mile every day.
He showed me how to walk in the Florida woods
Being new here, I was afraid to explore,
It has been my favorite trail for over fifty years.

Dad didn’t usually attend church, but when he was 87
He went back to a Christian Church like the one he had attended with his mother, Marie.
There he either received Christ or renewed his commitment.

It was around that time that he had an accident and had to go into assisted living.
I was present when the therapist came to teach him to
Walk again, and they asked me to help by
Standing at the end of line of support bars, and calling him to come.
It was just like teaching a baby to walk,
“Come on, Dad, you can do it!”
It took all his strength and was all a therapist and a nurse could do
To get him out of his wheel-chair.
He looked up at me with a light in his face
And took a step.
My heart soared, but then
He fell, supported, back into the chair.
But it was not for lack of willingness.
His brain just didn’t have control of his
Body anymore.

Three years after they tried to get him up and walking
I was at my church in Florida for an evening sing-along
We sang “Draw Me Nearer,”
And in my mind’s eye, the hymn book I was holding
Disappeared and I saw Dad walking toward me.
He said, “Would you walk a ways with me?”
I knew then that he was in Heaven.
Early the next morning my sister-in-law called
And told me he had died the night before.
Good night, Daddy.
We’ll see each other again, some glad morning.

 

Ivan and DiVoran

I

Tags: , ,

Colors

4 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

 

Mother was frugal with Dad’s Army pay, but she made sure that my brother and I enjoyed life while daddy was overseas. More than once we walked downtown to buy a ten cent glass toy to put in the window of our upstairs apartment. We named the elephants, puppies and cats window toysbecause when set in an upstairs window of our apartment they shed glorious color into the living room.

Some nights when it was time for bed, I watched Mother get out my coloring book and crayons, and I knew that when I woke the next morningMother would have colored a picture for me. That made me happy, and I’m sure the peaceful activity was a relaxer for Mother, too. Later on, she became an oil painter, and when I was older, I took up painting too.

 

 

Some Sunday afternoons if a suitable movie came to town mother took us to a matinee. We had never experienced anything except children’s books and radio, so the beauty of Disney’s Technicolor captured all our hearts.

“Snow White” showed me how important working together and caring for each other was.

“Pinocchio,” informed me of the awful consequences of lying.

“Dumbo,” told me you could do anything if you were born with a talent and practiced it.

“Bambi,” had the most profound effect telling me that mothers can die. I cried and cried when Bambi’s mother was shot by the hunters. I can still see Bambi…brown with white spots, and Thumper in his gray suit. Was there a fire?. I seem to see one in my mind’s eye, bright red. I still love beautiful movies, though, and probably always will.

When I was twelve I got new glasses that improved my sight as long as I wore them. At seventy-five I had my cataracts removed and new lenses inserted. I could now see color and everything else with great clarity. I could read without glasses because I opted for a reading lens. Right out of the operating room I began raving about the colors of the flowers, the sky… the trees. “Oh, oh, look over there, isn’t that beautiful?” I rejoiced.

Sometimes I wonder why our dear Lord gave us so much color and such gorgeous hues that no paint can match. He could have given us a world of Thumper color. But He didn’t. What a generous, benevolent God we have. Thank you, Jesus.

Tags:

Memorial Day-Two Families Remember

28 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

Author, Poet and Artist

 

 

I knew my friend, Patricia had a wonderful family tradition. She grew up in a mountain valley where her great-grandfather had homesteaded. Some of the family has left the valley, some have stayed. Here is Patricia’s story:

 

 

 Memorial Day or Decoration Day as it was first called, was observed by most of the community who had loved ones buried in the cemeteries.  The tradition was started to commemorate those who had died in the wars.  People brought flowers and flags in the spring to place at their graves.  Spring, because the flowers were beginning to bloom, (there were no artificial flowers). Decoration Day officially began in 1868 and was on the last Monday of May.  Traditionally families and church members would celebrate it on that day.  Flowers only lasted a day or two, so we would go out on Sunday or Monday to decorate and visit with other family and friends, many of whom we saw only once a year, as they would come home to decorate the family graves.  It was a time to connect with old acquaintances who had moved away and came back to honor their loved ones and visit with old friends.

 My family still goes out to decorate and acquaint the youngsters with their ancestors.  Many good stories are shared and the children are very interested in learning about the people who are buried there and how they lived their lives back in their day.  They want to know how they are connected.  We have so many ancestors now that the children cannot remember them all.  Fortunately, we have family history documented by family members, to be passed down to the younger ones.  Hopefully, there will always be someone there to take care of the family and the old tradition. 

 We are excited about our visit beginning tomorrow with our children who will all be getting together for the once a year get together.  For three years it has coincided with our granddaughters’graduations.  So we are busily preparing, corresponding, coordinating, etc., which is very hectic, but also very fun and rewarding.  Nothing can be planned in advance, because everything changes, so I do not worry about the planning anymore.  It always works out.  Looking forward to seeing our kids tomorrow.

 

DiVoran

 

 

My grandparents settled in a town fifty-two miles away from where Patricia lived, but I got to live in her community from the time I was 7 until I was 12. It almost broke my heart to leave, but Dad and Mom had sold Min’s Café and Dad had a new job in Los Alamos.

All four of my grandparents and two of my great grandparents along with an aunt and two second cousins are buried in this larger town. Our Mother took us there when we were children to tell stories about her parents and grandparents. Her parents had graves next to each other near the beginning of the cemetery. They were also near their long-time friends and neighbors and each couple has a pine tree, now huge at the site of their grave. Mother’s dad died in 1939 when I was six months old. Dad and Mom came home from Nevada to take over the gas company his father-in-law had run before his death. Mom’s mother passed on when I was seven. I remember Mother crying and serving customers for days.

I was an adult with grown children when my Grandparents died. I didn’t get to attend Granddad’s funeral, but I did fly there for Grandmother’s.

 

Ten years ago I met with my brother, his wife, and her sister to bury our Mother and Dad’s ashes. The aunt who is gone now and two of her daughters came and brought their families. My brother lived in California and we lived in Florida. He kept their ashes until we could meet in the middle. Our son had a combined business trip and vacation so his wife and two children attended. Our daughter and her husband flew with us and our daughter got us a bed and breakfast to stay in that was the same two-storyfloor plan as Grandmother and Granddad’s house and just down the street.

Being together again went a long way in tempering our grief. We did the service ourselves and stayed in the park visiting on a sunny November day. My brother had just picked up a beautiful puppy at the Denver airport, and our grandchildren sat on the grass and took turns holding him while he rested after his strenuous journey. Afterward,our son drove the immediate family to the valley town where Patricia and I had lived as a children.

 

Tags: ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →