Well not really teenage, more like my early twenties. My first wife J and I moved from NYC to Fort Collins CO. The fires now burning in the mountains above the town brought back memories of that time. Mostly sweet ones.
One of my friends was P L scion of a tobacco family. We worked together as part of the crew on the renovation of an irrigation dam. The bosses were rednecks, and our hair was too long but somehow the work got done.
J loved, still loves, dogs and we always had too many of them. Those pooches could smell her love, and the free ones always came by looking for a home. One day a Russian wolfhound showed up at our door, our pack leader Gerling made sure that he knew who was boss, not the best situation for keeping a happy home. Since Gerling was a border collie mix the wolfhound thought it would be easy, just move in and take over. But Gerling was seventy pounds of dog in a twenty pound bag; no way Jose, or was it Ivan? So we had to find the wolfhound a home.
PL was living with a lady up in the mountains above town in a cabin that her grandfather had built, so we took the hound up there, he loved it. I loved it to. Her land butted up to the National Forest, elk walked through her back yard, the galaxy put on a light show every night, and the air had that smell that you don’t get in the East Village.
The weekend ended and it was back to town and my workaday world of pouring concrete.
We soon heard that the wolfhound was dead, brought down by a pack of coyotes while defending his new territory. But Linda still lived in her cabin in the hills.
Those memories drew me to Google where I learned that the only death was our friend Linda, lost in her magical cabin in the mountains.
To Linda Steadman dead at age 62. RIP.
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