Kate Boyes

You know me. I was that kid. The one who wandered the playground alone at recess because playing house with the girls was boring and playing baseball with the boys was not allowed. The one who ran into walls while reading a book on the way to class, tended to stop suddenly in the hallway to stare at nothing in particular, and climbed a playground tree (an act that was strictly prohibited) almost every day to catch a glimpse of freedom on the other side of the schoolyard fence. Yeah, that was me.

I grew up on the banks of Crocker Creek, who was my dearest friend. When I wasn't puddling around in her water, I was tramping through the woods that extended for miles on each side of her. Every tree, stone, and being—seen or unseen, sentient or not—had a personality, a story, and a powerful effect on me. My grandmother called my rambles "wool gathering": I didn't understand her reference at the time, but I'm sure that's why I took up weaving later on. I'm sure, also, that those early experiences influenced my master's thesis (on bears) and my doctoral work (in environmental sociology). I lived by the Bear River when I taught at Utah State University, at the mouth of Coal Creek when I taught at Southern Utah University, and near (and sometimes on, and occasionally in) the San Juan River when I worked with Navajo students as an artist in residence. On a long ramble long ago I realized there was no place I felt more at home than on the coast of Oregon, so here I am.

My essays and poems are published in journals, anthologies, and college texts. Writing a biography of Paul McCartney gave me an excuse to belt out Beatles tunes whenever I wanted without anyone looking at me askance. Several of my plays have been produced, although, to be honest, my greatest theatrical achievement is baking over one thousand cookies for a local theatre company's annual winter holiday show. It's decent work if you can get it.