I was born in a little town called Short Creek, surrounded by tall, strong, beautiful red cliffs. They were there all my life, never changed, never went away, unlike so many other things. I could glance up at them any time of day, take in a deep breath, and feel their strength in my heart.
A wide, sandy dry creek ran diagonally through the center of our town, starting at the water canyon between the mountains in the deepest corner. When it rained very heavy, a flashflood would come roaring from the canyon through the creek, then spreading out over the desert land a mile or two out of town.
My first memories were of my mother, taking my small hand in hers and walking down the dusty red dirt road. I looked up in her hazel eyes and felt love, security, strength, even though she hardly said a word. Her long black hair framed her lovely face which was half hidden behind a huge pair of square rimmed glasses. She was beautiful to me, even in her shabby skirt and blouse, old shoes and snagged nylon stockings. She was my world.
From the heart of the mountains 