There was the Thanksgiving when I was alone at my son and daughter-in-law’s place in Tucson (well … not completely alone, if you count my grand-dog, Chloe). I signed up to help serve a community Thanksgiving meal at the Salvation Army, and by the end of the day I was exhausted. But in a very good kind of way.
This is my favorite time of year, this golden-aspen-football-pumpkin season that extends to turkey-more-football-pie-gratitude season, followed by the snow-falling-tree-decorating-music-lights-gift-giving season.
“I’m going to marry someone who will stop and play in the snow,” our pre-teen daughter announced from the back seat years ago as we were crossing winter-white mountains on our way to a family Christmas. But the objective of her father was to reach our destination safely and in good time. (Particularly in good time.)
Dan and I drove two vehicles filled with grandkids and grand-dogs and luggage to the airport where The Parents were waiting on the curb outside the terminal. We hugged the grands good-bye, hugged The Parents hello and good-bye, and their mini-van pointed toward home.
The neutral colors of the sky and sea and sand blend with ease. Massive boulders stand at attention as the waves take center stage, blue-green and frothy-white before trundling back into the gray.
Megan Martin and her son showed up at our place back when Dan and I were newlyweds (well … we’re still newlyweds). We had sorted through our duplicate household items, and Megan was there to pick up our excess home furnishings.
Temps were in the 40s and a wind was blowing cold. We layered up and set off as the trail wound down into a ravine before pushing uphill.
The first waterfall – St. Mary Waterfall – was small but mighty as it roared into a green-blue pool before rushing away.
Dan and I have been touring museums and monuments and historic sites as we work our way from Oregon to Wisconsin and back. I didn’t appreciate history in school, but I find it fascinating these days.
At Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse, we watched videos of how the sculptors (read: dynamite handlers) shaped the mountains of stone into presidents’ faces and an Indian chief on a horse. Mind boggling.
As I write this, Dan and I are winding uphill—between 8-9000′ in elevation—somewhere in eastern Wyoming, past tall cliffs interspersed with evergreen forests and into Big Horn County. We just passed a sign indicating: “Moose next 5 miles.” So naturally we’re watching for big horn sheep and moose.
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
