Folk Heroes- Richard Arnold Beattie-Walking the Same Ground with Author Dick Jones

Westcliffe- On June 18, Richard Arnold Beattie and Dick Jones will be performing the original songs and stories from "Walking the Same Ground" Reflections of Community in the community it came from - The Wet Mountain Valley. This program is a reflection of the work and you are invited. For a proper invitation call 719-371-3533 

In cooperation with Sound Century Academy, the University of Colorado and The Harry Tuft Collection. 

Transcript

Richard Beattie 0:00

Hi, it's Richard Arnold Beattie with a special edition of the Folk Heroes Show. Folk Heroes Closer to Home. If you're close to Westcliffe this week, consider Thursday, the 18th of June, an hour of stories by Dick Jones and songs by Richard Arnold Beattie. That's me, from Dick's book, Walking the Same Ground. That's right, we will be presenting at Bob Folten's Big View concert at his house, where Bob Fulton has a little opening at the door and a voice asks, Hey, what's the secret passway? Call 719-371-3533 to get the secret password or an invitation. Or take a walk down 2nd Street and follow the light. And if you can make it on Thursday, listen right here on KLZR Community Radio for the rest of us. Here is part one of the musical audio series Walking the Same Ground. And if you do come to the show, come on up and say hello. Dick and I will be happy to see you. This is a benefit for the rotary van.

Dick Jones 1:11

Whenever I speak at events like this, I always look around the room to see if there's anybody present who has lived in the valley long enough to accuse me of lying. If you're one of those people, then please bear with me. As someone has said, there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. Usually no one is intentionally lying, we just remember things differently. And as Mark Twain said, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. But I'm getting older and soon I shall remember only the latter.

Richard Beattie 1:41

There's a right way and a wrong way. Sideways and a long way. There is my way or the highway. Precise to every story. There is my way your way and every way Sunday on this day. So many ways. There are three sides, and more sides do we are. My side, there is your side, and there is the two. And there is the truth. There is my side, there is your side, and then there is the truth.

Dick Jones 3:47

A couple of years ago, I was having a conversation with one of the Valley's old timers, not mentioning names, but her initials are Waleen Squire. We were remembering Westcliff's past, and she said, There are books about mining and ranching, but nobody has written anything about the last 50 years. So you need to do it. And knowing Waleen, I knew this wasn't a question, so I took up the challenge. And my book, Walking the Same Ground, Reflections of Community, was the outcome of my conversation with Waleen that day. Maybe it will give you just a little taste of the Wet Mountain Valley's past and introduce you to a few of its people as I remember them. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, mainly because no one is innocent. They are all guilty of helping to shape something called community. A half century ago, there were only a little over a thousand people in all of Custer County. This amounted to about one and a half person per square mile. Westcliff had only one restaurant, five churches, no chain stores, no dentists, no bank. Traffic was what you might call light. In fact, if you saw more than five cars in a row, there had probably been a funeral. A semi-truck was a rare sight on the streets of Westcliff. If one did come to town, the school children would run to the fence to watch it pass, motion the driver to honk his horn. Highway 69 was still a dirt road from the county line to Gardner. One time my old Jeep broke down at Madino Pass, so I set out to hitchhike back to Westcliff. In three hours, only two vehicles came along. The second one picked me up. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 69 North, where the four-way stop is today, it used to be a two-way stop. Each year in December, the town Christmas tree sat in the middle of the intersection. We just slowed down and went around it. I wonder how many conversations I had with Ben Kettle, Bud Camper, Harvey Rusk, or Jack Giroo sitting in our trucks in the middle of the county road. I never heard anyone honk a horn or shoot us a dirty look. They just slowed down, waved, and went around us. Norma Salamino didn't have a car, so the school bus picked Norma up and brought her to town. No one worried that she might sue the school if something happened. Myrtle Cody occasionally left her car running in the middle of the road while she ran back into the house for a minute. Or twenty. We just slowed down and went around it, and John Comstock's green pickup rarely saw over 30 miles per hour on Highway 69. We just slowed down and stayed behind it. The Department of Motor Vehicles had just gone from the wall chart to the little box you look into for the vision test. The examiner came to Westcliff once a month, and I happened to be in to renew my license the same day as Harry Vandenberg, or Harry Van, as he was called. The examiner told Harry to look into the little box and read the smallest line he could. Harry looked, turned his head this way and that, finally looked up and said, Look in here and read what? The examiner said, Okay, Harry, stay in the county and don't drive at night. He gave him his license. He didn't go fast enough to hurt anybody, and when we saw that gray jeep coming, we all just slowed down, moved over a little, and let Harry pass. And so, with Highway 96 beginning here, and much of Highway 69 not paved, with no internet, no cell phones or direct dialing, no Google Maps or Internet GPS, nobody who was just passing through the valley 50 years ago. If you were in Westcliff, you intended to be here, or you were lost.

