My cousin Sue died last month. We were children together, a shared becoming. Her death is a shock to me, even though we both approach the reasonable time. She was the ranch girl, I was the town girl. My smarts were book and classroom smarts; hers were real-world, physical, competent smarts.
Sue could do anything. Her physical courage was astounding. As a child she did gymnastic stunts on the back of her horse, while it moved. As an adult she calmly walked through a field inhabited by a dangerous bull. She needed to get to the other side; she was brave, not (always) reckless. She did keep her eye on him as he snorted and pawed the ground.
She broke horses to ride. She managed ranches. She could fix things; she knew how they worked.
And, maybe even most importantly, she was an artist, with an artist’s eye. Her photographs are wonderful, Montana landscapes that reflected her love of that ground and communicated that love and knowledge to the viewer. She was aware. She could see, and she did.
She never knew how good she was.
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