“Capitol Reef Arroyo, ” 4″ x 7,”. Watercolor, By Donna Lyons © 2013

The roads mistakenly traveled

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2023

My husband and I have apparently begun the habit of traveling on roads which, in hindsight, we should have missed. These shouldn’t-have-taken roads, have provided the fodder for funny stories and lots of laughter…later.

Our first mistakenly traveled road, occurred in Georgia when we left the Whistle Stop Café (think “Fried Green Tomatoes”).  I thought I could find my way out of the various roads in search of I-85. Turning left, those trees didn’t look right. I made a U Turn, headed the opposite direction where, once again, those trees didn’t look right nor had we planned on visiting an area plantation.

Eventually, I wound my way back and stopped in front of the Whistle Stop Café. My snoozing husband, woke up, asked if I needed the restroom. No, I’m trying to find my way out of this friggin’ area. Following the provided directions, we found I-85! We received a Garmin that Christmas.

Our next “mistaken” road happened in California. With son Adam at the wheel, we headed over a crazy, curvy mountain pass in the wine country. Once safely on the other side, vineyard staff commented, “Even the locals don’t take that road!”

Not to be outdone by either of these states, we had our own Colorado adventure. With directions loaded into our Waze app, we headed west on I-70 for a 10^th Mountain Division Memorial Day Celebration in the High Country. We entered Tennessee Pass into Waze, were told to turn onto East Tennessee Pass Road, and, so we did. Bouncing over deep ruts, scraping shrub bushes on either side, periodic dips full of water on this rough road, Waze announced we’d reach our destination! Really?!

Recalculate! We made a U Turn, traveled 13 miles back to find the correct destination – Camp Hale, home of the 10^th Mountain Division.

Specifics can make a difference! What mistakenly traveled road is your favorite?

July 2025

“Platte River Symphony,” 9″ x 6,” Gouache, Copyright © 2016 by Donna Lyons

“Creating Life’s Score”

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2023

Several months ago, I read beautiful comments written by a woman about her late musician husband. She wrote eloquently about his work as a symphony.

It started me thinking. I wondered how our own lives would be remembered musically or otherwise.

If we created our own symphony, or at least our life’s score what would it contain. We all play a part in creating such a score. Would we carry the melody? Would we add the harmony? Would ours be lyrical? Hauntingly beautiful? Bombastic?  The answer is probably, all of the above depending on our life’s circumstances or experiences.

Then again, what about tempo. Would ours be fast or slow? What about the volume? Might we blend the tempo with volume?

Perhaps our lives have varied the fast tempo with loud “notes.” Or, most likely, there have been slow, soft, melodic, reflective times. Alternating tempo and sound may reflect certain aspects of our lives both the most wonderful and cherished along with the sad, plaintive times.

On occasion, we might have been creating the more discordant portions of our life’s score. Blending and intermingling with the “notes” of others could well have broadened our own symphony.

Most likely, our life’s score will involve interacting with others. Much as musical scores involve the interplay of parts, so too does our life. Unless ours is a solo version only, mixing, matching, and blending with others creates that life score.

Compositions from our childhood may vary from those in our different adult years. A recurring theme may yet emerge in this score.

How will our life’s score be played and enjoyed by others? Will we smile at those last notes? Will we be pleased?

June 2025

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“Prediction,” 11″x9″ watercolor, Donna Lyons ©2013

“Nature”

By Marty Coffin Evans ©2017

The birds chirped, the dogs raced around the yard and all seemed fine that sunny Sunday morning. Or, was it?

“The dogs are chasing the birds in the back yard,” my husband said. Chasing amounted to them running back and forth beside the fence, looking up all the while. Their racing action was not unlike what they did when squirrels happened along the fence or up in the trees.

While we didn’t know it at the time, this turned out to be different. Later in the morning, I noticed Simon had something in his mouth, although just what, was not clear. My bribery attempts were futile. Eventually, I corralled him enough to remove the item from his mouth – part of a dead baby bird. Oh no, I thought, as I carefully wrapped up its remains.

Back outside Simon went only to resume his search under the big, sprawling Bird’s Nest Spruce near the fence. Adding to his anxious quest, a pair of birds were calling and flying overhead going from side to side above the shrub. They flitted, occasionally diving closer, as they continued their quest to find their fallen young.

Looking up high in the neighbor’s tree, we spotted a large nest. Apparently one of their young had fallen from the nest presumably landing near or under the shrub.

Simon soon appeared from under the sprawling shrub again with something in his mouth.  Fortunately, this time he dropped it. We carefully retrieved this baby bird which too was dead.

It seemed like for an hour or so the parents called or sang a repeated plaintiff song apparently hoping to find their fallen chicks. At some point they must have decided all was lost. Their song seemed to repeat itself with its trills and notes.

When did these little chicks fall from the nest?  Did the squirrels cause this mishap? How many little birds remained in need of their parents’ care? We’ll never know.

With sadness for this little family, we said we were sorry. Yes, it’s nature and yet, it dimmed the joy of that sunny Sunday morning.

Some comfort came from the verse in Matthew (10:29), “Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.” We hope so.

May 2025

“Late Morning, Early Spring,” 15″ x 11″ Watercolor, © Donna Lyons 2018

“A mysterious stranger”

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2015

We looked up the little incline as we walked the Boulder Creek Path. There to our right, just below the 28^th Street overpass, was a man dressed in a dark brown jacket.

Leaning over, he carefully smoothed out a piece of cardboard. Nearby he had a green plastic bag.  Satisfied with his efforts, he quickly scurried into his concrete niche.

How old was he?  We never saw his face only his back as he gave methodical care to these items for his “home.”

Neither my friend nor I spoke as we continued walking. We passed another homeless man, this one smoking a cigarette while semi-sitting on the low wall by the creek. We saw him first as we walked west, then again as we made our walking loop back to our cars. Dressed in a light colored jacket, he appeared tall and possibly younger than the mysterious stranger living in his niche under 28^th Street.

Do you smile and say Hello? The creek side fellow seemed interested in those passing him by, whether on foot or bicycle.  We’ve heard about people feeling invisible.  Was this fellow invisible to the passersby?

Who were these fellows?  How did they end up living on the streets and underpasses in Boulder? Whose family members were they?

I thought back to a time in San Francisco when walking to a convention center meeting, we picked up free baguettes from a basket outside a bakery.  Armed with our two baguettes, we offered one to a fellow on Market Street.  His pleasure was not discernable. Later at Fisherman’s Wharf, we offered our second one to a fellow sitting on the sidewalk. Our bread was not the kind he hoped for that evening.

What do these snippets hold in common for me?  I remember the San Francisco experience although that happened probably 20 or so years ago.  I definitely remember our brown-coated mysterious stranger scampering into his makeshift home.

As I stand by the back door late at night watching the dogs make one last trip outside, I think of these men.  Rather, I really think about the one in the brown jacket.

It’s cold outside. How will he make it through the night? Will he become a statistic we read about at some later time in our newspaper?

Depending on life circumstances, some may say, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I hope our Lord looks out for these men (and women too) as they wend their way through life.

Gratefully, the Bridge House, Boulder’s Homeless Shelter and area churches provide a place for some to stay overnight during the colder months along with needed sustenance. Perhaps with spring’s arrival, the elements will be kinder to these strangers in our midst.

April 2025