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by Fern Croley Jones (Author)
My first view of Colorado was from the arms of my maternal grandmother, Mary Clarissa Cade, when I was eight months old. She brought me to Pueblo while my mother hopefully recovered from typhoid fever in far-off Arkansas. Two months later, Mary realized this little girl would be her responsibility from then on, and already Little Fern, as I was called, was determined to call her grandmother "Mama." My view changed as I graduated from my baby crib to following her around the garden in the backyard and learning to identify creeping things along the path. My grandfather, JW Cade, taught me to be seen and not heard and go to bed "with the chickens," which I cheerfully ignored. My uncles and aunts and cousins taught me to feel accepted and honor my parents example of love. As I grew, I realized that Pikes Peak was a beautiful skyline, and my tree swing that hung from the backyard elm tree was a place to not only swing but read and sing and dream. The last view I treasured, even when I finally returned to Arkansas, was at night with the star-studded sky above just as in Colorado, where I dreamed I saw my parents and other dear ones above them looking down at me. Along with the music I learned there, I knew there were angels singing and watching over me, awaiting the time when we would all finally see home.
