Great Mystery

By Dyana McCormick

In the 1970s, Rian makes a choice outside the norm. Not only is she a woman with a husband and children, but she also becomes one of the first female police officers. In her quest for excitement and fulfillment, she climbs a mountain one step at a time through a mire of prejudice, egos, and archaic attitudes.

Great Mystery is inspired by the author’s own life experiences and tells the story of Rian McCarren Clark, a woman police officer who battles for the innocents. She fights for the victims of a judicial system that often re-victimized them and left families in tatters.

This portrays the life of a hero who broke the barriers of a man’s world in law enforcement. As she gets older, she is left with memories of victims of violence, greed, decadence, and perversion. She also finds love, loss, and the fulfillment of family, all while caring for the abused and neglected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665722568

Dyana McCormick

Dyana McCormick grew up facing many challenges following the loss of her father at a young age. After marrying, adopting her niece, and having two children of her own, she became a police officer. She served fourteen years as a patrol officer and twelve as a detective. She went on to have a second career working with at-risk youth.

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Copyright © 2022 Dyana McCormick.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-2257-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2255-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2256-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022907735

Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/12/2022

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1   Dominion

Chapter 2   Rian

Chapter 3   One Life Gone

Chapter 4   Miner

Chapter 5   Wilfred

Chapter 6   Ugly Teens

Chapter 7   Kennedy and the Nuclear Threat

Chapter 8   Religion and the Day Kennedy Died

Chapter 9   Leaving for Another Life

Chapter 10   Making My First Home

Chapter 11   Boise Again

Chapter 12   High Mountain Happiness

Chapter 13   Ultimate Happiness-Children

Chapter 14   Sweet Baby Liam

Chapter 15   The Shame of Care for the Elderly

Chapter 16   Becoming Pretty Again

Chapter 17   A Real Job

Chapter 18   Man Made Carnage on the Highway

Chapter 19   Accepting the Biggest Challenge

Chapter 20   My Family

Chapter 21   The Academy

Chapter 22   The Sisters

Chapter 23   Uncle Bram and Aunt Felicia

Chapter 24   Man Apologizes

Chapter 25   Fulfillment

Chapter 26   One Chapter Closes

Chapter 27   The Chase

Chapter 28   Clarification

Chapter 29   Paul

Chapter 30   Amelia’s Secret

Chapter 31   New Life?

Chapter 32   Mike

Chapter 33   A Family Miracle

Chapter 34   Fallen Heroes

Chapter 35   Chase-----Again!

Chapter 36   Whiz

Chapter 37   Closing a Chapter for a Little While

Chapter 38   The Farm

Chapter 39   The Fire

Chapter 40   The Junky is Back

Chapter 41   Cops-The Ugly Side

Chapter 42   Thanksgiving-Two Lives Lost

Chapter 43   March 18, 1982

Chapter 44   The Last Shift

Chapter 45   More Crimes Against Children

Chapter 46   Divorce Again

Chapter 47   Nate & Jenny

Chapter 48   Another Life Changing

Chapter 49   Wayne

Chapter 50   Amelia’s Secret

Chapter 51   No Hope for Some Children

Chapter 52   Not What It Seemed

Chapter 53   Grandchildren

Chapter 54   Tasha’s Sadness

Chapter 55   Mom & Wayne

Chapter 56   Special Spirits

Chapter 57   Wasichu

Chapter 58   Every Older Persons Fear

Chapter 59   Mexico

Chapter 60   Eldon

Chapter 61   Tragic Waste

Chapter 62   Proud of My Kids

Chapter 63   Soul Mate

Chapter 64   Full Circle

Chapter 65   John Robbins Ashes

Chapter 66   Nate Berry Sees Justice

Chapter 67   Jaime (Heimee)

Chapter 68   Angels for Sale

Chapter 69   Anger-Death and a Six-Year-Old Boy

Chapter 70   The Car Thief’s Son

Chapter 71   9-11

Chapter 72   The Cayman Islands

Chapter 73   The Thanksgiving Baby

Chapter 74   Civic Duty

Chapter 75   Marissa

Chapter 76   Who’s Taking Care of Your Mother?

Chapter 77   Angelica, the Backyard Angel

Chapter 78   The Personnel Director

Chapter 79   Martha’s Story, My Last Case

Chapter 80   The Last Vacation

Chapter 81   The Family Farm Kitchen

Chapter 82   Loss of an American Spirit

Chapter 83   A Humbling Experience Ends

Chapter 84   The Children

Chapter 85   Old Remembrances

Chapter 86   Our Kids World

Chapter 87   Billy, and the Pokémon

Chapter 88   Randy

Chapter 89   Jorge

Chapter 90   Misplaced Intentions

Chapter 91   Choosing Your Own Pain

Chapter 92   Bonnie

Chapter 93   Another Old Friend Laid to Rest

Chapter 94   Nate Berry

Chapter 95   Working with The Most Vulnerable

Chapter 96   Special Spirits

Chapter 97   Bonnie’s Struggles

Chapter 98   Robert

Chapter 99   Christmas

Chapter 100   Moving On

Chapter 101   New Hope

Chapter 102   An Angel Too Soon

Chapter 103   Childhood Lost

Chapter 104   Back to Hope Ranch

Chapter 105   Different Worlds

Chapter 106   Companions

Chapter 107   Jude

Chapter 108   Another Blue-Eyed Child

Chapter 109   Common Sense

Chapter 110   Until the Hereafter

Chapter 111   Precious Time Lost

Chapter 112   Precious Sister

Chapter 113   Some Reflection

Chapter 114   Integrity

Chapter 115   The Humility in Getting Old

Chapter 116   Childhood Revisited

Chapter 117   Next Generation

Chapter 118   World on a Fast Track

Chapter 119   Bullying

Chapter 120   Hurts So Deep

Chapter 121   Biggest Challenge

Chapter 122   Holidays

Chapter 123   God Dammit

Chapter 124   Renewal

Chapter 125   A World for My Grandchildren

Chapter 126   Last Quarter of the Circle of Life

Chapter 127   My Reward

Conclusion

This book is dedicated to the innocents of the world

and to those who care for and protect them.