Richard Beattie 7:44

Talk this way without even trying, and when I got here, I've walked this town for fifty some years, walking the same ground for most of our lives. We've been here raising our children through laughter and tears. I've walked these roads, pastures and fields, work the ranch to the smells, taste, and feels and I'm so glad that you came around. Listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same ground. Walk in the same ground. Now we're walking the same round. Never flew over the vast lands of Alaska. I'd never had to get to overleast Pacific, never rode a horse through the bad lands of Nebraska. I'm so glad that you came around to hear these stories about walking the same round. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same round. Walking the same round walk in the same round. So many stories, so many faces that's been allegories. I never met a cowboy I didn't like, and I always love the Starfields on a chili valley night. And I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground, walking the same ground. Now we're walking the same ground. I've walked through the wind, through mud season, walk waist deep through the mountain snow, I've walked through a river to fish at the lake to eat what I caught at the end of the day.

Dick Jones 12:21

No one seemed to mind that Otto Elsie had a junkyard behind his main street home. Sue Canda and Ruth Lang, who lived on either side of Otto, were not concerned about property values because they never planned to sell their homes. Nobody took their kids out of school when our game warden Dan Riggs brought deer and elk meat to be used in the school lunch program. Dick Wilson, the school superintendent, and I, once skinned an elk and two deer that Dan had dropped off behind the school. We then took the Jennings Market to be ground up and added to the school menu. Business transactions were also somewhat different than they are today. When Bill Falkenberg was busy in his hardware store, you just held up an item, told Bill the price, he wrote it down, and you walked out. It never crossed Bill's mind that you might not pay for it later. When children visited Evie's variety, and I do mean variety store, with cash in their pockets, the toy they wanted always seemed to cost the exact amount of money they had. The monetary benefit was always in the child's favor. The Henry's kids had a drive-thru fishing worm business. You drove around Bill and Anita's driveway, took a box of worms from the big mailbox, and left the money in the Velveeta cheesecart. I'm pretty sure the number of boxes of worms and the amount of money came out pretty close to even. Jennings Market wasn't open on Sunday, but that didn't keep Harold from opening up and getting someone a quart of milk if it was needed. Everyone had an account at Jennings. We paid once a month, or as much as we could, or when we could. Some ranchers paid in the fall when they sold hay or calves. Bois Crow managed the Westcliff Post Office back then, and Chuck Kasindick manned Silvercliffe. Jim Kristoff delivered mail around the valley. They knew everyone in the county, so a local address on a letter was optional. We once received a letter addressed Dick and Barb Westcliff. No last name, no state, no zip code. One December 9, 1978, just before Christmas break at school, we had a home basketball game. I was coaching the girls, and our game was over, so when the payphone rang in the hall, I picked it up. I don't remember who called, but the voice said, Donnie and Linda's house is on fire. Get everybody out here to help. Without another word or waiting for a reply, he hung up. He gave no last name, we would know. He gave no directions, we would know. It was Donnie and Linda Camper's house, which was the old U Lay School. It wasn't a question and it wasn't a suggestion. Someone we all knew was in trouble. Nothing else needed to be said. I went into the gym, announced the situation, those who were able exited the gym and we met in the parking lot to carpool to the fire. In those days, it seemed as if our lives were woven together both unintentionally and on purpose. We saw the same people in Jennings Market, at school plays and ball games, in the post office, on Main Street or in Susie's cafe. Some people didn't have a phone, and if we did, we only dialed four numbers for local calls. So we knew almost everybody's number. Most of us were on a party line, so we knew almost everybody's business. Sometimes you even knew more about people than you really wanted to know. Someone has said in a small town, the idiosyncrasies of one are slammed against the sensitivities of another. It was a time when a no-trespassing sign was about as rare as a paved road. Over the years we gathered, branded, butchered, ate, fished, fenced, hunted, hayed, agreed, disagreed, worshipped, laughed, and cried together. We were a community. Times are different now, and I realize the details of what I've said can't be duplicated. But this is more than just nostalgia. There's a moral to the story. True community does not come through big events, surveys, meetings, or forums, although this all may be good. It's not the product of common interest or conformity of thought. It doesn't often come by aiming at it directly at all. Community is shaped organically by the intertwining of lives in very ordinary and daily ways. It is nurtured by shared work and play, shared joy and pain, shared memories and stories, good conversation and compassion given and received. It is forged out of the daily encounters and the relational nuances of life lived together. It cannot be planned, organized, or imposed. Community comes to us peripherally. Usually it simply overtakes us as we walk the same ground together. And there are no shortcuts.

