On our Sunday afternoon meander, we ended up in a little ghost town called Denver, Arkansas. Here are a few of my favorite photos from the day. To see more, look through the photo album on the upper-right of the page.

 

BOULDER, CO. - Our week in the Boulder area has just been wonderful, with the best part for me getting to spend lots of time with my son, Alex, whom I hadn't seen in a whole year, since he moved out here to the Front Range of the Rockies last summer.
It's great to get to see his new apartment near downtown Boulder, within walking distance of "The Med," the Mediterranean Restaurant where he is the grill chef, get to meet his new roommates, see where he works, and just get a feel for how he's doing and what his new life is like.
We've been packing in lots of activity. Alex was able to take three days off this week, so we spent one day exploring up around Estes Park and taking a drive out the Ridge Trail (scary!) up to 12,000 feet, above the tree line.
We also made a trek down to  Red Rocks, the gorgeous and Mars-like natural amphitheatre, where bands like the Beatles and the Grateful Dead have performed.
We've spent time walking around the Pearl Street Mall, a walking mall in downtown Boulder, full of flowers, restaurants, street performers and bookstores. Yesterday we drove into Denver and spent several hours in the wonderful Natural History Museum, looking at dinosaur bones and mummies and exhibits about Native American life.
Alex has to go in to work at 4 today and tomorrow, and we leave Saturday morning, so we'll probably spend a couple of hours with him before he has to work, and do some more sight-seeing.
I'm already getting a stone in my heart at the idea of leaving Alex and having 850 miles between us  again.  But he's hoping to be able to come see us at Christmas this year, which would thrill me to death, especially if my younger son Jamie, who lives in Harrison, can be there, too.
I'm thankful that we've been able to make this wonderful trip, thankful to be able to see my son, thankful to be able to spend some relaxing time with my husband, thankful that I have a husband who will bring me out here to see my child, and thankful that we have a hometown we love to go back to.
I'm going to post a photo album of our trip to Red Rocks above right if you want to take a peek.

Doyle's sister, daughter and niece have been visiting us all this week, and we shot some family photos tonight at Ruby's. Here's one I liked of me, Ruby (Doyle's mom) and my sweetheart:

Hey, friends,
I'm so excited! Doyle and I are leaving early Saturday morning to drive the 853 miles to Boulder, Colorado,where we will spend the next six nights in a hotel and visit with my older son, Alex, and do lots of sightseeing. I haven't seen Alex since he came through here a year ago, on his way to his new home in Boulder, so I am READY to see my boy!
Alex (a fine arts major and a painter) is a grill chef at the Mediterranean Cafe. Have any of you ever eaten there?
I'm so excited about seeing my child, and about being in Colorado, where I haven't been since I was about eight years old. Doyle has spent a lot of time in Colorado in his lifetime, and is looking forward to showing me around.
Alex will be able to take three days off while we're there, so we'll all do some day-trips together. And he doesn't go in to work until late afternoon, so we'll be able to see him for a little while on those days, too.
Please pray that we'll have a safe trip. I'll take lots of photos, so will show you the highlights when we get back.
I'll be checking in, so keep me posted!
God bless you all, my friends.