PROLOGUE

GREAT MYSTERY, THE NAME GIVEN to God and His presence by the Native Americans, gave me a life in small town America. But as ordinary as it was, the genius of promise of our Creator directed me down the paths of life in a most extraordinary way. Each twist and turn up the bumpy steep road led to a challenge that I met as a little girl, a teenager, a woman, a daughter, a sister, a mother, a grandmother, a wife, a lover, a police officer, a caregiver, and finally a counselor of life.

As my life is now over three-quarters full circle, I realize that the way to a meaningful life is but one way. All living creatures feel hunger, pain, loneliness and fear and they cross all our paths for a reason. We owe a debt to ourselves and to the one above to commit to those in need with a non-judgmental openness and dedication. In honoring that debt, He will bless us with a pure peace in knowing that we made easier the way of the old, sick, innocent, smelly, deformed, cantankerous, demented, angry, hurt, naughty, and alone. Those that are easier to turn from the sight of are those where the real reward lies. After all, according to Albert Einstein, A person starts to live when he can live outside himself.

In my experience as a police officer, I saw many changes. When I became a police officer in 1976 it was a challenge to be viewed as equal in my abilities to my male counterparts. When I left police work at age fifty-eight and went on to have another career, women becoming police officers was becoming more common. There became a growing awareness of how to look at them as people with the same abilities that make good police officers as men. That was only one of the numerous challenges I faced in life, and it was an uphill climb all the way.

I had many other challenges that enriched my life but also gave me an agonizing awareness of how innocents suffer. As I got older, I felt compelled to write a novel with some of my own experiences as an inspiration that would shape stories about the life-long fight of Officer Rian McCarren Clark as she fought battles for the innocents. My goal in telling her story was to describe the excitement, fear, pain, and neglect of victims along with rewards and joys of her own life. Although a work of fiction, hopefully it shows the agonizing uphill climb for those fighting for the innocents. Through all that God gives us in a lifetime, there is always hope for us and those we care for. Life, remembered through the sharp lens of maturity, shows us that rewards come in so many unexpected ways. Life is happy, sad, exciting, sensuous, maddening, challenging, exhausting, rewarding, and stunningly beautiful and an uphill climb all the way.

As I look back at all the wonders of life, there is only one chance to live. It is the greatest of gifts, and our responsibility is to make the most of it.

CHAPTER 1

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Dominion

STOP! STOP, SHE SCREAMED AS she ran into the street waving her hands. She ran to the door of my police car as I pulled into the parking lot. Her fingers gripped my window as I rolled it down. Her wide eyes mirrored something unspeakable, as she frantically tried to tell me something. He-he-he is up there, she said while pointing up the highway, He’s in a pick-up, pulling two mules down the highway. They’re screaming in pain. I think he has a little girl with him, she said through rapid breaths. He’s going to kill those mules! she said with her voice raised in desperation.

With a shaky voice she told me her name and phone number, and before I could get back on the highway, the faded old red Ford pick-up roared into the large dirt parking lot of the feed store and came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Through the billowing cloud, I saw the mules. My hand dropped from the steering wheel to my radio.

Springs, P-4, I might need some help with a citizen complaint, involving animal abuse at Martin’s Feed Store.

I drove slowly toward the truck and when I got behind it, I stopped and cautiously got out of the car. The sides of the mules tied to the old red truck, were heaving in, and out trying to pull in enough air. They were wet with sweat on the cold November night and the shrillness of their braying sounded like a strange scream. The whites around their wide-open eyes showed terror and pain.

The very large driver opened the door and got out of the truck, stumbling as he took the first step. He hung onto the truck door, to steady himself. His crew cut light hair topped a round red face that bulged out of the top of a hunter orange jacket.

You God damn worthless pieces of shit! I ought to send you to the dog food factory. You stubborn fuckers! he yelled.

The animals were straining against the ropes that held them trying to free themselves. With a big outgoing rush of breath, one of the creatures fell to the ground rolling over on his side. Syrupy pools of oozing blood were forming around his feet. This poor animal had fought back against the monster that was pulling him down the road wearing off the pads of the hooves. The mule’s eyes closed as he struggled to take in enough breath. Blood was starting to pool around the hooves of the other animal. He still had strength enough to stand and bray that high pitched eerie scream.

Sir, what seems to be the problem, I said in a raised voice, as I walked around the mules and up the left side of the truck. Surprise showed in his face and the demon that was cursing at these animals became the low talking gentleman.

Well, ma’am, I didn’t know you were standin’ there. Sorry, for the cussin’. I was just tryin’ to get these guys back home. They got out and somehow, ended up on the highway. It’s a wonder they didn’t get hee-it, he said as saliva spit out of his mouth with the T. Tobacco stains from chew slid down the crack on the side of his chin. That sweet chemical odor of alcohol was already hitting me in the face.

Sir, may I see your driver’s license and registration, please?"

What for ma’am? I gotta get these guys home!

Sir, it appears that the mules might be injured, and they might need some help getting home. Could you please get your license and registration?

He turned around, wobbling to the side and took two uncertain steps to the open door of his truck. I followed and watched as he reached inside. As I followed his hands to the glove box, the beam of my flashlight met the frightened eyes of a little girl. Her long dark silky hair hung over her shoulders in soft curls. Her angelic piercing crystal blue eyes looked out of the fur around the hood of her little pink coat. She was about five years old and her tiny doll-like white hands were folded dutifully in her lap.