Richard Beattie 16:55

Look around, smell the season. A fresh morning when springtime rolls around. Taste the wisdom from the kitchen. Feel the fabric of the clothes against the wind. Peripheral Vision. Moving together in trucks and cars. Taking our time and most those talking together across backyards. Against the senses.

Dick Jones 20:52

A new Disney flick called That Darn Cat. Unlike many, Barb and I did not come to Westcliffe for the beautiful view of the mountains. On our only visit before moving to the valley, it snowed 14 inches. Clouds completely hid the mountains from sight, and there was no internet to look it up. We were young. I needed a job. And so, with teaching applications strewn all over the Midwest, we packed one suitcase each and came to Westcliff for the summer. Surely a permanent job would come up back in Indiana or Illinois. It did not. Little did we know that we would soon bring to Westcliff a 4x8 trailer with everything we owned. When August came and no other job had materialized, I decided to take Paul and Jean up on their offer to stay at Horn Creek through the winter. Having taught a year in Illinois, Barb applied for a teaching position at Custer County School. K-12 school enrollment then was about 175 students. The 17 seniors of the class of 74 had just graduated from the old two-story brick building. Which had served the students of Custer County since 1924. It was torn down shortly after graduation. Barb had called Charlie Brodett, the school superintendent, several times for an interview, but he informed her that there were no positions available. Probably to keep Barb from calling anymore. He finally agreed to give her an interview anyway. The school was in the process of moving into the new building. Mr. Blodgett's office was not known for neatness under normal circumstances. When his phone rang during the interview, Charlie had to get down on his hands and knees and track the wire to find the phone. The interview lasted about two minutes, with the only question Charlie asked being, Are you old fashioned or newfangled? This was followed by a tour of the new school, which is now the old school. School started the day after Labor Day, and it was nearly August, and we had pretty much given up on Barb getting a teaching position. However, we were the ones about to be educated as we were introduced to the Westcliff Information Network. I think it was founded on the Party Line's phone system. The Friday before school started, on Tuesday, Barb was picking up a few groceries at Jennings Market. As she was checking out, the cashier, Anita Henrich, saw the name on her check and commented, Oh, you're the new school teacher. Barb denied it. Anita said, Yeah, I'm pretty sure they hired you at the school board meeting last night. Well, Paul Zeller owned the little buildings along the east side of Highway 69. One is now the Stage Stop Cafe. Paul rented them his apartments for about $50 a month. And when Barb got home, she learned that one of his renters, a teacher, had just called to say she was leaving. Even though it was Labor Day weekend, Barb kept calling the school until finally an electrician who was wiring part of the new building answered. He looked around to find the phone number for Iris Wilson, the school secretary. Barb called her, and Iris said, Do you mean Charlie didn't tell you? Iris gave her the number of Superintendent Blodgett, who was visiting family for the weekend in eastern Colorado. When Barb called Charlie, he calmly replied, Oh, I was gonna call you as soon as I got back in town on Monday. Remember, school started on Tuesday. Barb then called Fred Luthy, the school janitor, who led her into the building to work almost nonstop until Tuesday, when she walked into a sixth-grade classroom of 17 of the newest generation of Gareux, Cooks, Colemans, Roscoe's, Roy's, Rice's, and Campers. Some of whom still live here today. And so Barb signed her first contract at Custer County School. Well, actually, she didn't sign it until mid-January when Iris Wilson discovered that Charlie had never even given her a contract. And this began a 42-year teaching career, the longest ever at Custer County. Barb is followed closely by Hattie McLeod, 39 years, Gordon Thornton 36 years, and Betty Munson 33 years.

