Red Dirt

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On road trips 

the landscape changes. 

Dirt determines the location. 

the terrain.


Long fences, sage brush, sandy soil, rocky hills, gullies, cattle scattered.

We knew we were in the west

close to grandmother’s house  

when the dirt turned red, 

high contrast to white cotton

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a pile of memories, 

the heat of childhood visits 

where there was no pain or struggle 

only picnics and watermelon, 

walks in the red river, 

swimming, 

standing beneath the falls. 


When driving north it was the Salt Lake white that stood out 

forcing us to stop and just look. 

A lake in the distance, glazed and still. 

Messages written in sand by the side of the road, 

rocks used to make each letter. 

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Transporting Stories

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In the beginning, I knew my grandsons would get many toys for Christmas. I decided when they were babies to give them art. I continued that tradition every year. A few years ago, feeling momentarily guilty, I thought I should choose something else. Would the boys like something from LL Bean? I asked my daughter. That's not their style, she said. And, they have come to expect art from you. Yes! Going through possessions due to my upcoming move and downsizing, this year's theme is containers. This is what I have written to accompany their gift.

Container
An object to contain or transport something.

The memories and the stories our ancestors told, hold and shape the person we are, and are to to become. They carry us forward. Do not hold them too tight. Stories are always suspect. They are meant to embellished, researched and rewritten.

This bowl is from my grandmother, Stella Butterfield Tilson. She was raised in Oklahoma and West Texas. Andrew, her compassionate father, and Gabriella, her strong, outspoken mother, were missionaries. Gabriella was referenced once in a book that written about Andrew and the missionary work he did with the Indians. He converted over 500 to Christianity. She said she didn’t like what the soldiers were doing to the Indians. She didn’t like that they brought the children to the shcool in a chicken-wire covered wagon.

When I asked my aunt Eugenia about this comment, she said, “Oh, now you’re getting political.” And said no more.

This bowl is also strong. It has lasted a long time and is now ready to contain your poems and stories, carry them forward. I have added Frank Walker's book of poetry. He gives you history way before FB. Read it and ponder. Then write yours.

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