My father-in-law’s great aunt used to live here.
Her name was Wyoma.
She was 4′ 7″ or somewhere in there.
She was feisty.
She was NOT politically correct.
She was blunt.
She had stories… oh, my! her stories…
She wrote a book…
I love it because it is “her”.
I think it was written in one continuous sentence, because that is the way she used to talk…
But, me, the person so fond of “…” should not criticize how other people write!
She had an arrowhead collection I coveted and would have loved to have, especially a nice atlatl point made into a necklace… oooh…
People were welcome at her door, even “Bigfoot”, a huge loner known for letting chickens live in his cabin with him…
Nowadays, the boards prevent cows from breaking down her door…
There are stories here…
The ghosts of those stories live in the swaying grass and in the trickle of spring water… in the clouds that dance with their shadows across the hillsides… in the flowers that continue to bloom and fade… in the relics left behind.
In the future, I’ll share a few of her stories…
Find me here!
