Dad · Holidays · Memories · Mom · MY LIFE · My Thoughts · square dance

If Your Dad Is Still Alive: Hug Him Today!

Dad, as a young man
Dad, as a young man

If your dad is still alive today—hug him! My dad died January 6, 1996, thirty years ago. I would love to hear his voice, smell his leathery sweat from his cowboy shirt and hat, and hug his lean firm body.

As I’ve thought about writing this blog on Father’s Day 2026, I have lingered over the loss of my dad. After thirty years, you might think I was over the pain, the loss, but no! If I could dance once more with him and do his unique dance steps he taught Mom and me, I would celebrate.

Dad riding his favorite horse, Rusty
Dad riding his favorite horse, Rusty

Dad led a full rich rancher’s life. He worked besides his dad until Granddad died November 6, 1966. They didn’t always agree on everything, but they had a system that worked.

After Granddad died, Mom stepped in to be his right-hand woman. Daily she went with him to the ranch, doing whatever the season required: feeding cattle and digging out of snow drifts in the winter, calving in the spring, preparing for shipping calves in the fall, and stepping back to relax in the summer. His eyes lit up when he bragged on how much she helped.

He loved his brand, Lazy H Spear Point. He put this on the calves when he branded them each spring. Yes, it hurt. I remember the smell of the hair burning, but the state required it to protect the ranchers from cattle rustling. You can see it on Dad’s tie in the first picture above.

Dad and Granddad ran Herefore cattle. He often said, “My favorite colors in the world are red, white and green: Hereford cattle in a green pasture.”

Dad and Mom danced whenever and wherever they could. Remember, they met on the dance floor. They loved the local country and western dances in the Branson gym. I remember watching them glide across the dance floor so fluid and graceful—to me they competed with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Dad always had a dance or two for me. And he often danced with nieces and great nieces. At many dances around the area, they had a tradition of exchanging dances with other couples too.

 Often after the Branson dances, they hosted After Parties at our house. I remember the living room and dining room overflowing with friends, laughter and alcohol!

They also loved to square dance. Dad was our 4-H club caller and taught many members to square dance. They traveled hundreds of miles to dance and made lifelong friends with square dancers all over southeastern Colorado, northeastern New Mexico and beyond.

When we were growing up, Dad didn’t have the means to travel much. When I was ten years old, we did a trip to San Diego, California to my half-brother’s graduation. While there, we went to Disneyland and had an amazing trip.

Later in my teen years, we made other trips to San Diego for Christmas.

After I left home, I went with Mom and Dad on several local trips around Colorado and New Mexico. We also traveled to California to see us family out there. On almost every trip we took, he had several rules: get up early and travel until about 10:30 PM each night. I fought with him to stop earlier so I could enjoy the motel’s swimming pool. Once he did and I had a blast. Another rule he had—we could only be gone a week. Dad was such a country boy; he couldn’t accept being away from home and the ranch for very long.

They traveled to Nashville on a tour and had an amazing time.

Dad was a family man. He took care of his parents until their dying days.

He had three children with his first wife and two with my mom. They had nine grandchildren and I’ve lost count of the great grandchildren. He did not live to see many of his great grandchildren.

Holiday gatherings like Thanksgiving and Christmas meant the world to him. He never joined us in the games around the round table in the dining room, but often I saw him laughing a long with us and keeping up with the conversation going around the table.

I long for another dance around the gym floor in Branson, in his arms as he leads me through the waltz or two-step. Anytime I heard “In the Mood” at a dance with Dad, I would grab him to dance because that’s the rhythm he did his unusual movement. Oh, to do that again!!!

But mostly I’d like a hug, a bear hug and a whisper in his ear, “Happy Father Day.” I know his reaction—he’d smile and snuggle close and say, “Shorty, I love you.” You can’t beat that!

Is your dad alive? Hug him if he’s near. Call him if he lives away from you. Celebrate him today! And let me know what you did!

My Last Dance With Dad!
My Last Dance With Dad!

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Dad · family · My Thoughts · Ranching

Father’s Day: An Early June Celebration

Happy Father's Day - early

Let’s start early on celebrating Father’s Day. Yes, it’s two weeks away, but I want to share my father with you, Harold Horner and his story and how it unfolded.

