My mother’s sculptures—they are everywhere. Large formations, odd little bits and pieces of driftwood gathered from the mountains near her home in Cripple Creek. Though she did not sculpt the wood with her own hands, she chose each one and carefully placed them in the gallery of her yard.

The beauty of her artful arrangement struck me as I strolled through this driftwood garden. Though each weathered piece is placed with purpose, it all appears casually strewn about the yard, as if by chance. 

One piece with an open loop resembling a basket cradles a bouquet of Colorado wildflowers. Another, which she calls “The Swan,” has a long, graceful neck, bark-formed wings and a twig beak. 

My favorite is “The Lounger”—a trunk with long, root-like legs, perfectly shaped for sitting.

In this hardwood garden, I see my mother’s spirit. All her life, she has created something from nothing. She accepted hardship and somehow turned it into survival. 

That spirit kept her working in the cotton and tobacco fields as a young girl in a very large family. It helped her survive hunger, abuse, divorce, stillbirths and the unbearable loss of her husband to a drunk driver. She also buried a daughter, my sister Sharon. 

In this garden of wind-sculpted wood, I see the flexing and bending of my mother’s life through storms past and present. These driftwood pieces mirror her sad acceptance that her daughters don’t get along, despite her many attempts to mend those bonds. 

My mother is the only person I know who can take so little and make it into so much. 

She believes in everything—aspen trees will grow anywhere you plant them. Trees will sprout from avocado pits. Cherry seeds, plum pits—under her care, anything can take root. Think it’s impossible to catch a fish with banana bait? She’s done it. She believes Elvis might still be alive—and Bigfoot, too. 

She can’t stand to see anything wasted. She saves bags and boxes, plastic containers, forgotten roller skates and rusty keys. She treasures old pieces of Sarah Coventry jewelry, Melmac dishes, my dad’s Army uniform, cracked coffee cups— yesteryear’s souvenirs. 

Brenda Morgan, left, admires her mother’s volunteerism—Gallegos and her husband Lucas have cooked a free meal for 75-100 weekly for 19 years.

Thank heavens for this trait. Recently, she opened a trunk full of my baby sister’s life-tender pieces: a tiny sweater, a Shari Lewis makeup case, a stuffed horse with red stripes, her toothbrush, her last hospital toys, a lock of blonde hair shaved for surgery. Her pink horn-rimmed glasses. Only a mother could bear to keep these. 

Her kindness flows so freely, it humbles me. She won’t turn anyone away. No matter the crime or offense, she truly believes everyone has some redeeming quality. In her eyes, we are all “rehabable.” 

“They might steal my car,” she once said, “but they just might bring it back when they’re done with it.” 

I haven’t always been gracious to my mother. I have rebelled against her way of doing things. But now, I see the qualities I once viewed as weaknesses were really her greatest strengths. The older I get, the more I see her in me. We stack dishes the same, arrange cabinets the same. Down deep, I know we are more alike than I care to admit. I am, in so many ways, her.

When my father died at age 40, I feared my mother would, too. But she didn’t. At 38, with two kids still at home, she found a well of courage and strength she didn’t know she had. Slowly, she found her footing again. And still, she gives—without bitterness, without limits. She continues to set the bar higher for those that follow. She’s taught me that the impossible is possible. That beauty can be sculpted from hardship.

At 87, Betty Jo has traveled many trails. I’ve no doubt she will travel a few more before it’s time to leave.

Her driftwood garden is more than decoration. It is a gift—a reminder of all she’s endured, all she’s created and all she continues to be.

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