Walking is a joy I didn't embrace until my early
thirties, when I rediscovered the heart-lifting freedom we all felt as
children, moving around in the outdoors.
  When my boys
were three and five, our family moved into town after living way out in
the country for a number of years. In town, instead of rutted gravel
roads, I found oak-shaded sidewalks to walk on. And in town, I found
companions to walk with.
  One friend in particular
introduced me to the pleasures of walking. Sandra, the wife of the
First Baptist pastor, lived in the pastorium right down the street from
me. Always immaculately dressed — which in that era involved walking
shorts, knitted vests and Peter-Pan collars — she would lace up her
tennis shoes several times a day and head out at a healthy clip for a
therapeutic walk, away from the cares of her busy household.
  The
first time I tagged along with her, I was gasping for breath after the
first few blocks. I kept at it, though, and it wasn't long before I,
too, was bitten by the walking bug and able to enjoy hearty hikes
around town.
  Over my years in Mississippi, I walked more
days than not, with various friends, and often by myself. My usual
route was about three miles, from my house, past many landmarks of my
life —  the First Methodist Church, where both my mother and my boys
were baptized and grew up — past the century-old Catholic church, which
later became so precious to me — past my grandmother Poppy's dear old
house — past the red-brick hospital, where both of my boys were born.
   For
the next 15 years, I clocked a lot of miles on those familiar streets.
A few early mornings, but mostly late afternoons after work, I'd
tennis-shoe up and head out. Walking was something I did just for
myself.
    If I was walking with a friend, it was a great
way to catch up and visit. And when I walked by myself, in some ways
that was even better. I could think, and pray, and sometimes just let
my busy mind wander and rest.
   It was a special delight to
me to remember, as I walked across our town's uneven sidewalks, that my
faraway Mama had roller-skated across that same bumpy concrete when she
was a skinny little tow-headed girl.
   After I moved away from Mississippi, I've never again achieved that degree of walker's dedication.
   During
my Sarasota years, my favorite walks were barefoot ones along the beach
at Siesta Key, right at the edge of the water where the sand was firm.
I also walked often on the winding paths in our neighborhood, through
palm trees and live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, past curving lakes
where lazy alligators sunned on the banks.
   Since Doyle
and I moved to the Ozarks, I haven't walked nearly as much as I did in
my younger days. We periodically do some trail-walking down near the
Buffalo, and we also walk in our neighborhood, or down at Lake
Harrison, from time to time.
  But I long to add more
walking to my life. Not just because it's good for my physical health —
because it's good for my mental health, and I think it might be good
for my soul, too.
  When you walk, you see things. You see
the bees buzzing around the flowers. You see the butterflies dancing
around the purple butterfly bushes. You see the mama redbird darting
down from the dogwood branch, and the robin family playing tag around
the pink crepe myrtles. You make friends with everybody's dogs. You get
to enjoy the fruits of your neighbor's hard work in their yards, and
admire their tomato plants. You get to watch little kids on important
bicycle journeys. You know when people mow their yards, and when
they're having company over for supper on the patio. You meet folks who
are out watering their flowers. You become knitted into life in your
neighborhood.
   Walking reduces my stress level. I always
compare it to taking the top off a Coke bottle after it's been shaken
up, and letting the built-up fizz out. Walking makes me sleep better,
and improves my mood and my outlook on life. I can catch up on my
thinking, and my praying. My leg muscles get a workout, but while
they're working, other parts of me are unwinding and recharging.
   If
you're feeling blue, walking can be one of the best medicines. For me,
just getting out in the fresh air and being surrounded by Nature
instead of by four walls can lift my spirits. And then there's the
physiological boost of getting your heart pumping and your endorphins
flowing, making you feel better from the inside out.
   Walking
gives you a whole different perspective on life. It lets you see things
from a kids'-eye view, and reminds you of being a child, when you
wandered under your own steam, on foot or by bike — when you could see
things close-up. When you knew your neighbors' dogs names. When you
knew what everybody's backyard looked like, and where the smoothest
stretches of sidewalk were, and the best climbing-trees. When you were
acquainted with fresh air and sunshine, and that good tired feeling
your legs have at night after you've put them to good use. When you
were free to just — be.

By Celia DeWoody
Copyright 2009 Harrison (Ark.) Daily Times
July 23, 2008

Hey, friends,
What's new, everybody?
Doyle and I went downtown to for our town's monthly "Friday on the
Square," to eat supper and so I could shoot some photos for Sunday's
paper. It's my turn to be "editor of the weekend," and I needed some
photos. During Friday on the Square, lots of the downtown stores stay open late, and local musicians and artists show off their talents around the historic downtown. Here's a taste of tonight's Friday on the Square:

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us."