Where Dad Started

Harold Horner was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma on March 20, 1918, the eldest child of Laurence and Pearle and the first grandchild, celebrated and spoiled by both sides of the family. Because of Dad having “a touch of tuberculosis” that turned into asthma, his family doctor encouraged his young parents to relocate to a higher and drier climate. Such a twist of fate!

I can’t imagine the heartbreak for both sets of grandparents as the possibility of a move of this couple and their children hundreds of miles away loomed overhead. And what about my grandparents? They had lived near their parents their whole lives, but the health of their eldest won out.

Granddad carried the mail in Tulsa after trying his hand at a bike repair business with his brother. Way before the internet, he somehow connected with Mr. Bass in Branson, Colorado and they exchanged jobs. I have idea how they connected, but they did, and the wheels started turning.

Travel in the 1920s

What the trip from Oklahoma to Colorado might have looked like! - early
What the trip from Oklahoma to Colorado might have looked like!

In April 1927 my grandparents, my nine-year-old dad and my eight-year-old aunt left Tulsa, Oklahoma’s tree lined streets to Branson, Colorado in an awesome old car, probably a Model T or A. I don’t know for sure—I’ve seen pictures. As I’ve thought of this, I marveled at my grandparents’ adventuresome spirit.

Was this move necessity in their eyes? I will never know. I do know my grandmother never adjusted to the plains and canyons of Branson and blamed my dad for this move his whole life. Standing at the window, looking out over the vast tree less prairie, she yearned for the tree-lined streets of Tulsa and the green.

Dad never spoke of this journey to me. I just can’t imagine making that five hundred miles then in that car. In a car today, Google says it would take about eight hours. Google AI overview says it would have taken them 14-20 days in the 1920s. I never asked Granddad or Dad how long it took.

Dangers of the Trip

Google AI overview also notes that they would have faced unpaved road networks with dirt or gravel roads. They may have faced mud slippery roads in April. Or they could have faced a spring blizzard, wind and snow drifts.

As “the early automobiles like the Ford Model A or T required frequent maintenance, and flat tires were a daily hazard on rough western roads,” another obstacle followed them. The last issue they faced was the lack of the amazing infrastructure we know today. “Services like gas stations, mechanics, and motels were sparse. Travelers often had to carry extra cans of fuel, motor oil, and spare inner tubes.”

Taking a break from writing, I shared the topic with my husband, Lin. He asked about the speed limit in the 20s. Again, I ran to Google and found out in the AI Overview no federal speed limit existed. On the dusty country roads, my granddad would have driven, the speed limit would have been between 30 and 35 mph on the rural dirt roads. Imagine that! In our 75-80 mph world of today, that seems impossible. No wonder it took so long to travel the five hundred miles.

Where Dad Ended Up

So, at nine years old, Dad and his family started a new life on the plains of southeastern Colorado. He adapted quickly to the rural life and immediately acquired a horse. Horses and the country living became his life.

Dad saw a T.B. specialist in Colorado Springs, Colorado—176 miles away. It would have taken 10-14 hours to travel dirt roads there, so it was another lengthy trip for the times. The T.B. was arrested, but he lived with asthma as a child.

More next week. Meet my dad, the cowboy!

Finally,

For Dad’s 75th birthday, Mom and I compiled a book he helped us put together about how the Horner ranch was put together. This book is available on Amazon in paperback or e-book format.

I would be remiss for not writing down Dad’s stories—he exceled at storytelling. My sister chided me after she read this book to her. She questioned with sadness in her eyes, “Where are his stories?”

So, it’s never too early— be sure and write down, record—do anything to capture those stories. I really would have liked to hear Dad’s nine-year-old version of that long trip from Tulsa, but he’s gone! Don’t wait!

PS – I’m sorry to say I have no pictures here of my dad as a child.

It's never to early to talk to your dad, your mom or your grandparents! A Plushie of Larada!
It’s never to early to talk to your dad, your mom or your grandparents! A Plushie of Larada!

