It all began about eight years ago, in the year of Y2K. My situation was in a state of flux (nothing unusual about that!), and I had returned to Cherry Creek, primarily intending to help with preparations for my parents' fiftieth anniversary celebration, slated for Labor Day weekend of that year. I had no plans beyond that event.

I had recently come from an extended visit with my cousin, Diane, in Massachusetts. Diane was in the final stages of terminal melanoma carcinoma (brain cancer). We had said our farewells, and when I left her, the sadness of knowing I would never see my beloved friend again, weighed heavily upon me.

For years, whenever I visited Cherry Creek, I would look at the little house on the first corner, remembering the time that I had spent there in the late 1970's with Diane and her partner, who had bought the old house from the widow, Mrs. Coolie.

Those are memories that I cherish deeply, for they are filled with exuberance and optimism for our three bright futures as artists. How naive we all were! 

At the time, Diane was a potter, and was just then beginning to learn about jewelry making. She had a magical gift for transforming metal into miraculous forms. She eventually became a master jeweler, with her own school in New England. 

Diana was an artist, working in various organic mediums including pastel drawing, leather and beadwork. 

I tried my hand at sculpture, painting, calligraphy, and crafts. I can't say that I was particularly skillful at any of those; I had not yet discovered my true gifts. Still, the support and encouragement I received at that time remains precious to me.  I was separated from my second husband, at the time, and was pretty much just floundering around in a sea of alcohol and confusion.

We supported ourselves by moving irrigation pipe on alfalfa fields, down in the narrow flats. It was tough work, but we were young and strong and willing.  We drank Buckhorn beer, and the ladies introduced me to strong French roast coffee, served with honey and cream. (Long before Starbucks was ever dreamt of.) I am hooked, to this day.

Later, the girls secured a contract to operate the concession at then Lehman Caves National Monument (now Great Basin National Park). I tagged along to help with the venture, and it came to be some of the most valuable experience of my life. I think it was then, that the entrepreneurial seed was planted. Diane was a brilliant negotiator, Diana was quiet and intelligent, much more grounded than either of us Ruggles cousins. 

Eventually, the girls moved on to New Mexico, and then parted ways. I resumed living with my husband for a few more extremely turbulent years and traversed many states. I allowed my artistic impulses to be systematically squelched.

And so, when I returned again to Cherry Creek decades later, I decided that, since I could not be with Diane during her transition, at least I could be a steward to the place that had housed our youth, and our artistic spirits, all those decades ago.  Meanwhile, we had become re-connected with Diana, who had kept up the taxes on the old house, although she had not been to Cherry Creek for many years.

At first, I only intended to secure the building, and hopefully to protect it from further decay. The doors had stood open for more than ten years that I knew of, and the dirt, dust and debris were incomprehensible. Vandals had apparently entertained themselves there, until the filth had become too great, even for them. Animals had moved in, Pigeons roosted in the bedroom, rats reigned throughout, and barn swallows had been nesting inside for generations. One nest had three eggs in it, so I left the doors open as I worked, until the little ones hatched and flew away. On the day that the last of three baby chicks came into this world, Diane's spirit left it.

Bit by bit, I peeled away the layers of dilapidation. Beneath them, I found treasures. I began to recognize that this old house had a spirit, and a personality all its own. It had been imprinted by each of the people that had occupied it, but no single one dominated. It seemed to me that the house itself is an individual, influenced by each of the people it has had relationship with, yet with an identity all its own.  I resolved not to interfere with any of those influences, and my intention has not altered. Although the house has, in the distant past, been occupied by a few men, the energy of the place is distinctly feminine. For the past fifty years, the house has been exclusive domain of women. Quirky, peculiar women. And she is a quirky old girl, herself. We have our understandings.

On the day following my parents' golden anniversary celebration, family members gathered in the little house on Cherry Street for a memorial service honoring Diane's life. Her younger brother had come from Utah with his two sons, and we made a trek to Telegraph Mountain for water to be shared, and I baked bread in the house that had belonged to my grandmother; two places that I knew held special significance to Diane, and to both of us together.

An inspiration had begun to blossom in my heart. I wanted to honor my cousin, and that time of creative flourishing that had remained so impressed upon those of us who had shared that sparkling moment in old Cherry Creek.

I thought that I would create a haven and a sanctuary for local artisans; the collective dream of our misspent youth, that had lain gathering dust in exact proportion to the dust I had found upon entering that house for the first time in 20-some years.  Bynum and Ruggles' Cherry Creek Arts Emporium was conceived.