Back in June 2016, I started a new "series" of posts... if you will... 
 And so on Wednesdays; I've been posting an old photograph to inspire your creativity.
Write a poem!   
 Plot out a short story.
 Have inspiration for a piece of art or composition.... let your artistic soul shine.
--and occasionally I write my own sordid story or poem. 
 (you can click on the photos in this post to make it larger to see).


JoyceAnne was born prematurely... seems like she was always in a rush.
Hurrying here.... hurrying there... there was so very much to see and do.
Even as a child... she didn't walk or crawl... she RAN.
And growing up in the hills of South Dakota... she had plenty of room to run wild and free.
But her favorite thing, was being out in nature.
All day long she would play with the deer and rabbits in the forest.
She listened to the calls of the birds and memorized them.
She learned the Latin names of all the plants. She foraged for mushrooms and berries.
She loved the strand of tall pines in the foothills, and would often hike to them and climb them in her bare feet.
By the time she was in her 20s, she had become the "local" expert, and was often sought after to lead hunting and camping expeditions. After all, she knew those woods better than anyone.
So it was no wonder, when one sunny winter day she received a distressing phone call.
A small plane containing one passenger and the pilot had not shown up to it's destination 2 days earlier... and was presumed lost. The last known sighting of it, was in the nearby mountains. Could JoyceAnne possibly lead the search parties to the areas in the high hills to look for survivors? Of course, the answer was "yes"... and she packed her gear and headed out. It took 3 days to find the crash-site. The pilot, it was presumed, had died on impact, but was found buried under a low-lying bush. Meaning, that lone passenger had survived. But where was he? Parts of wreckage were everywhere. ...but there were no other signs of life. There were a few tracks heading southwest... and JoyceAnne set her course to follow. The rest of the search party, weary and sore... not accustomed to the climbing they had done... vowed to call ahead to the next town to see if he had shown up there. They would search again in a day after a good -night's rest back at their homes. But not JoyceAnne.
She found him the next afternoon, suffering from severe frostbite and dehydration, collapsed in a hillside cave, both of his feet broken, and in some kind of handmade brace made from twigs.... but he was alive.

Years later, they would tell the tale of how she half-carried... half pulled him down the mountains on a sled made from tree limbs and some rope she had brought with her. How they fell in love the minute they laid eyes on each other. How he knew she was heaven-sent, and how she knew that her whole life had been a "school" ... teaching her and leading her up to that moment when all her knowledge of the woods, plants and survival would aid her in saving the love of her life.
And so it was.