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Time Measured Out!: Navigating Life’s Journey Through Poetry, Book #2 e-book

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Colorado · family · Memories · Mom · MY LIFE · My Thoughts · Panama

Day 21 – Here and There!: A Poem About Two Places

juggling - here

For most of my adult life, I have struggled with “here” and “there.” I grew up, moved and had my adult home but my home in Branson, Colorado always called to me.

After our move to Panamá, this poem came up when I was visiting in Branson in December 2025. Witness my current struggle with “here” and “there”!

Here & There: Juggling Two Lives

The familiar train whistle blows

                  And I know I’m home

                                    In Branson,

A sound that echoes through my childhood.

The wind blows

                  Dust devils twirl on the plains.

The mesa towers to the southwest of us.

Saddlerock hangs to the west

                  As another reminder of home.

This my here now!

Our family ranch calls to me

                  Dad voices his familiar stories

                                    In my heart

                  Granddad looms large in my history

                  Mom’s sweet presence and squeals of delight

                                    Echo in my soul

                                    Memories overflow

                                                      Even though they’re gone.

Now, sitting beside my brother

                  With our stories.

He’s the only one who can verify their truth

                  Our stories

                  Our family’s stories

Sometimes quiet fills the truck cab

                  Dust swirls

                  Silence

                  Reverence for our shared lives

My brother opens up while we ride around

                  Safe

                  With deep stories

                                    His childhood disappointments

                                                      At our community church.

                                    I never knew!

                                                      Why???

The familiar sights

                  Cholla cactus

                                    Graceful with arms extended

                  Yucca

                                    Sharp spikes pointing heavenly

                  Pinon pine trees

                  Cedar trees

                                    The smell I love!

                  Oak brush, orange at this time of the year

                  Dead trees ravaged by drought and bugs

                  A windy trail, bumpy with rocks

                                    Reminds me of a Canyon Lullaby!

We try to make daily trips to the ranch,

                  But our busy schedule doesn’t allow.

Each trip feeds my soul, my spirit, my heart!

The train whistles in the background

                  Of my life here

                                    Several times a day

                                    Welcomed and comforting!

This house I inherited overflows

                  With Mom and Dad

I just used Mom’s pressure cooker

                  To cook spaghetti noodles

                  She called it her “Poor Man Microwave.”

Dad’s pot on the stove

                  To add some humidity to this dry climate.

Here my life is

                  Ranch business,

                  English, English, English!

                  No one knocks on my door anymore               

                                    My brother only

I visited my 96-year-old friend

                  But she’s failing!

That’s the here, but underneath

                  The “there” beckons!

Life there!

Our new life in Panama

                  Green jungle surrounds us

                  New friends live near us

                                    They knock on my door.

                  Beautiful clear mornings as we look towards

                                    Vulcan Barú

                  Rainy afternoons during the rainy season now.

Our life carved out

                  Two markets for fun and people

                  A knitting group

My recovery group

Basketball games, following one of our landlords

A more relaxed life

                  Less stress

                  US politics not the focus

No dishwasher in our rental house

                  Gives me time looking out the window

                                    At the green

                                    The colorful flowers

                                    The hummingbird buzzing the lavender flowers

                                                      Being present

                                                                        A gift!

Here my life is

                  My book business

                  Spanish, English, Spanish

                                    Which I love!

I never planned to move

                  To Panama

I planned to live and die in Tijeras

                  And visit Branson

My here and there

                  Used to be Tijeras, then Branson

But we stood on our decision and morals

                  We said no to the insanity

                  We took action,

                                    Well planned by Lin

                  And it happened

Here and there—juggling these two lives

                  When I’m here, I think of there.

                  When I’m there, I yearn for here.


My Writing Group

I shared this on Monday with my Writing Group from New Mexico at a Zoom meeting. One person’s critiqued: “I loved the homeyness of it. Also, I can relate to the train because I had a train in my childhood. I also love the line – ‘The “here” now.’”

Another writer in the group shared he loved the visuals and it felt so many of the topics in it were universal.

Finally,

Juggling the here and there has become an art for me—I’ve done it my whole life. What are your thoughts about this poem? Any line resonate with you? Any topic remind you of something in your life? I hope it did and please share it.