Saraphina Ingolia 25:08

You get past the bedroom, the bathroom, the breakfast, and the drive-thru. You arrive at your desk, and there are voicemails and emails and snail mails, and you process through until lunchtime. That's what you see every morning. Then, when we rewind the AM and go back, you find the morning that you didn't see. You ran past your husband who was trying to find meaning in his work. You snarfed down the burnt toast and left the coffee maker on, and oh, and you cut off your neighbor who was bringing his wife home with their new baby. You were in your own zone as you raced through the school zone. That can change your life.

Dick Jones 26:31

In the 1970s, Dan owned a 1940 Chevy pickup that he had nicknamed Zeke. Now Dan's a very honest man. However, his fishing vocabulary is open to interpretation. For example, if Dan says to me, Oh, to get to that lake isn't really a bad trip, the translation is, oh, to get to that lake might be humanly possible. It was mid-August, Father Dan and I were going fishing. To get to Dan's chosen spot, Blind Lake, we had to drive the top of Hermit Road, hike down to Rito Alto Lake, up and over another ridge and down into the lake. Hermit Road was and is still definitely a four-wheel drive road, but nobody had told that to Mr. Two-wheel drive Zeke. We loaded our gear into Zeke and headed out at 5 a.m., bouncing our way to the top of Hermit. It was a beautiful sunrise. We did not see another vehicle all day, but we did see a lot of wildlife, caught lots of fish, and got back to the truck at around 7 p.m. As we were passing Horseshoe Lake, Dan stopped the truck and said, I think the fish are breaking down on horseshoe. He grabbed his rod and headed down to the lake. I took a nap in the truck. When Dan returned, it was dusk. It had settled on the mountains, and we were on our way again. Barely below timber line, Zeke had a flat tire. By the time we got the spare on, it was almost dark, and we started down the road again. But we soon discovered the tire was too big and rubbed the fender around every switchback. Understanding Zeke's idiosyncrasies, Dan always carried a very large hammer with him. He knocked the running board loose and hammered the fender out so that the tire would clear. By now it was pitch dark, and as we slid into the truck again, Dan informed me that Zeke's lights did not work. And so, all the way down the mountain, I leaned out of the window with a flashlight to keep us from going off the edge. When we finally did get home, my wife was beginning to plan my funeral. Later I learned that Lucille Paquette, who lived next door to Dan, had watched from her window as our flashlight had bounced all the way down the mountain. Someone has said you know you live in a small town when the only time you lock your car doors is in the summer, and that's only to keep somebody from putting more zucchini from their garden in your back seat. And there are other nuances of living in a small town. Ruby Giroux called it neighboring. Neighboring is when the work that needed to be done was too big to be done alone, so people came together to lend a hand. Used to be a common practice in the valley. Spring branding was one of the best examples of neighboring. I've had the opportunity to help brand at several ranches. Most of the time I was on the ground crew vaccinating, branding, or castrating the bull caps. When they did let me get on a horse to rope, it was usually a good time for the ground crews to have a little rest. One catch in every six or seven throws on the rope was a pretty good run for me. In later years, I would move to the other side of the corral fence and sign on as cook. Gathering the mamas and babies often began at daybreak, and if everything went as planned, we would begin branding soon afterward. There were, however, other possibilities than everything going as planned. One time we had about 300 pairs just ready to funnel into the corral when a few cows did not share our enthusiasm for this plan. One minute we were looking at tails, and the next minute we were looking at heads and horns. We couldn't hold them, they scattered, and the cows went north and the calves headed south. We spent all morning rounding up the rebels, and we didn't brand a calf until after lunch. Speaking of lunch, food was always the highlight of a day of branding. Oftentimes it was a matter of sitting around on the ground by a homemade feast while swapping embellished stories and outright lies. Other times, lunch took place at a local hangout. When we were branding at Wolf Springs Ranch, it would mean a trip to Mandela's. Mandela's was the best Mexican restaurant in Gardner. In fact, it was the only restaurant of any kind in Gardner. Afternoon branding may have moved a little slower after Mandela, but the good conversation shared made it worth it. Neighboring took many forms. I borrowed horse trailers, bulldozers, tractors, trucks, horses, and tools. In 1975, when my sister was ill and later died, our vehicles were questionable reliability. Harvey and Gene Rusk loaned us their car for 10 days so that we could drive to Indiana. Writer Wendell Berry called these friends the membership of our lives, and he explained it well in his novel Hannah Culture. Work was freely given in exchange for work freely given. There was no bookkeeping, no accounting, no settling up. What you owed was considered paid when you had done what was needed doing. Every account was paid in full by the understanding that when we were needed we would go, and when we had need, the others, or enough of them, would come. None of us considered that we were finished until everybody was finished. The membership of our lives, neighbors or friends, whatever you call them, they touch some of the deep God-given needs of our lives friendship, belonging, and community. Over the years, Barb and I also have tried to share what we had, give what we could, and be there when we were needed. None of us are heroes, and a real community is just what you do.