The man reached over the little girl and pulled the glove box open. She sat frighteningly still as he thumbed through a bunch of old papers. With the beam of my light on his hands, he finally connected with an old plastic cover that held a registration. With wavering hands, he handed it to me. He reached in the back worn pocket of his wrangler jeans and took out a wallet. He thumbed through the wallet carefully looking at each paper in a way that I knew he didn’t have a driver’s license.

Ma’am I must have left it in my other wallet.

I pulled the small yellow notebook and pen out of my pocket and asked, Sir, your name and birth date, please?

Toby Whittaker, October 1, 1950, he said with impatience as he looked at the ground and kicked dirt with his boot.

Toby, could you step to the front of the truck, please.

Yes, ma’am, he said as he staggered around the dented bumper of the old truck. I reached inside the aging truck that smelled of oil, cigarette smoke and alcohol, and took the keys from the ignition and put them in the pocket of my jacket. The child was still sitting as quietly as though she were sitting in church with her little hands still folded in her lap.

Honey are you all right, I asked in my quietest voice. Those clear pools of blue came up and met mine. The tears were welling, and before she could answer huge droplets were running down her cheeks.

I’m so scared, she said with a little shaky voice that was barely audible. Oddly her hands stayed dutifully folded as though she were afraid to unfold them. The tears kept coming until sobs erupted.

It’ll be okay, I promise. Would you like to get out of the truck? Her little head under the pink hood moved slightly up and down.

I reached my hand in, and finally the little hands came unfolded as her hand took hold of mine. I slid her across the seat, knocking over Toby’s Budweiser. It quickly formed a smelly pool on the floor. I lifted her up and out of the truck. Her little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. The sobs were deep, and the tears came as though a dam had broken.

Sgt. Jay had arrived and was standing with Toby. Deputy Johns was leaning down near the fallen mule. I carried this innocent one to Sgt. Jay’s car and opened the front seat door. She still clung to my neck, as though this was the only safe place in the world. I held her for a minute until the sobbing lessened and then gently lifted her into the sergeant’s car.

Where you goin’ with my Goddamn kid? Toby shouted across the parking lot.

I straightened up and walked back to Toby. My mother’s instinct had fired at the sight of the little girl and had fueled some anger that was about to unleash with fury.

With a few inches separating our faces, I said, Toby Whittaker, your daughter is safe at this moment, so I would advise you sir, and I paused as I stared into his eyes, to be quiet until this is resolved! The edge in my voice, and the look in my eye as I looked eye level into his, left him with his mouth open exposing the brown muck under his lower lip. By this time, Deputy Mathias, who had a wonderful way with little ones, was kneeling to talk to the little girl sitting in the police car.

My professionalism that had been at risk because of the little girl came back. With cold steel in my voice, I said, Toby, could you step this way, please. We walked to the level concrete surface at the entry of the feed store.

Toby, from the odor of alcohol on your breath, the presence of an alcoholic beverage in your vehicle and the uncertain way you are walking, I suspect that you have possibly consumed too much alcohol to be driving, I said with calm confidence.

Only had two beee--irs, he lamented.

If that is the case then you won’t mind doing some maneuvers for me, will you, I replied.

Some what? he asked with dumb eyes and an open mouth.

Could you please, do some walking for me?

He was still humble enough to comply.

Toby, would you please, place one foot in front of the other and take five steps for me walking as straight as possible?

Yes, ma’am, he replied as he tried to walk in a straight line, one foot caught the back of his leg and he fell sideways into Sgt. Jay.

Toby, can you count to ten and from ten back to one, for me, please?

You must think I’m some stupid son of a bitch, don’t ya, he replied with anger in his voice.

No, Toby. If you only drank two beers, that should be simple for you, so just try it for me, please, I said calmly.

He was still able to show some arrogance as he quickly counted from one to ten.

Now count backwards from ten back to one for me, please, I said.

Ten, nine, eight, ah, ah, six, five, four, three, ah, two and one, not realizing his mistake as he smiled through his brown teeth when he finished.

Toby, I need you to look at my finger and follow it with your eyes. I held my index finger up and moved it slowly from side to side. The jerking of the eyeball at the corner of his eye gave me more than enough probable cause for the DUI charge.

Toby Whittaker, I’m placing you under arrest for Driving Under the Influence of Alcohol, Child Abuse and Felony Cruelty to Animals, I said firmly.

But they were my God damn mules! Did you want me to let ‘em get splattered on the road? His voice raised with indignation as he said, What was I supposed to do with my daughter? You fuckin’ cops don’t have enough to do! Why don’t you go find some real criminals, you Goddamn cunt!"

Toby, would you please turn around and put your hands behind your back? I said as I looked firmly in his eyes. It helped being tall. Big tall red necks didn’t know what to do when a woman looked them straight in the eye. The last thing they wanted was to have their ass kicked by a woman in front of everybody.

His resigned voice uttered one more time, Goddamn cunt! as he slowly turned around.

The smell of his putrid sweat hit me as I placed the cuffs on his beefy wrists and locked them with the tiny key that I always kept in my watch pocket. Sgt. Jay opened the back door of my car as I steered Toby toward the car.

Watch your head sir, I told him as he bent to sit in the back seat. I shut the door and slid into the front seat reaching for my radio.

Springs, Paul 4.

Paul 4, dispatch replied.

Springs, would you notify the Department of Social Services? We have a child whose father is being arrested for DUI. We will need emergency placement for her. Springs, also we have two mules that have been seriously injured in this incident. Could you notify animal control? Advise them that we will need a veterinarian at the scene and a horse trailer, as soon as possible. Two mules are suffering severe exhaustion and injury to their feet.

10-4 Paul 4.

A few minutes later, dispatch came back.

Paul 4, Springs.

Paul 4, I answered

Springs Veterinary Clinic, and Animal Control are in route and DSS has been notified.

