This is a bare partial manuscript of a story written by my mother while a journalism student at SMU in the 1970s. I have searched and have been unable to find more of the manuscript. She titled it “PALE DEATH.” I believe it would have…

  A hot summer day spent climbing over ancient Athenian ruins in 1964 became more uncomfortable back in the air-conditioning of our hotel. After the five of us had dragged in, showered, washed the sweat out of our hair and put on pajamas, we ordered…

My grandson’s bus is late…or I’m early. He’s six and someone walks to meet the school bus each day; today it’s me. I settle on the low curb in the available shade of a dried-out bush to wait. It’s quiet, the sounds of rural nature…

A clipboard and pen were poised in the hands of the young man standing in the hotel lobby. He wore khaki shorts above strong, tanned legs, anchored by dusty hiking boots and a whistle on a cord around his neck. I watched casually across the…

This is a brochure I recently created for the Corsicana Main Street Project.  Wolf Brand is part of our family history as well as a part of Corsicana history.  J. C. West was my grandfather, James West my dad.

Texas has always remained close to its Mexican heritage. Just how close that can be in some of the most southern of our 254 counties can at times bewilder even a fellow Texan from a more northern county. Dimmit county is one of the most…

                 A downtown parade was among the most exciting events of a childhood spent in a small Texas town. In our old family albums are photos taken by my grandfather of the 1918 Armistice Day Celebration with streets jammed with men and…

A story by Lois Toone West (1920-1992), my mother, reprinted as written in the 1960s What’s so unbelievable about a dog’s being able to understand the human language?  “Nothing,” my family would be quick to reply. But what was unbelievable that day to one “member”…

I still flash on embarrassing memories that make me cringe inside, especially those that happened during the years from 12 to about 18 when we are all most vulnerable to self-criticism. My sister and I, of course, had passing crushes on boys who we valued…

It was bone cold, the wind sending chilly gusts around our legs and up loose backs of our jackets.  I pushed my muffler up to warm my nose. We were three American visitors steadily working our way through the quaint streets of Canterbury, one of…