Anoranaza, 24″ x 36,” Caseline, by Donna Lyons © 2016

The almost forgotten about mountain cabin

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2025

Recent stories told by friends about their mountain cabins seemed initially to bypass my experience. Then, I remember I too had a long-forgotten Lake Arrowhead area home in Southern California’s San Gabriel Mountains.

My memory about this cabin is a little fuzzy from its inception to ultimate demise. I do remember my late husband David and I had headed to Lake Arrowhead at one point, in the late 1960’s, where, after meeting with a salesman (no name remembered), we purchased a lot in the nearby Cedar Glen area.

We didn’t initially build on that lot; we let it sit for a year or so. Realizing that was a waste of money, we decided to build a two-bedroom mountain home complete with a loft.

All went well until it didn’t. With heavy rains one year, our property lines were blurred, which eventually made a difference.

Whether it was a neighbor or someone else, we were told our nearly newly built mountain home was too close to another’s property. There had to be a 10-foot space from the property line to our home.

The choices were limited. The builder suggested he could move the home 10 feet away from the line. Of course, he’d never previously done that! The alternative, which we took, was to purchase the needed 10 feet from the neighbor.

This purchase might not seem such a big deal, other than the money, except we had purchased all the furnishings months earlier. Our furniture friend, David Armstrong, kept them in the basement of his store in Pomona, California.

Finally, the home was finished and the furniture moved from David’s basement in Pomona to our new place in Cedar Glen, about 60 miles away. All was good until it wasn’t.

Because of the remote location of many mountain homes and cabins, a security company, Rim of the World Patrol, kept a watchful eye notifying owners should any problem occur. One did for us!

We received a call from Rim of the World Patrol asking about the furnishing in our place. Did we have a couch, chairs, drapes, and more in the living room? Yes we responded. “You don’t anymore!” was their reply! My exasperated husband, David, immediately jumped into our back yard pool!

Apparently, someone or ones had been watching the moving in of the furniture to our vacant place. Before we could get there and enjoy the blue sofa, chairs, and drapes, all were taken!

I thought of becoming the area Welcome Wagon Lady where I could go around looking for my sofa, chairs and drapes. I hope whoever furnished their place with our belongings enjoyed them since we couldn’t.

You could see why my memory of this mountain place remained lost to time. After our little black poodle Bippy survived getting hit on the head by a shovel or broom or something as we were loading the car to return to our Claremont home in the Pomona Valley, we decided “enough was enough.”

Whether that was the final blow or not, it prompted us to sell this mountain home and find a place in the desert! Did we ever spend a night in our mountain place? I don’t remember!

June 2026

Columbine, 7″x10,” watercolor By Donna Lyons © 2012

Remembering an old tradition

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2025

“Happy May Day,” I wished Jessie, Dog Tag manager, when leaving Simba and Simon for boarding. “Oh, I forgot about that,” she replied.

Jessie quickly began to describe her actions from many years ago as she remembered May Day. Hers involved collecting flowers, putting them in a basket, leaving them on a neighbor’s doorstep, ringing the bell and then running away. Her children had enjoyed that tradition although she doubted her son now in his late 20’s would be doing that this May 1.

I too remembered that tradition from decades ago. I don’t know the source or kind of flowers or if I used a basket. With three neighborhood boys from whom to select for my floral bouquet deposit, I chose Bruce who lived around the corner from me. I have no recollection why Payson or Pinky (AKA Burl), who lived nearby, didn’t receive that springtime bouquet.

If I recall correctly, I made my stealthy deposit safely. I think being caught might have involved a kiss. I certainly never got a kiss or knew if my identity were revealed then, or ever.

I offered that “Happy May Day” greeting to another later on this year’s May 1^st. This time I was with my husband Robert in a follow up medical appointment. Once again, this greeting generated memories of times past for Josh, the medical tech, who met with us. He too recalled all the components of this springtime tradition — flowers, baskets, doorstep deliveries and running away. Josh even remembered sharing this tradition with his young children.

It’s funny how memories of traditions in times past bring smiles. I enjoyed these unexpected conversations which ensued throughout this year’s May Day. Through it all, we chuckled remembering fondly the details of those earlier experiences.

Makes you kind of wonder about the simplicity of those years gone by, where welcoming spring came in a different form.

May 2026

Springing Up Along the Ditch, 9″x11,” watercolor and gouache, By Donna Lyons © 2025

Taking flight

By Marty Coffin Evans© 2019

I didn’t know what to expect when, several years ago, the principal and several teachers from California Elementary in my last school district invited me to a special celebration, the culmination of a science project. While I don’t remember what grade these students were in, I recall their excitement when they released their butterflies. What began in the classroom as a study of caterpillars soon saw them transformed into beautiful butterflies.

Recently, I attended another butterfly release. This time, it came as the focal point of a memorial celebration organized by TRU Community Care Hospice.

When we entered the TRU PACE Center that morning, we were given a tiny, thin, triangular shaped box. Inside, a butterfly waited to be released. “It’s okay to keep it warm in your hands,” we were told. “You may feel a little movement and that’s okay.”

In the activity room, a volunteer played softly on a flute as we gathered for the program. Later she would lead us outside for the release of our butterflies.  During that time together inside, several speakers spoke about grief, joy, loss and the temporal nature of it all.

At the conclusion of the brief program, we moved outside to a Labyrinth where we stood wherever we wished. Carefully, we all began to open our triangular boxes by pulling on the side tabs. Inside, our Painted Lady butterfly lifted its wings. With what appeared to be one tiny foot still attached to the paper, ours fluttered its wings long enough for us to take a picture. All too soon, our butterfly took flight along with our thoughts of loved ones.

