Mom was about 10 years old when Grandpa bought his first Stetson. He was a farmer in Nebraska who raised endless fields of wheat along with twelve children. My precious beautiful graceful and tough-as-nails grandmother was by his side for fifty-seven years (and many Stetsons).
We pulled out of Cody and headed toward Chief Joseph Highway; sore from moving heavy sculptures. I wore a grin. My whiskey sauce buzz was only partly responsible for the smile – the whole event was spiked with talented women and new friends. We rambled home in the late afternoon sun past sagebrush, mountains, small farms and autumn colors; my new Stetson hat packed away carefully in the back seat of the truck.