Thank you, Springs, I replied.

Sgt. Jay was standing outside my open window. Tom, can you hang tight while I transport him? I asked.

Yeah, go ahead.

The ride to the jail was very quiet. Toby said nothing as he seethed in the back seat behind the barrier. Being in the closed warm car, the smell of the booze, cigarettes and old sweat was nauseating. Ten minutes later I approached the back of the jail.

Springs, could you ask the jail to open the back door?

10-4.

Toby was quiet for the rest of the arrest procedure. When asked if he would submit to a test of his breath or blood to determine the alcohol content in his body, his response was, No. I know I only had two bee-irs.

A driver’s history query from DMV and a Criminal History would say he had been down this road at least three times before. Careful documentation of all his actions and my observations would substantiate the charge.

As the jailer rolled his beefy fingers on the fingerprinting ink, he gave a sideways glance that reminded me of his words, "You fuckin’ cunt." I learned in these years to let it roll away like a ball. Being professional and non-reactive was easier for me than it was for the guys sometimes. That spark of male ego made it harder for them to take the comments.

The jailer led Toby to the small concrete cubicle painted bright blue that was the drunk tank. He would stay in the tank until morning and in jail until someone posted bond or until he went to court on Monday.

One of the mules was euthanized at the scene. The hooves were destroyed beyond any hope of healing. The other mule, the one that didn’t fight this monster that was dragging him down the road, but ran as fast he could, went on to heal, but to a different home.

A sweet young social worker found a worried grandmother to place Abby with. Abby was a name for such an angel, one whose eyes I would never forget. Through all the years my memory would fill with the eyes of all the children and cloud my dreams on restless nights.

CHAPTER 2

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Rian

I WAS A CHILD ONCE. My life began as the life that every child should have. I would think of this first part of my life as too wonderful to be real and each memory seemed to have a warm golden glow around it. Unfortunately, as life goes, the memories reminded me of how fast it disappeared, like golden raindrops that evaporate leaving a desperate thirst.

In reaching back to my very first memory, I was at Grandpa and Grandma McCarren’s house in the middle of the amazing Aiyana Valley in Idaho. The two-story Kelly Stone house stood stately in the middle of rows and rows of potato plants. Seas of blooms like little white flags sprang up from the splotches of green as far as little eyes could see.

I was awakened with the gentle shake of Grandma’s soft hand on my shoulder. Rian! Rian! Get dressed. Grandpa is home and has a surprise for you. Grandma’s voice sounded excited.

It was hard to leave the bed and step into the chilly air because Grandma made the bed especially comfy at night as she tucked me under quilts with a warm hot water bottle under the sheet at my feet.

The chilly air and the cold floor were forgotten. A surprise! I hopped down off the bed. A surprise! My eyes were wide open. There was an enticing smell of smoky bacon in the air.

At the age of four, dressing was a matter of coordination. The excitement added to the frustration of trying to get the right arm into the right sleeve. Where are my socks? I rummaged through the bag my mom had packed for me. Finally, I tugged and tugged on my brand-new cowboy boots. Something wasn’t right. I looked down at my toes. They were pointed the wrong way! I sank to the floor and pulled and pulled until I had them off again. Then I tugged some more to get them back on the right feet.

Finally, my little red boots carried me to the kitchen where I slid into the white bench seat of the breakfast nook. This special place with windows all around facing out to the barnyard was a place that would hold many memories of love and good food. And one day it also held a memory that ended my world as I knew it.

Grandpa was trying hard to look stern, as he drank his coffee and ate his Grapenuts cereal. He had no use for milk, so Grandma softened his Grapenuts with boiling water from the tea kettle. I tried to enjoy the crunchy bacon, and the lacey fresh farm egg that had been quickly cooked in the bacon fat. As I dipped the toast with salty butter into the yolk of the egg, I kept looking at Grandpa who just kept looking stern. What was the surprise?! I could hardly contain my excitement.

Grandma raised the round lid on top of the wood cook stove. She was smiling and humming as she poked split wood into the blazing hole. She was already dressed. Her dress with tiny pink flowers all over it was kept spotless by the starched apron that was neatly tied in the back. In this house, there were no comfy old robes worn to breakfast.

Grandpa slowly ate his Grapenuts and was down to his last sip of coffee. It seemed like forever until he said, Ri, I brought you something from Raton. Grandpa was responsible for my nickname, Ri.’’ It was hard for Grandpa to talk as cancer had taken his larynx earlier in life, and when he spoke, he whispered. My name Rian, Irish for little ruler, turned into Ri."

Grandpa looked back at his coffee cup and took the last long sip. There was a slight smile sneaking out of his stern face and a noticeable sparkle in his eye.

Late the night before, as I lay under the warm quilts, I had heard the murmur of voices in the kitchen. I couldn’t tell what Grandpa and Uncle John were saying but it sounded then like something happy was about to happen.

Finally, Grandpa put on his small brimmed gray hat. The excitement was mixed with the bacon and butterflies in my tummy as we headed out the door toward the barnyard. Grandpa held my hand as we walked toward the gate. Grandpa always walked with a quick busy stride, and it was hard to make my awkward little boots go that fast. The gate to the barnyard was affixed to a spring and when it opened there was a big squeak of the hinges. When it shut, there was a loud bang as it hit the metal post. The memory of that sound and the feel of my grandpa’s rough hand would forever be etched in my memory.

There was a golden misty glow all around from the early morning sun. There must have been a chill in the April Aiyana Valley air, but I don’t remember it. I ran and skipped to keep up with Grandpa as we walked to the large square horse van parked in the barnyard. Grandpa dropped my hand and disappeared up the ramp into the van. I heard the thumping sounds of a horse walking around inside. My heart skipped a beat as Grandpa led a brown and white pinto pony down the ramp. Holding the shank, Grandpa lifted me up and I reached for the horse’s silken brown and white neck. That first stroke was magical.