Richard Beattie 41:19

Looking out my window, westward from car, a dusty country road, just to play my guitar, riding shotgun. Schoolfield. I might shop school field. There were teachers and teachers. Poets and a song. We took the path from school field. School from where we are. Back to the body of school field. Same as it ever was there. The only change I made was due that on the flat tide. We were running on the land. Spark through light. A small black spike. Oh, you could smell where we had been looking back on the road. Places we have been, we traveled on miles, started out again, back to the country. I'm going back home again. Looking back on to the places we have been. We traveled on full night. Started out again, back to the country. Schoolfield road. I'm going back home. Same as it ever came. Schoolfield Road.

Speaker 2 47:09

I begin this last story with a few lines from a poem entitled Child Herald's Pilgrimage, written between 1812 and 1818 by Lord Byron. All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep, but breathless as we grow when feeling most, and silent as we stand in thoughts too deep. Then stirs the feeling, infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone. Solitude. It's something little appreciated today. In our time and culture, employees are called team members. We form students into study groups, we have pools of office workers, we organize people into consortiums, coalitions, collaborations, and committees. I have a friend who says that in his church, if three of them fell out of an airplane, they'd form a committee before they hit the ground. No doubt much good comes out of all this togetherness. However, it sometimes seems that our culture has bought into the lie that nothing good can come from being alone. In the Sangres, when grazing leases were still in use, a sheep herder might spend days or even weeks alone in the mountains, moving flocks from one canyon to the next. A few miles up Herman Road, there used to be a copper mine. Hardly anything still visible in the mine today, but in a clearing on Middle Taylor Creek, there once stood a two-story boarding house for the miners. When we first came to the valley, part of it still remained, along with the old tin shack used for storing dynamite. Ernest Sparling once told me that the caretaker would go in after the mine shut down in the fall and stay all winter, only snow shoeing out one time for supplies. I wonder if that's how the name Hermit came to the area. In the wilderness there are no mad-made distractions, no television, no radio, no clock, computer, phones, or to-do list, and no music other than that of nature itself. Yes, with today's technology, you could bring some of these with you, but the wind and creeks would only laugh. We hurry and scurry and organize and plan, but the mountains are indifferent to human time schedules and plans. In fact, the mountains are indifferent even to human presence. The San Grande Cristo Mountains are the most prominent feature of the Custer County landscape. Many know them only as a beautiful view, to be enjoyed over a cup of coffee. But some old timers, such as Harry Deakin, knew them much more intimately. You see, there's a great difference between admiring the mountains through a picture window and standing in a dark spruce forest and being chilled by a sudden gust of wind, or being caught in a lightning storm that stands your hair on end. Or, as we used to do, drink from a mountain stream so cold that it hurts your teeth. As English author Clarence Warren once said, aesthetic appreciation is inferior to active participation. To see something is not as good as to live it. I've been fortunate to spend a good deal of time up close and personal with the mountains, and the Sangries have become both my close friend as well as my bitter enemy. Locals know Horn Peak well. It's the dominant feature on the eastern slope of the Sangre Cristos. It may appear to be the highest peak, but at only 13,450, five peaks visible from the valley look down on it. But there is a view that's not so familiar. It's an aerial view looking down the spine of the sangries as they zigzag their way into New Mexico. Where would Horn Peak be found there? All it is is a little pointy knob just left of the blue dot that I put in a picture once so I could find it. The Sangre de Cristo Range is the longest, highest, continuous range in the world. 242 miles long and covers 17,193 square miles or more than 11 million acres. The depth and magnitude of the sangrees is not evident to the casual observer of a beautiful view, and neither is their depth of meaning. The wilderness, uncultivated, untamed, uninhabited by humans, it may conjure up images of quiet beauty, but it can also be a place of great danger. It may even try to kill you, especially when you're alone. I've been in every canyon from Brush Creek to Music Pass, a few lakes over the top, and some others west of Gardner. I am humbled by the mountains, and wisdom tells me that in the wilderness we are all visitors, not owners or residents, and we should tread lightly. To enter into wilderness, we must be willing to relinquish control and leave behind the safe and the predictable. It is the price to be paid in order to walk on this holy ground. Wilderness is more than a geographical location. It is prophet, priest, and teacher. It is a place of intense experience where the carefully crafted veneer of our lives is stripped away. Everything that seems to matter so much down below money, position, ownership, power, control, and getting things done all disappear in the mountains. It was October 1975. Kent Zettler was in junior high school. He's now a retired patrolman from the Colorado State Patrol. We had planned to go elk hunting, however, Kent's plans changed at the last minute, so I went alone. I camped at Macy Creek as I anticipated the next day's hunt. However, the quiet and serene beauty of the mountains was forgotten when I found myself lying on my stomach on the north face of Baldy in a hundred mile-an-hour wind, trying to keep from being blown off a cliff. Grabbing hold of one scrubby bush after another, I managed to inch my way along the ground until I got to a crevice sheltered a little from the wind where I could sit up. Sitting down and scooting down a draw of slide rock on my backside, I managed to reach level ground. With legs shaking, I returned to my camp. The elk were safe that day as I spent the rest of it recovering my strength and being thankful that I was still alive.

