Late Summer, 2000: 

Work on the old house progressed. As I worked, I felt a deep and growing connection to the previous inhabitants. I felt my cousin Diane's presence - not as a ghostly apparition, but in the objects she had left behind, there was an essence of her artist spirit.

Mrs. Cooley was there, in the bold floral linoleums, and most especially in the tin roof that whined and thundered whenever the wind blew -- which was nearly all the time. I often thought, "It's no wonder the woman went mad!", for the noise was deafening, at times. Moriah, indeed!

Later, I would learn more about Mrs. Coolie. I had met her when I was a small child, and I remember being told that she was senile. Alzheimer's was not a word any of us knew -- and any such diagnosis now, would be speculative. 

In my recollection, Helen Coolie was a small, birdlike woman, with a high-pitched nasal twang. Her New Jersey accent remained with her

My only recollection of the house, during Mrs. Coolie's tenure there, was one visit, instigated by my bold cousin, Diane, when we were both about ten years old. I remember that we had to go in through the kitchen door, which faced the desert, and we had to go around numerous objects to get to that. We stepped down into a dark, cluttered kitchen, crammed with all manner of things. There was a smell.

The rest of the house amounted to a single pathway between tall stacks of Wall Street Journal. They lined every wall to a height of about four feet. The expression "OCD" comes to mind; however, having now spent one brutal winter in the place, I sometimes wonder if the paper stacks had not served a simpler purpose: insulation. 

There were pioneer women: a mother and five daughters had occupied the house before the Coolies. I knew little about them, except a few tidbits my mother had shared with me. I supposed it had been that family that planted the fragrant lilacs, and the wild pink primroses that try to take over each summer.

As for the earlier inhabitants, there were only vague reminders. Square nails, a whiskey bottle dug from beneath the floorboards of the kitchen, the old pear tree behind the house.

A nostalgic mood overshadowed clean-up efforts, and I often thought about my grandmother, who had created in her own home up the street, a place of respite for weary visitors to Cherry Creek. It seemed to me that no stranger ever came to town that did not stop by the Ruggles house to pay their respects to my grandparents, to seek directions or information, and to catch up on all the latest Creek happenings. Mrs. Ruggles wrote a weekly column for the Ely Daily Times, and rarely did a visit to the town escape her notice.

I found myself wishing to create a piece of the old friendliness that had characterized the town, back when I was little. Bynum and Ruggles' Cherry Creek Arts Emporium would be much more than a curio shop. It would be a place of light, and of pleasant conversation, in a place whose only public gathering place now consisted of the most dark and dirty bar I had ever to date set foot in. 

Local artists and crafts people were invited to display their wares, and at some point, it seemed like practically every household was represented. I was impressed by the range and spectrum of talents in this tiny village. We had woodworkers, painters, craftspeople, and a jeweler.

My mother, a locally recognized folk artist, became my most supportive ally, and she made so many contributions to the project that it would be impossible to list them all.  The draperies we designed together remain the most dominant feature of the main room, and I cherish them, even as the hems begin to fray and ravel.

Often, now, when I work at the little gallery, I think about Mom, and I know that she is, in some form, watching and offering suggestions and encouragement.