He’s yours. His name is Little Joe and he’s the same age as you are! Grandpa said with a smile.

I looked into those large shiny brown eyes and saw what I did not yet recognize as mischief. He would be one of my first challenges in life. The lessons I learned from that special spirit were many.

My next precious memory is equally vivid. My eyes opened, and I remembered that I was again at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I had spent the night sleeping on the small single bed in the dining room. Early morning sunlight was streaming in the windows as though it were announcing the day. The large wooden clock on the desk near the window, tic-tocked with authority. The redwood door to the kitchen swung open and a jolt of pure happiness came over me. My Daddy, Gavin McCarren, seemed to fill the doorway as he held something in a big box. He had been gone for several days on the truck and when he came home, he always brought something wonderful with him.

He sat down on a chair near the dining room table and placed the box on the floor in front of his feet. I jumped out of bed and ran to him. I hopped into his lap and nearly strangled him with my little arms. He kissed me on the forehead and carefully lifted me back to the floor. His proud brown eyes lit up as he reached in the box and pulled out a small saddle. The saddle and stirrups were enclosed in brown leather with shiny silver conches on them. I smelled the rich earthy smell of the leather.

I had always ridden Little Joe with the careful help of Mom, Daddy, and Grandpa. Now at five, I could handle the reins on my own. This is for special occasions, Daddy said sternly. The rest of the time when you ride Little Joe, you ride bareback. Do you understand?

Daddy and Grandpa believed it was better to just fall off the horse, than to get caught in the stirrup and drug to death. They were also firm in their belief that riding bareback made you a better horsewoman. The next thing out of the box was the matching bridle with matching little conches on the side.

I was always riding a horse. When I was old enough to sit on one, Mom put me on the backs of Grandpa’s racehorses while she was cooling them out after races. Mom had to walk and walk the horse around in big circles until his breathing was normal and the sweat was drying. In later years, a special walker with a motor would be used to lead racehorses in a circle for exercise, or to cool them off after a race. Then the horse was hosed off to get the sweat off and was rubbed down with liniment.

Little Joe became my best friend. I couldn’t wait to hop out of bed in the morning, run through the potato field between our house and Grandma’s house to feed oats to Little Joe. He always welcomed me with a knicker, while shaking his head up and down. In the grain bin, I filled the red Folgers coffee can. When I dumped the can full of oats into his wooden feeder he snorted, and like a naughty child, took a bite and threw the oats all over the hay crib.

Little Joe was most definitely ornery at times. He had to be ridden by the ditch rider in spring, so he would be tame enough for me to ride the rest of the summer. Grandpa never thought you should ride a plug but something with a little spirit.

One evening after a full day of riding it was time to go to the barn. I wanted to make one more run to the pasture, pretending we were racing the black stallion. My pony, with a mind of his own, refused the tug on the reins to the right. Instead, he cut to the left, headed out onto the road, and broke into a full gallop.

This tired cranky pony ignored my tugging on the reins and my yelling, Whoa, whoa! He galloped down the road toward Grandma’s house with the warm barn, hay, and grain. I was hanging on to his mane for dear life. About halfway down the quarter mile to Grandma’s, Daddy, in the pink, black and white Desoto, drove past us as the horse galloped down the road. He jumped out and grabbed the reins causing the pony’s haunches to buckle under the sudden stop. Dad led him to the side of the road. He picked up a long stick and handed it to me. My shaking little hand reluctantly wrapped around the bottom of the stick.

You make this pony do what you want him to do! You’re the boss! he said firmly.

I yanked the reins to the left, reached around with the stick, raised my arm, and gave him one big swack with the stick.

The next thing I remember; I was sitting in the middle of the road. My hand was scraped, and bleeding and my bottom hurt from hitting the gravel road so hard. Daddy was hanging onto Little Joe as he boosted me back up on his back. Daddy pulled the reins up and handed them to me. With shaking hands, I reluctantly took them. I sat there for a minute. Dad, tall and strong, looked gently into my face and smiled. Taking a deep breath, I gently pulled the reins to the left again, gave a gentle nudge with my heels and Little Joe walked to the barn at Grandma’s house. Many of life’s lessons have taught me that if you get thrown, you get back up, change your approach, and then move forward.

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Daddy was my hero of course. His good looks and fun-loving ways worked hard to steal the heart of Margaret VanDoran, my mother, and he danced her into marriage when she was nineteen. I was born in her twentieth year. He was so tall, with dark hair and a straight nose. He always smelled like Daddy, a combination of Grandma’s castile soap and the daddy smell. That warm masculine musky smell, and the smell of leather, would always remind me of a feeling of comfort and security.

Daddy had a good-natured trust in everyone. He did business on a handshake. That code of honor was not easily violated in those days. He was a smart man, and in his twenties, besides farming, he started his own trucking business. His figures and records sometimes were written in small, neat printing on the wall near the phone. He was making a living at something he loved doing.

Being the man of honor that he was, Daddy expected people to pay their debts and in a darker memory, I was with Daddy in a large musty brown car. I can’t remember whose car it was. I just know it wasn’t the Desoto that he was so proud of.

I was sitting in the front seat when Daddy drove into the small dusty town of Marusa. We drove down the dirt street to a large white, prosperous looking house. It looked out of place in this bleak, run down town. There was a short man with a protruding stomach in the front yard, holding a shovel. It looked like he was planting something. I peeked over the window ledge as far as my six-year-old eyes would let me. I saw Daddy walk slowly up to the man who stopped what he was doing. He was not smiling as Daddy approached. Daddy’s first words were low and inches from the long nose of the prosperous looking owner of the white house. Even my six-year-old mind could tell that Daddy had been wronged and was looking to right the wrong. A slice of fear rose in my center as I saw the little fat man raise his shovel. Daddy, slender and agile, dove with both hands to the raised arm. The little round man looked like Humpty Dumpty, falling backwards, suspenders and all. When he fell, his fat bottom, at the end of the suspenders, landed right on the shovel head.