Larada Horner-Miller - here
Here or there? Where am I?

Professional Reader


My Newest Books

Time Measured Out!: Navigating Life’s Journey Through Poetry, Book #2 e-book

ISBN – 9798989688654

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ISBN – 979-8989688623

ALWAYS FREE

Was It a Dream? book cover

Was It a Dream?: Navigating Life’s Journey Through Poetry, Book #1 – e-book

ISBN – 979-8989688630

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This Tumbleweed Landed

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Friends · My Thoughts

Laughter & Death: A Paradox?

paradox ahead - Laughter

Laughter and death: a paradox? For sure, but I had an amazing experience this weekend that gave me a different perspective.

On Friday, April 5, I attended George’s funeral in La Junta, Colorado with my brother. Because of his likable personality, I had a feeling the church would be full, so we arrived about thirty minutes early. Pickup trucks lined the street—I was right. As we approached the church’s entry, people milled around at the door. People packed the entryway. Friends and family already filled the sanctuary, so we ended up in the Choir Loft.

What a nice service he had. They had beautiful country and western songs throughout the service like “Wherever You are Tonight” and a traditional one, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” A close friend shared stories about George that made us laugh and remember his great sense of humor—also his love for storytelling. The minister shared a short sermon. The service ended with a PowerPoint show with more country-western music.

Then on Saturday, April 6, they planned a graveside service which led me to write the following poem:

Is Death a Laughing Matter?

I stood at the crossroads

            Between life and death.

It happens a lot now

            At 70,

repeatedly.

Yesterday, my brother and I walk by

            His wife’s grave as we walked

                        To George’s graveside service.

I stood near George’s casket

            In the country cemetery

                        Near Branson, Colorado.

I brushed my hand across the edge

            Of the blue smooth metal edge—

Like a familiar touch

            To a friend’s shoulder

                        Standing nearby.

March winds blew

            Across the southeastern Colorado plains,

                        Swirling dust and grit,

                                    With a piercing cold edge,

                                                Adding to my grief.

A sea of faces watched

            The day blow by.

Some familiar—lifelong friends—

            Some not!

I sought out his family.

            I wanted to hug them,

                        To share their sorrow,

                        To touch George through them again.

I met his 89-year-old sister

            I had heard of

                        But didn’t know.

She left Branson the year

            Before I was born.

Excessive strong wind gusts hampered

            The solemn ceremony planned.

A short thoughtful prayer filled the air instead.

Then the music began,

            With somber lyrics,

            Country-western flavor

            Guitars and familiar sounds.

Tears ran down my cheeks.

            Sorrow for the loss

                        Of a dear lifelong friend.

            Sorrow and regrets for

                        No more of his stories.

As the last song started up, I recognized its intro

            And singer, Joe Diffie.

I gasped; in the midst of tears,

            I choked back a chuckle.

The chorus confirmed it: “Prop me up beside

            the jukebox if I die.”

In the howling wind, I strained to hear the first verse,

            But the chorus captured me

                        And everyone there.

Laughter erupted—

            Release

            Appropriate humor

Through her tears, his partner

            Announced,

“George planned it all!”

At that point,

            I laughed;

                        I cried.

The laughter comforted me,

            because

George taught me a meaningful lesson yesterday:

            Tears

            Laughter

            Death

            Life

It fits together,

            Not a paradox,

But life

            Reality!

I witnessed an honest

            Graveside service,

                        Not contrived

                        Solemn

But mixed with

            Laughter and tears.

Isn’t that life?

            Now it’s death for me!

Thank you, George,

George Mitchell - laughter

            Laughter and death mixed,

                        And I walked away smiling

                                    Because of you!


In closing, as I age and continue to lose close friends and family, death has become a hot topic. George’s graveside service helped me get it all in perspective—be sure the celebration of your life reflects who you really are! And for me, poetry captures the essence of any life event!


Hair on Fire won 1st place in the March Nonfiction book cover contest on AllAuthors.com - laughter

Enjoy my interview on the podcast, The Writing Table

Hair on Fire: A Heartwarming & Humorous Christmas Memoir

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