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“Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes”

carriesuepepper • Jan 15, 2014

I stopped looking at the Daily Coyote photos a while back. Something about that face—Charlie, the coyote—his fur tipped with snow or eyes that looked out from such a wild face, knowing that he, and his owner, lived in Ten Sleep, Wyoming. Ten Sleep is where my aunt Margie’s parents lived; not many people know about Ten Sleep. Not many people have even been to Wyoming much less Ten Sleep, Wyoming. Today, I took a look at the “Daily Coyote” photo—the quote drew me in: “Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes”  — Walt Whitman. How beautiful is that? meltaway2013W

Looking into Charlie’s wild eyes, remembering how much I love Wyoming and how I used to traipse around the prairie, blowing up monster-size anthills with Black Cat & Zebra firecrackers, reveling in the openness that goes on forever, the road that ribbons out for miles with not one single car to interrupt the silence. Only the wind—wind across dry prairieland full of sage and cactus and gullies that haven’t seen water in an eternity. There is magic there. It calls to something inside me, something buried deep in my heart. I think of my mother that last day of her life, lying there in her bed, when she looked at me as clear as day with those soft brown eyes of hers, and said: Four young Indian boys are watching over me; they’re about fourteen, with long braids. She lies on a high hill in Gillette Wyoming at Mt. Pisgah Cemetery among pioneers and veterans and members of the American Legion. Most of her family is there, too. I remember the day I visited, sitting in the grass, surrounded by all the Tarver names, some I remembered, others had passed long ago.

Those “Charlie photos” stir up all sorts of feelings and for some reason, they are tinged with sadness. I always dreamed of having my very own piece of Wyoming. A place where I could sit and listen to the wind, hear the yips of far-away coyotes. A place I didn’t have to walk away from and go back to reality. As the years pass and life interferes, I hold onto the dream. Perhaps Charlie will help me find a way.

Photo credit: Shreve Stockton, The Daily Coyote

Carrie Pepper

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Today, while out on a walk in a very high wind, I spotted a little bird way up in the tip top of a bare oak tree; she was holding on every so tightly as the wind tossed and shook the branches. Hold on, little one, I thought. And just then, this quote came to mind. “A bird sitting on a tree is never afraid of the branch breaking, because her trust is not in the branch, but in her own wings.” ― Charlie Wardle As I watched her, I imagined my own wings and wondered just how hard the wind is going to need to blow in my life for me to loosen them, pinned tightly to my sides, unfurl them—then TRUST as the currents lift me off my (branch) and I soar effortless and without fear.

Street Signs Can Be Memory Joggers

By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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