I heard my Daddy say, You have until the day after tomorrow!

Daddy wheeled on his left foot and walked quickly back to the car. I had never seen Daddy with that look of rage as he slid into the seat, slamming the door. My Daddy was always gentle and kind even though he had spanked my bottom once for tickling the flanks of a horse. There was a difference in the scared look he had on his face then and this rage I saw now.

Everyone worried about how hard Daddy worked. He was born with something wrong with his heart. I’m sure he didn’t feel good at times, but he never talked about it. Sometimes my mother went along in the truck to drive so he could sleep during the trips across the hot Mojave Desert. In those days, there was no air conditioning in any vehicle, just a little fan, bolted to the ceiling of the truck. It had been only fifty years since the wondrous automobile had been invented. Huge loads of metal pipe were loaded on Daddy’s truck in Idaho Falls and taken to San Diego, California. Sometimes he hauled livestock and hay or road oil for paving roads. Daddy’s hard work, good attitude, good nature, and persistence kept his trucks loaded.

There were no Interstate highways in the 40’s and 50’s, but just a lot of two-lane highways and dusty country roads. Daddy made it to San Diego in a couple of days. There were no air ride springs in the truck for those thousand or so miles. Logbooks for truckers were unheard of and a driver could work as many hours as he wanted to. Despite the long hours and brutally hard work, Daddy could see a vision of a livelihood that was everything that he had the strength to make it. There was even talk of building my mother a new house.

It was hard for some to understand why truckers loved what they did. As the years evolved into the seventies, eighties and the twenty-first century, the world of the trucker became much different. Years later with the availability of drugs to stay awake and vices made available near the truck stops, it was a far different world than my daddy worked in. He would have thought that taking drugs was the ultimate sin.

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The farm where we lived was a wonderful place of imagination. Creating a new place to play was a new adventure every day. Daddy parked a large cattle trailer in the yard in front of our house. It was only enclosed on the top with large, curved iron bars. I would swing from bar to bar imagining that I was one of the beautiful circus ladies swinging from trapeze to trapeze. I was a tightrope walker on the five-foot-tall, narrow wooden fence. It never occurred to me that I could fall and break an arm.

My kitchen was in the old barn out back. I had a collection of tin cans and other types of cookware. I worked for hours artistically creating mud pies made with earth, straw and God knows what else that you would find on the floor of the barn. I was as healthy and happy as any child ever was.

I played mostly by myself unless Cousin Julie visited, or I was riding horses with Cousin Sandy. I loved when Julie, Uncle Daniel’s daughter came to visit Grandma. We were close to the same age, and boy, did imagination rule when Julie and I got together.

Our playhouse was in the attic of Grandma’s house. The low slanted ceiling made us feel like we were in the tower of a castle. Light streamed in through the triangle shaped window at the end. An old phonograph with a crank handle and a large needle on the end of a knob sat on a small claw foot table. The speaker looked like a seashell that went all the way around. I’m sure this old phonograph made its way to the attic when the radio became the source of any music one wanted to hear.

Julie and I spread blankets, quilts, and pillows to make a bed on the floor of the narrow closet. Grandma hung the pretty things she used to wear in this special closet. On the floor of the closet, we dined on our favorite snack, mustard, and crackers. We had no clue of the sheer danger we were in by having mustard so dangerously close to Grandma’s favorite furry, size two lacey treasures. They were all that was left of her youth when she was young, pretty, and slim.

Going downstairs to go to the bathroom from our exile in the attic was unheard of. An old wash tub was our portable toilet. When we were sure Grandma was too busy to see, we tied a rope around the handles and lowered it out the window to the ground. We still had to run downstairs quickly and empty it behind the doghouse. We washed it out with dog water. Then it was raised back into the window. We were safe to stay secluded in our delicious exile at least until dinner time.

Julie and I discovered that if you squirted liquid cement on the porch in a certain way, it dried and looked just like Julie’s Chihuahua dog had done it, right there on the porch. It was light and easy to pick up and play with. Grandma wore a clean, fresh apron every day. As she starched and ironed her aprons, she laid her weekly supply on top of each other on the bed. When Grandma left her ironing for a moment and went to the kitchen to check on the cinnamon rolls in the oven, Julie crept into the bedroom and laid one of those dried heaps of fake dung on the pink and white stiffly starched apron on top. When Grandma came back into the room and saw this infuriating little pile of the very worst thing that could happen, her face turned red, and her voice got high.

That damn dog, she said as she gingerly raised the soiled apron off the other aprons and realized it was much too light and it didn’t smell. It slid right off the apron without leaving a spot and bounced when it hit the floor. We loved Grandma so much and we were a little worried about her red face. As she turned around from the supposedly awful incident, her round face showed a hint of a smile as she saw us peeking around the corner.

The smile turned into a grin, as she said, Oh, shaw! which was her favorite expression when she didn’t know what else to say.

My cousin Sandy would ride the mile or so over to my house on her dark old fat mare. Her mom wasn’t too crazy about horses, so something safe was the only thing possible for Sandy to ride. I thought Sandy was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was a year younger than me, with white-blonde hair that was neatly done in long Shirley Temple curls. When she was lucky enough to spend the night at Grandma Ada’s, Grandma had to tie the curls in rags, so they would not muss-up during the night. The curls were released from the rags the next morning and dropped like springs onto her shoulders. Sandy always wore a cowboy hat that was held on with a string affixed to the hat, so it wouldn’t fall off as we galloped up the gravel road. Sandy was very fair and I’m sure the hat kept her nose from being barbequed by the sun. I don’t remember worrying about the dangers of the sun. My skin took on a dark bronze tan and my dark hair grew and grew and grew. When Mom released it from the braids it hung below my waist.