One little girl dressed in a pink jacket lay on the ground cupping her hands around her butterfly. Some adults stood in clusters waiting for their butterflies to take flight. Occasionally, a released butterfly would land on some one’s clothing long enough to be admired before heading away.

Fran LeMasters’ poem “Free the butterflies,” included inside that day’s program, captures a sense of this experience and its memorial significance. “I’ll be there to see them soar upon the air. Know my spirit is on the wing, feel my laughter-hear me sing. Forever in your dreams, always in your heart.”

This time, the symbolism of the butterfly became that of transcendence. Here their message, implied and possibly stated – our loved ones live on in spirit although no longer seen. They too had been transformed into the beauty of the butterfly – here for a short time, cherished, and then gone. We were left to marvel at this change with a mixture of sadness and joy.

April 2026

Easter Parade, 6″ x 9″, watercolor and gouache, By Donna Lyons © 2025

Food, wonderful food

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2016

Hearing that phrase may evoke the rest of the sentence, with musical accompaniment.  “Food, wonderful food, hot sausage and mustard,” comes straight out of “Oliver.”

What’s not to like about food?  We enjoy it for the traditions it helps us celebrate, associations with different locations and remembrances of family members.

With St. Patrick’s Day rapidly approaching, tradition sets in here with corned beef and cabbage.  Perhaps not your favorite dishes, wait for Easter.  That might include ham and yams unless you’re a lamb lover.

What’s Thanksgiving without turkey, dressing, and pumpkin pie unless you’re not from around here?  Several years we were on a Christmas Market trip in Germany on the Rhine River. As was typical, the boat docked during the day for accompanied excursions and independent exploring.

One couple chose to remain on board that day.  The chef from the Netherlands, asked for their help.  Would they be willing to sample something for her as she wasn’t sure of the desired taste?  Initially reluctant, they finally yielded to her repeated request for them to taste her version of pumpkin pie.  An unknown dessert item to her, this chef was trying to replicate a Thanksgiving meal for these Yanks miles from home.  She succeeded!

Most likely we can all find a memory of meals associated with special family members.  Maybe the matriarch made a special cobbler.  In my case, Nanno’s cherry or peach cobbler, straight out of Oklahoma, spoiled me for others’ versions of that same dish.

“Do you remember Gramma June’s cabbage, carrots and celery dish,” I asked my cousin Anne.  Her answer – No – didn’t fit my memory of this dish which I traditionally serve with a corned beef dinner.  It works other times of the year as well.

No matter where we enjoy our food – home, traveling or in our memories – it holds a special place in our lives beyond basic sustenance. We can think back to the musical “Oliver” when he famously asked, “May I have more please, sir?”

How about you? Want seconds?

March 2026

All’s well, 11″ x 14″, watercolor and gouache, by Donna Lyons © 2025

My special childhood Groundhog Day memory

By Marty Coffin Evans © 2014

I was 10 years old, weighed 49 pounds and had infected tonsils causing me to remain continuously ill.  What to do – have those tonsils taken out, and so they were.

In those days, ether was the anesthetic of choice.  Count backward from 10 they said.  I began with 10 -9 and soon was out.

As a fifth grader at Uni Hill Elementary in Boulder, I was sad to miss my classmates, teacher and school. My hope of carrying the flag into the classroom was diminished because of my ether reaction. I may not remember much about the flag part but, know carrying it was a very special honor.

My wise teacher had the class write letters to me during my convalescence. Since this was February, Ground Hog Day became the focal point of those little letters.  What a great idea for the class. My memories of that remain with me to this day whenever the ground hog pokes his head out each February looking for his shadow.

Because my system didn’t respond well to ether, I spent more time at Boulder Community Hospital not able to keep my food down.  Pastor Paul Madison came to visit me during that hospital stay. Much to my chagrin, my stomach decided to heave during that time. Embarrassed, I don’t remember what I said but most likely a feeble, “I’m sorry!”

All I wanted to do was go home to my dog Moppet. Home we went but alas, my stomach continued to resist keeping down the provided food.

I ended up putting Jello down the side wall by my bed rather than in my mouth.  I don’t know what that wall looked like when we moved from that house years later!

With the admonition that back to the hospital I’d go, if I didn’t start eating and keeping it down, I obliged. Certain foods finally “stuck.” Maybe black olives began doing the trick. I seem to recall pineapple chunks too. Once eating began, I’ve never looked back often saying, “I never miss a meal if I can help it!”

For this little freckle-faced girl, those decades ago, receiving letters from my classmates became good medicine too. I’m grateful for the insight of my teacher who knew the value of having her students write along with the healing “we remember you” gift they gave me. Not a Ground Hog Day comes around without my thinking about those letters written so long ago.

Since I’ve been back in Boulder, I now visit Uni Hill in a Rotary journaling project where we engage with fifth graders. This time we’re partners writing to each other.  My journal pal, Abi – a second language learner, writes of her different school experiences, tells me about how she spends her holidays and asks me questions about my family and my life.  She’s invited me to attend her promotion ceremony at school this spring.

At one of our last visits to school, a fellow Rotarian asked me how different Uni Hill looks now compared to when I attended there. No doubt when we visit our former schools, they looked bigger than when we were younger. In my case, I remember that the floors were hard wood and not carpeted as they are now.

While I no longer remember the locations of my classrooms, I continue to cherish the written expression of support that February years ago. I hope my journaling with Abi provides her with a lasting impression of someone with whom she exchanged ideas in English all the while expressing herself through the written word. Whether healing or supportive, the power of language can and does transcend time.

February 2026