How Growing Up Rural Shaped My Art

The desert raised me slowly, quietly.

Rural life in Kingston Canyon in the 1970s drifted along at its own rocking-chair pace. A place where time stood still. Life was uncomplicated and unreserved.

Smoky Valley was a welcome refuge, a place where the wide sky and expansive mountains gathered me up and helped me heal. A rugged beauty that allowed me to be wild and free.

My Dad’s Wild Nevada Commute

My dad had loved Kingston since the 1950s. His work took him all over Nevada, so he figured he could live anywhere he wanted. He learned to fly, bought Cessna, and built a house in Kingston. He’d fly out to job sites on Sunday nights, come home midweek, then head out again at sunrise until Friday. When he returned, he’d buzz the house to let us know he was near, and we’d pile into the truck with the dogs to pick him up at the tiny airstrip. I didn’t realize how cool that was at the time, but looking back… it really was.

Kingston house, circa 1973

The Gift of Boredom

On hushed desert days, when there was nothing to do, I learned to spark my own adventures. Boredom became the soil where my imagination grew. If I craved a story, I spun one from scratch. If I needed a friend, I sketched one into existence—often a wild horse.

Time was the ultimate gift. I spent countless hours teaching myself how to draw and paint in a quiet room, surrounded by clippings from an eclectic mix of influences: Peter Max, Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth, Maxfield Parrish and Charles Russell.

Simplicity

Watching TV was a luxury.

Reception only worked at night, when the desert dust settled and the airwaves cleared. Three channels, if the antenna behaved. No scrolling. No choices. Happy Days was one of my favorites, and I looked forward to it once a week.

Driving came early. My brother and I were allowed to drive on the private roads of the incorporated town of Kingston. Chris was just eleven (I was thirteen) when he taught me how to drive. We drove ourselves a few miles to the highway bus stop on school days.

Over the years, a handful of old vehicles came and went, each with its own quirkiness. My favorite was a trusty Corvair—nothing fancy, but what a great car! Drove like a plow in the snow due to its rear engine.

We walked everywhere.

A typical walk included following the creek to Kingston Village, then going up to Groves Lake miles up the canyon. Dogs padded along beside us. No water bottles. No cell phones. No plans beyond coming home before dark.

And somehow, we always did.

Desert friends.

There weren’t many kids in Kingston, but we clung to each other like family. We waited at the bus stop together, rode the long, rattling bus to school, and shared every class in the little schoolhouse in Austin. Some of those friendships have lasted a lifetime, weathered and true.

Visiting Kingston with my friend, Sunny, also from Kington Canyon and the Wine Glass Ranch in Smoky Valley, Nevada. Photobomb courtesy of cute cattle dog.

When your friend has a street named after her.

The endless desert night sky.

Every night, the Milky Way spilled across the sky, endless and bright, a quiet companion. Coyotes sang their ancient lullabies, their voices weaving through the darkness. I listened with quiet intent, holding a gentle respect for the creatures that lived alongside me.

Looking back, I realize how much that childhood shaped me.

It taught me to notice.

How to trust my instincts.

To find wonder in quiet places.

How to be still.

That sense of freedom—the kind rooted in nature and simplicity—still finds its way into my stories and illustrations today. I carry the desert’s soul with me, wherever I go.

Creating takes me back to that simple time in my life—a time I hold with only the highest regard.