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When I was growing up, food was created from scratch. There were no canned biscuits, Hostess Twinkies, or TV dinners. There was nothing in our food that you could not pronounce or would someday turn carcinogens and chemicals into cancer and damaged DNA. Gardens were a must and so was the small neighborhood grocery store.

Going to the grocery store was the event of the week for Grandma Ada. She always put on a nice dress, gloves and a hat affixed to her silver bun with a long hat pin. She preferred the Save a Penny Store because of the prices. Mom on the other hand, preferred Tom’s Grocery Store, where quality and service were better. Although I never knew my mom to be prejudiced, she referred to the proprietor of the Save A Penny Store as that old Jew. That was not the only dispute that Mom and Grandma ever had I’m sure, but when Grandma got old and caused too much trouble for others, Mom always took time to care for her mother-in-law when she could.

Our little house had three rooms, a kitchen, living room, one bedroom and one little bathroom built long after the rest of the house was built. Later a second bedroom on the other side of the bathroom was built for the hired man who helped Daddy with his trucking business. The wood cook stove in the kitchen was not near as nice as Grandma’s. Our house was very old with coal soot on the walls. The print linoleum in the kitchen was missing in places and the counters were boards made from scrap lumber attached to the walls with metal braces. We had running water in the bathroom but not in the kitchen. Mom still managed to cook great meals and canned the vegetables from her garden.

In those years I was happy every day. I don’t remember fear, sadness, worry, pain, cold, or any of the things so many kids endured, and I don’t remember my parents ever raising their voices at each other. My Daddy had a gentle voice and a belief that all men were as honest as he was. Daddy was tall slender and handsome by anyone’s standards. As far as ever considering having another woman, in the world of my Daddy, that just wasn’t done.

At age six, I hadn’t thought of having a brother or sister. Mom and Dad must have been really busy with trying to build a life. Dad had his trucking business, small farm, and a love of racing horses. Mom seemed very content and fulfilled with me, lambs, cooking, canning, gardening, and dressing me up in cute cowgirl clothes. She thought nothing of driving the old 1940’s model semi-trucks for Daddy once in a while, and she loved going with her father-in-law to race horses. Their lives I’m sure were as insanely busy as any mom and dad anywhere in time.

When I was six, I was a tad bit spoiled with doting grandparents living just up the road and the only child in the lives of my parents. I don’t remember Mom looking or acting differently before my sister was born, and I don’t remember expecting it to happen. When Grandma Ada told me that a baby sister, Bobby Jo, was born at the Marvel hospital, I was so excited. I had no feelings of jealousy or threat over having another child in the family. I had a wonderful little baby sister that I could play with. She was a beautiful blonde baby doll for sure.

One afternoon Mom had put me down for a nap at my Grandma Cora’s house in Miner. I looked at the white iron bed post with the design that looked like white rose buds stacked on each other as I slipped off to sleep. The recollection of a dream I had remained always vivid in my memory. My baby sister wrapped in a vivid pink blanket was in her carriage on the other side of a large ravine and I could not get to her. I ran back and forth as I frantically tried to find a way across the abyss that was so deep, I could not see the bottom. I woke up with my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead and cold fear twisting my stomach at the vision of the nightmare.

I ran into the living room where Mom was sitting on the sofa. I saw my little sister’s beautiful blonde head as she was cradled in Mom’s arms. I ran to touch her bright curls.

Did you have a bad dream? Mom asked.

I lost my baby sister, I said.

I always wanted to protect her after that as I did my other siblings. Being the oldest takes its toll as I grew up thinking I had to protect and guide all my brothers and sisters. This was not always welcomed or understood.

Connie was born one year and seven months later. When Connie came, I was once again happy with another baby doll. Connie had a pixie smile and wore a pixie haircut. The pixie haircut was a mistake at first. Bobby Jo found the scissors in Grandma’s dining room, while Grandma was frying chicken in the kitchen. When Grandma looked around the corner of the dining room to check on the two, Connie had half of a haircut above her ears, while the other half hung below her shoulders. There was no choice but to even it out. She looked so cute and pixie-like, that Mom left it that way. Later in life her strawberry blonde hair always hung well below her well-formed behind. When she tied it up in a bun, one wondered how anyone could grow so much hair.

All of us girls excelled in getting dirty, a skill that no boy could rival. The trailers that Daddy used to transport road oil were drained between trips. The oil was in barrels next to the potato cellar across the yard from our house awaiting some good use that Daddy could put it to. Connie and Darren Harding, who lived across the road, usually played under the big trees in the yard. When they were tired of playing cowboys and Indians, they played in the dirt with little cars and trucks. One afternoon, Mom had her back turned from the window as she was kneading bread on her makeshift counter. She was particular about kneading bread for a very long time. The playmates wandered toward the potato cellar. There was something shiny and black glistening in the sun as it dripped down the sides of the barrels. The oil was thick black and tarry. The sun had softened it a bit, where little hands could reach up, get a little on a finger and pretend it was Indian war paint.

The face paint went from the face to the arms, and down the front of my sister’s little white shirt. More is always better, so pretty soon the handfuls of the black goo were painting their shoes. It was doing a fine job of sticking one’s hair down where it didn’t hang in one’s face, too. When Mom turned around from her bread and looked out the window, she saw two little tar babies. Of course, I had been far too busy to intervene practicing my fence walking, so I could join the circus.

I don’t remember how Mom got Darren home, with apologies to his mother, but it must have been interesting. I can’t even think how a mom could remove this much tar from a child safely. Her little round face was covered with the sticky stuff. Her hair was stiff and sticking out a bit and her all-white chest glistened in contrast as she was sitting in the tub. She was rosy all over when she finally came out of the tub. We couldn’t afford new shoes, so Daddy cleaned them with gasoline. Connie smelled of gasoline until she outgrew those shoes. Needless to say, Daddy got rid of the barrels.

