I loved books from before I was born, and began writing (well, scribbling) as soon as I could hold a crayon. One thing led to another, and I progressed to pencil, typewriter, and computer, bought too many books, became a librarian, and added more of my own scribbles to the world. Reading, writing, ranching. Dogs and horses. The land. That’s it in a nutshell.

Further details: Love of the land led to living by the Laramie River for fourteen years with husband Roy and four kids, then moving to our own ranch in Wyoming’s Black Hills. Raised Morgan horses (also Herefords and Rambouillets), milked cows, tried to keep track of cats, was managed by border collies. Working in Coe Library at the University of Wyoming led to becoming Crook County Library Director. Having kids led to eight grandchildren and one (so far) great-grand. After being widowed in 2006, now live, read, and write on the ranch with mostly-golden Maxie and two ancient mares. Love life.

Books:

Co-edited with Linda Hasselstrom and Nancy Curtis:

Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West, Houghton Mifflin, 2004

Woven on the Wind: Women Write about Friendship in the Sagebrush West, Houghton Mifflin, 2001

Leaning Into the Wind: Women Write from the Heart of the West, Houghton Mifflin, 1997

Co-authored with Eleanor F. Prince:

Basic Horsemanship: English and Western, Doubleday, 1974, rev. 1993

Basic Training for Horses: English and Western, Doubleday, 1979, 1989

Basic Horse Care, Doubleday, 1986, 1989; German translation, Müller Rüschlikon, 1992

Poems, essays, reviews, and articles in periodicals and anthologies, including:

Owen Wister Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Westering, Farm & Ranch Living, Smithsonian, National Wildlife, Library Journal, Wyoming Library Roundup 

Wyoming Fence Lines: an Anthology of Prose and Poetry, David Romtvedt, ed., Wyoming Humanities Council and Wyoming Arts Council, 2007

Open Range: Poetry of the Reimagined West, Laurie Wagner Buyer & WC Jameson, eds., Ghost Road Press, 2007

In the Shadow of the Bear Lodge, Bearlodge Writers, Pat Frolander, ed., Many Kites Press, 2006

Wyoming Writers poetry chapbooks, 2007, 2000, 1998, 1995

Western Horse Tales, Don Worcester, ed., Republic of Texas Press 1994

Wyoming Governor’s Arts Award for Literature 2004

Consultant: Encyclopaedia Britannica on horses and horsemanship 2000

Numerous workshops, programs, and presentations (including radio) on writing, journaling, memoir, horses, and women’s writing in the West, 1997-present

It’s Not Over Until the Whistle Blows

by Gaydell Collier

           The faded red-orange label caught my eye as I sorted through old 78-rpm records. The word “Zephyr” repeated itself in white around the edge of the centered label. In the middle were the black, hand-scrawled words, “Bend . . . river,” and below, “Maier.”

          Immediately I was back in grade school on a momentous day over half a century ago—a day of huge expectations nearly shattered by catastrophe.

          We were fortunate in our school to have an excellent music teacher, Miss Helen Plinkiewicz, pronounced Plin-KAY-vish. I considered myself even more fortunate (our whole family did) that she and her fellow musician, Kirsten Hjelm, lived next door. Miss P was a first-order pianist, and Miss H sang with the Metropolitan Opera. We opened all our windows on that side of the house every warm evening to hear them practice. Sometimes Miss P played alone, running through Beethoven’s “Appassionata” or rippling the air with the third movement of his “Moonlight Sonata.” Sometimes she accompanied Miss H as the airwaves vibrated with Verdi or Wagner.

          At school, Miss P appeared prim and even severe, her dark hair pulled straight back into a tight bun. She put up with no nonsense, and she wrought wonders. Certain that all children could sing, she made sure they sang well. None of this letting kids sing off key any old which way—she singled out even the youngest and pushed them to lift their voices higher, higher until they reached the exact note. I thought the kids were surprised and pleased when the sound came out on key.

          By fourth grade, we sang Christmas carols and everything else in three parts—first soprano, second soprano, and alto. She sat at the piano in front of the room, facing the class. I remember sitting on the left—with the altos—pleased to be part of such a fine chorus. We put on remarkable concerts and tackled serious compositions generally beyond the scope of grade school talent.

          One day Miss P announced a grand proposal—we were to cut our own record! Looking back, I wonder what prompted such a production. This was before the days of easy recording. Cutting a record required bulky equipment and a technician. Was this simply the fulfillment of personal satisfaction? Or the culmination of a doctorate in music education—turning grade-school singing into something recordable? Or was it simply the desire to get these children to do their best and prove to them how very good their best could be?

          We practiced forever to make every facet of the project right—perfect three-part harmony, perfect timing, perfect pitch. “By the bend of the river, where rushes are gro-o-wing. . . .” Miss P drilled us in behavior. There could not be a cough, a sneeze, a rustle, or the tiniest sound out of place during the recording. “Where waters are flo-o-wing far down to the sea. . . .”

          She brought in a violinist, a woman who would accompany us while Miss P played the piano. Excitement bubbled in all of us. Truly this would be the creation of a work of art—not kid stuff, but the Real Thing! Orders for records were taken from the parents at some extravagant fee. I remember my parents gasping and having to struggle for the funds, but they wouldn’t have missed owning a copy.

          At last the day arrived. We gaped at the equipment set up at the front of the room, as the “sound” man hunched over his wires, microphones, and dials. No one else was allowed in—no parents or other teachers, not even the principal. The violinist fine-tuned her instrument. We waited as piano and violin began to play, and then we came in at exactly the right second on Miss P’s emphatic nod.

          We sang our very best, aware of the timeless permanence of this performance—something we would be able to listen to at home over and over again. “On a soft balmy June night, in the shimmering mo-o-nlight. . . ” We finished and held our breaths for the violin’s final, drawn-out strain, the tension in each of us wired tighter than the violin’s highest string.

          And then the noon whistle blew at the gyroscope plant down the street—strident, shocking, irreverent to the point of sacrilege. With the sudden release of a snapped rubberband, the entire chorus exploded into laughter, while the ladies tried to shush us without making any noise themselves.

          I think Miss P was devastated, but we kids thought it was hilarious. I’d play that record right now if I had a phonograph that could handle 78s. But even just holding it in my hand, I can hear every note, feel the emotion—the tension, the release. We did play it over and over at home, holding our breaths each time in anticipation of its magnificent final blast, and again bursting into laughter.

          I hope Miss P didn’t suffer too much. She had, after all, achieved a major accomplishment. But for us kids, the special project had taken on an even finer dimension. The noon whistle poked a hole in solemnity and made the recording—and the occasion—truly memorable.

Quotations are from the sheet music: “By the Bend of the River: A Song of Drifting For High Voice and Piano” by Clara Edwards. G. Schirmer, Inc., New York, 1927.

Gaydell Collier

"It is in the appreciation of beauty that our lives are ultimately expressed. This can come in the formation of a perfect balepile, the creation of an attractive casserole, the exquisite coordination of horse and rider, or the writing of a precise poem, a polished phrase."

Maxie Quote: