Home on the Range
It felt good to be back in Denver last week. I “grew up” in Colorado, arriving at 24 with a husband and two babies, leaving at 36, a divorced single mother of two teens. During those 12 years, I learned to ski and to ride a horse, got myself hired and fired by Governor Dick Lamm, climbed Pikes Peak to cut Christmas trees, and sold my soul to “Mother Mobil” Oil before quitting to follow a man to Massachusetts.
Denver’s revered Tattered Cover book store had been one of my haunts back then. Now, on a balmy spring evening in 2009, I stood behind one of its podiums, listening in semi-disbelief as events coordinator Pat Walsh introduced me and my book. Old friends of mine and my brother, Jim, who’d also lived in Denver years ago, scattered themselves among the crowd (thanks, Mike and Priscilla, Bill and Nancy, for timing your travels to coincide with this book signing. It was dear of you.) I was nervous, as usual, wanting to do particularly well for them, and it took me awhile to loosen up, as I delivered my short presentation and read a few selections. But by Q & A time, I felt totally at ease.
Book signing came next. I love this part of the event. People share their stories and are generous with their praise, especially big-hearted Westerners. Sometimes I just want to pinch my damn self, to verify that this isn’t a movie scene, that indeed it is wrinkly old me sitting behind a table, Sharpie in hand, smiling up at someone with my book in her hands and asking her how she spells her name. Really, for someone who calls herself a writer, can it get any better than that?