Judith Miller

Eastern Oregon. High desert. I grew up on a cattle ranch in this country of
extremes. In the summer the mercury often climbed to 110 degrees. Everything —
plants, animals, people — became very dry. After days and weeks a thunderstorm
passed through. I watched the terrible beauty of lightening strikes and then fires in
the hills. I rode with my dad driving cattle to the cattle camp and beyond. There
were thirst and dust and horse flies, but also cold, clear water from the spring and a
cool relief when a cloud passed over. I can still hear the quaking aspen in the breeze
and the flat slap of the beaver’s tail when we came close to her home. I can still
smell fresh grass near the creek or dry grass, sagebrush and Juniper trees on the hill,
mingled with the sweat of the horses. At the end of the day we returned to the cabin.
The amenities included water from the spring, a wood Sheepherder stove to cook
on, and a pot of beans we kept in the damp, cooling willows near the creek. I still
can smell the beans warming and the potatoes frying.
We were at the ranch house during the winters. We slogged through snow and
muddy fields. Again, there was no inside plumbing or electricity until electric power
poles marched i...

San Francisco Art Institute
San Jose State University
(One semester in Mexico)