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Mom always did what had to be done for the small business and the farm work. She loved her man and believed in what he was doing. Everyone worked too hard, and sometimes there just wasn’t enough help, so Mom always worked as hard as a man. Daddy taught her how to drive the tractor trailer and all the farm machinery. When she was pregnant, she never pampered herself like other women and her stomach rubbed the steering wheel of the truck when she was pregnant with Connie.

Typical of mountain weather, snow and ice on high mountain passes sometimes surprised truck drivers. Mom and Dad were coming back from Rexburg, Idaho with a load of steers. Mom was driving when rain turned into glazed black ice on Galena Summit Pass. As Mom looked in her rear-view mirror, she saw the wheels turning in opposite directions with absolutely no traction as the truck started down the steep winding road. Daddy’s calm voice gave her guidance as he taught her how to slide the loaded tractor trailer down the mountain keeping control until a safe place could be reached. This is the only time I ever heard Mom say she was afraid. At the bottom, she pulled to the side of the road, threw open the door, and lost her lunch on the side of the road. Never giving up on anything, she got back in the truck and drove many more hours to get home.

Dad taught Mom how to back the semi up to the chute where animals could be unloaded. He practiced with her patiently guiding her through several tries until it was perfect. With Dad proudly watching, the stockyards in Boise were full of guys all watching what this lady truck driver could do.

Mom was home alone one afternoon when the phone rang. The Barnum and Bailey Circus Train had broken down in Blaine, close to Centerville and Daddy was gone to California. I can’t imagine what she thought, when asked to take a truck and transport two smaller circus elephants to Boise. The money was too good to pass up. In those days there were no Interstate highways. There was no way to contact Daddy and get advice about such a venture. The road to Boise was treacherous; most times two lanes, and only sometimes was it even paved. There was a mountain pass to cross which required knowledge of the use of the gears on a truck with no jake brake and proper speed around corners with two large living things standing up in the trailer. When she got to the city with no freeways, she drove the truck through the many stop lights to the stockyards near Latimer Street. Then in front of all those male drivers, she backed the semi-truck up to the chute to unload her cargo. It was perfect on the first try. There were several gentlemen, helping her to unload her cargo. This was 1951 when women were supposed to be in the kitchen. As I lived my life, I remember challenges that I was able to take because Mom showed me what courage was.

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Sandy’s daddy, Uncle John, was my daddy’s oldest brother. He lived in Centerville with his wife in a perfect little house. Sandy’s mom and Julie’s mom were different from my mom. I think Mom may have seemed way too different to them. They fit the role of the typical mom in the ‘50’s. They wore pretty clothes and insisted on a house with nice things, and clean walls without coal dust on them. Going to Sandy’s house was like walking into a house that you would see in the movies. It was always spotless. I felt a little uncomfortable there; afraid I would get something dirty or break it. There were white filmy curtains on the windows, pretty, shiny floors, and dishes in a china hutch that were perfect and not chipped. I always looked at the seat of my pants for horsehair or mud before I sat on the silky material of the sofa. Sandy and her sister Rhonda’s toys were carefully placed on shelves and in a closet. They were taken out and played with and then carefully placed back onto their proper shelves. I longed to keep my toys like that, but when my sisters were old enough to get into my dolls, Mom was so busy that she didn’t have the time to see that they were carefully placed back in their specific storage area or kept from the destructive hands of my playful little sisters.

Uncle John was a farmer, heavy equipment operator, an all-around good guy. He wore a white small-brimmed business hat just like Frank Sinatra. He wore his hat in a way that made him look busy and important. He always drove fast down the dirt road in his green International pick-up, and left dust behind him as he drove in the driveway. He was always checking on things at Grandma and Grandpa’s or at my house if Daddy was gone. He always talked a little fast, had a smile on his face and roses in his dimpled cheeks. Like Daddy he was a guy that everyone liked.

Sandy kept her horse at her other Grandpa’s house up the road. When she rode over to my house, we usually rode up the road, across the highway and into a pasture at the James’ place. Clear in my memory is the pleasure of leaning back on the hindquarters of my pony’s unsaddled back and looking up at the sun. I was praying for a cloud to cover it for a moment, to cool the day. The world to us was this valley where mountains were all around and a long way away. To us, life would always be this way, with our ponies and Grandma’s fried chicken.

How fortunate I was to know a loving family that worked hard and tried desperately to eke out an honest living. We never had much cash money, but Daddy had an interest in collecting coins. He kept them at Grandma’s house in a black vase with roses painted on it. The vase hung on the wall near the wall telephone in the dining room.

In those days the biggest most exciting entertainment besides the horse races in summer was the picture show in Centerville. Every once in a while, the urge to go was too much. Mom and Dad would take me and my sisters to Grandma’s. Dad would take some of the precious coins out of the vase and go to the picture show. In the 50’s, John Wayne was his favorite. Mom loved the musicals with Bing Crosby and the dancing of Gene Kelly as he was Singing in the Rain. Mom had her dreams, I’m sure that went past the farm with the newborn lambs, the cold of the winter, and the kitchen counter tops that were boards nailed to the wall. She was a beautiful young woman who looked somewhat like Jane Wyman and learned from those movie actresses how beautiful and comforting it was to casually puff on a cigarette.

When the glory of Technicolor came, I was old enough to go to the picture show. I loved The Wizard of Oz and I was so caught up in Dorothy’s drama, the next day I went out behind the shed at Grandma’s house where no one could hear me and sang with all my heart. Somewhere over the Rainbow, way up high. There was no TV, or DVDs to rely on to see our favorite movies again, but the movies came back to the theaters