I love the West … the big, open, wonderful, wild West. There’s nothing quite like it. Sure, I’ve lived here most of my life, but still, the West has some definite advantages.


I’ve been a mother for over a decade and a half. Shouldn’t that make me an expert? I’ve changed diapers, I’ve burped babies, I’ve sent children off to kindergarten, I’ve cleaned up messes in the nighttime, I’ve survived homework, I’ve cheered at sports events, I’ve attended concerts and concerts and concerts. Perhaps — in most areas — I could be labeled “seasoned.” Perhaps.

Yet, despite my steel nerves and strong constitution, I wasn’t quite prepared for my most recent motherhood milestone: having a driving teenager. It happened rather suddenly. One day my son was born. The next day (so it seemed) he was eligible for a driver’s permit.


I love love. Not in some sissy way or anything like that. I love love because it’s real and sustaining. I first met my husband when he and I were both 18. I know. We were terribly young. “Love, like youth, is wasted on the young.” It was love at first sight. Really. Neither one of us admitted it during the following years of our courtship, but I would have married him that first day if he would’ve asked. He was that good. And that real. And that solid. And that true. That’s how love should be.