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.