   In
spite of this old Scottish saying we've heard all our lives, I think
most of us have mixed feelings about actually being spared the
experience of brushing shoulders with the scary side of life. I think
we secretly wish to run into ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety
beasties. I think we sometimes long for the heart-pounding thrill of a
mysterious bump in the night.
   Have you ever paid good
money to go into a haunted house attraction at a carnival? Have you
ever read ghost stories? Are you among the millions who have read
Stephen King's scary novels that  keep you awake at night with a light
burning? Did you stay glued to the TV, heart pounding, when it was time
for "The Twilight Zone"? Or are you one of those daring souls who
spends your free hours seeking death-defying adventures — riding fast
motorcycles or rappelling down cliffs or hunting dangerous animals?
   What
do kids always want to do when they're around a campfire on a dark
night? Tell ghost stories. Jump out from behind shadowed bushes and
scare each other to death, screaming in delicious terror.
   I
can remember sitting out in the sunshine in our backyard in Washington
State when I was about eight, absolutely devouring my father's battered
childhood copy of "The Blue Fairy Book," a collection of Grimm's creepy
German fairy tales. Those old fairy tales are spine-chilling. They gave
me nightmares, but I loved them.
   There's something in the human heart that enjoys being scared.
   There's
something in us citizens of this civilized, tame world that likes to
believe there's still something wild and untamed out there on the
borders of our civilization.
   I think that's why we're
fascinated by stories about Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. I think
that's why people like to believe in UFOs and extraterrestrial
creatures.
   I think that's why, when there was a young
black bear wandering around in a small wooded area in downtown Harrison
last summer, a big crowd gathered. Mothers and little children, holding
hands in the library parking lot, hearts pounding, eyes eager. Sweaty,
excited reporters with cameras roaming up and down the hill. We were
all hoping for a glimpse of a real wild animal that wasn't in a cage at
a zoo. We were all hoping to be brushed by the wings of wildness.
   I think that's why we all secretly hope there really ARE mountain lions here in our hills.
   Think about it.
   We
live in a tame world here in 21st century America. Even most of our
animals are domesticated. Even our gigantic dog, whose jaws are big
enough to crush the skull of a young goat, whose breed was developed in
Germany to hunt bears and wild boars, is as gentle as a lamb. You could
trust him around a baby kitten.
   But our world wasn't
always tame. We are creatures who were created to live in a wild world
full of dangers that had to be braved. We are creatures whose bodies
are made to pump out adrenaline so that we can fight, or run, when
necessary. Even though we thrive in our domestication, and flourish in
our civilized society, we still have a corner of our hearts that needs
to be scared, that needs to be thrilled, that needs to feel our blood
pumping fast, that needs to feel the sparkling excitement of danger,
that needs to test ourselves against something more fierce and more
free than we are.
   I've lived a very tame life. In spite
of the fact that my father flew supersonic jets and landed them on
aircraft carriers, in spite of the fact that I have two sisters who
have — of their own free will — jumped out of perfectly good airplanes
with parachutes, in spite of the fact that I have a husband who has
trekked inside the Arctic Circle on foot to kill a huge moose, I'm
certainly not what you would call an adrenaline junkie myself. I lean
more toward reading books and growing flowers than I do toward
white-water rafting or mountain-climbing or hunting wild boars.
   But
I must have a little bit of that love of the wild inside me, too. In
the two and a half years we've lived here in the Ozarks, I've had two
heart-thumping encounters with black bears, and have pointed my camera
at what I really believe was a mountain lion track, as well as at a
tarantula and a rattlesnake and a black widow spider, and I treasure
those scary experiences. They were encounters with the wild underside
of Nature that I'll never forget. I was brushed by the wings of
wildness.

   I love knowing we live in a part of the world
that's not completely tame, not completely subdued by man. It's not
Disney World, where everything is fake and pretty and not what it
seems. Our hills, our rivers, our bluffs, our caves, our woods, are
still very wild. People who aren't careful — or lucky — can die out in
our wilderness. Running through our lives here, as we live them
alongside some of the most gorgeous and rugged country in this part of
the world, is an element of danger that's thrilling.
   Ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties. Things that go bump in the night.
   Copperheads. Bears. Mountain lions.
   I'm grateful for them. Knowing they're out there makes our beloved hills even more magical to me.

********
By Celia DeWoody
Copyright 2008 Harrison (Ark.) Daily Times
CPI, Inc.

http://www.harrisondaily.com/articles/2008/07/13/news/doc48792bb447123104903186.txt

If you're interested in reading our local folks' mountain lion stories, check out the page above. (Sorry, I couldn't make a link.)