Richard Beattie 53:01

It takes a community. With emphasis on community, we are often helpless when we read that less than two hours away, a wildfire breaks loose. On Wednesday, June 10, 2026, a wildfire known as the Bear Fire erupted in Los Animos County, Colorado, prompting an urgent response from local authorities and forcing residents in the southern part of the state to evacuate their homes. The Bear Fire ignited close to County Road 133, rugged terrain with rural homes in Acreage. By Wednesday evening, the fire had already spread to an estimated 120 acres, according to local officials. The timing and speed of this particular blaze is consistent with the early 2026 wildfire season, which started in March on Highway 115. Red flag warnings continue this week. Tag You're It. According to updates from American Red Cross and local emergency services, a red flag warning was in effect for most of Colorado on June 10th, signaling extreme high fire danger due to dry conditions, gusty winds, and low humidity. The combination of parched vegetation and strong winds can turn a spark into a raging inferno in a matter of minutes. Tag teams have been in discussion with local 4-H extensions from Colorado State University about finding entrepreneurial answers to prevent the spread of wildfires. Together with Denver Botanic Gardens, the focus is on Colorado scaping, replacing grasses not native to Colorado with vegetation and crops that produce fruit and vegetables in short seasons with low water use. While preventing erosion and soil damage, the effort includes bolstering soil, protecting water rights from being sold to cities that use water to green up yards, parks, and recreation areas, and working with 4-H and Garden Clubs to change the landscapes of downtown and main streets with demonstration native plants, grasses, and trees native to the region. TAC teams are mostly media entrepreneurial and educational teams who identify the problems and challenges of regional needs, invest in solutions, and distribute those solutions locally and regionally. As a journalist, artist, and musician covering the Mountain Time region, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, Wyoming, Montana, and Nebraska, my priority is leaving good fruit in your community. Email RichardBein at gmail.com. Think Action Groups now. Setting up camp on St. Mary's Glacier. Frozen tundra on top of a ridge.

Richard Beattie 56:07

Finding our way back to St. Mary's Glacier, climbing rocks to a natural bridge. Hope springs at it behold us. Hold on to your precious life. Laughter and tears.