Letter to My Community

My heart is heavy as I reflect on the increasing number of suicides in this valley. Someone right now may feel so hopeless they are contemplating death. Our life circumstances vary, but I understand that sinking feeling that can come and go, and be all consuming at times.

Each person is born with a void inside that we try to fill with fleeting things. Years ago my fillers included a career, college degrees, a successful business, good deeds, physical activities, adventure, people, etc. But fourteen years ago I realized none of them reached deep enough to fill that emptiness within. My career was at the mercy of the boss. The economy affected my business. Adventures lasted only for a time. I couldn’t do enough “good deeds.” One injury could change my ability to be physically active. Friends walked away. Too many loved-ones died. My identity and security were all temporary, and founded in my selfish pride. I had no unchangeable purpose that filled the space that tried to devour me.

I reached out, and found someone who explained biblical scriptures that touched me. Once I realized my need for and accepted Jesus as my Savior, my identity in Christ would never change, no matter my job, marital status, friends, etc. [John 1:12; 1 Cor 6:17; Col 1:13-14] I am only able to live as God’s child through the presence of the Holy Spirit. Through God’s love, my “old self” died with Christ on the cross, and I would no longer be slave to my pride after accepting His resurrected life. He alone makes me righteous, having nothing to do with my works. [Galatians 2:20; Romans 6]

That day I gave Jesus permission to be Lord of my life. A sense of freedom accompanied that prayer. Though I’ve walked through many hardships since then, great victories have followed. I now see trials as an opportunity for God to show off, and grow me. And my imperfections are a daily reminder of my need for Christ. I have never regretted surrendering my life to Christ, and following His lead. The Holy Spirit filled that empty place with hope, peace and an eternal purpose. That sinking feeling has never returned, in spite of my circumstances.



Jesus came to carry our burdens, but will never just take them from us. He came to give us life, but will not force it upon us. He came to set us free from the bondage of sin and death, but will never make us accept it. God gave us free will to chose, and we have a choice. No matter the depth of pain, the Lord is waiting to touch your heart. He wants a relationship with you that will never leave you or forsake you. He offers courage and strength to press on, and joy amid the sorrow.

I encourage you to seek God. He will show up and rock your world with a more fulfilling purpose that you ever thought possible. There is eternal hope in Jesus Christ—right now.

God made a way through faith in his one and only Son. Believing in who Jesus really is leads to an abundant life on earth, and eternal life with God. He didn’t go to all the trouble of sending his Son just to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again. [John 3:16-17]

Choose the abundant Life!!

For the Love of Joe

“The rifle has been donated back for LIVE auction,” the auctioneer announced. The crowd roared its approval at the Joe Nethercott Benefit this month at the Saddleback Vista Arena. Yet no one could foresee what would happen next.

Joe and Donna are currently at the Craig Hospital in Denver, CO for Joe’s recovery and rehabilitation for a spinal cord injury. On Labor Day Joe rode a mule through the Big Hole Mountain range to prepare for hunting season. Not an unusual thing for him to do. He’s a cowboy who trains horses as a way of life. And on this day the line of animals stopped along a mountain trail. The mule Joe rode unknowingly stood over a hornet’s nest. The hornets stung the underbelly of the mule, and the end result left Joe off the mule with an injured spinal cord at his neck.



But like many who live in Teton Valley being a cowboy isn’t Joe’s only trade. He also drives the county school bus sharing his love and humor with the kids. And a few years back Joe and Donna felt God calling them to build and operate a hotel in Victor, ID they named Cowboy Roadhouse Lodge. But more than what they “do” for a living, they’re the kind of people you meet and never forget. The kind who makes you feel special no matter who you are to them. And since Joe is a native to these parts, he’s left his impression on many, including this “newcomer” of almost ten years.

At the benefit I marveled at the sheer number of people who showed up. The local newspaper reported around eight hundred. When you consider the small population of the valley and we’re in the “off season” of a hard hit economy, a turnout like that is nothing less than astounding. And it wasn’t just farmers and ranchers, but also skiers, laborers, business owners, resort personnel, musicians, artists, fishing guides, children, teachers, part-time residents. The whole spectrum of Teton Valley came out for the love of Joe. And a lump filled my throat when a wife pushed her husband into the arena in a wheelchair. It’s been just a few years since his accident, and this couple traveled to see and encourage Joe and Donna for the journey to come. A divine arrangement in my mind.

While my friends and I stood in line at the benefit, one reminded me, “Joe broke his leg skiing. He took a jump like a teenage kid a few years back,” she’d said in response to another who thought, “Most cowboys don’t ski.” My mind raced back to a bluebird, powder day of laughing and skiing with Joe and Donna about four years earlier. Joe with his cowboy hat and silk scarf around his neck, even on the ski hill as he moved down the slope with the best of them. Cowboys in these parts do ski, indeed.

Children ran around the arena, roping each other or just clowning around. Adults hugged as the vast land space and “busy” keeps many paths from crossing in the summer and fall. People walked by the prizes to see what they wanted to bid on and help Joe at the same time. The line for food stayed long for hours, yet steadily moved. The servers, young and old, all graciously thanked each person for coming out, and I remember one small girl who served salad say, “Thanks for helping Joe.”

My friends and I moved through a sea of people and found a place to sit and savor our pit-roasted pork, baked Idaho spud and salad. The man I sat next to said, “I sure miss Joe.” His lips pursed together. “I ran my cows by his house the other day. He’d always saddle up and give us a hand. That’s just the way Joe was.” A helper no matter what he had planned.

This night everyone had a chance to win, whether through tickets, raffles, or silent or live auction. Hundreds of prizes filled the arena: ponies, a mounted elk head, oil changes, lift tickets to ski, hand-stitched quilts, books, paintings, jewelry, wine, home-made mustard, jams and canned goods, weekend getaways, H.D. Dunn Angus beef, various massage packages,dolls, cookie jars, baked goods, framed prints . . . I can’t possibly name each one.

But no one could’ve foreseen that the two rifles up for a $10 raffle would eventually catch the attention of all in the arena. When they announced the first winner, he put the rifle up for LIVE auction to raise MORE money for Joe. The crowd gasped at the generosity and the first rifle added around $500.

A volunteer drew for the second rifle. The winner was announced. He thought about his prize and then offered it for LIVE auction, too. The crowd cheered and the bidding began.

The battle started with many, yet as the offer neared a grand the contenders began to thin. The random conversations in the barn started to settle, and eyes bounced back and forth between the two cowboys now engaged in the “The Gunfight at the Saddleback Vista Arena.”

When bidding reached $1500, I took note of something different in the eyes of the two men who remained in this fight. One old. One young. Though they tried to keep a steady face their eyes watered on the prize. Not the rifle held up for all to see. But they clearly remained on Joe, likely lending them a hand in the past. Their battle had everything to do with giving back to their friend. To help him get through the fight of his life.

The arena fell silent except for the voices bidding and the auctioneer who called the fight. And when the offer hit near $2000, the younger cowboy graciously bowed out. My own eyes welled with theirs. The on-lookers stood up and cheered, as we knew it wasn’t a battle of ego or territory or revenge as in gunfights of the past. A greater prize was at stake.



By the end of the night over $33,000 was collected to benefit Joe in his recovery. Yet this event was much more than about gathering money. This event called love to come together in one place—for one man—for one outcome. There’s no doubt in my mind that God bundled all of this up and sent it to Joe and Donna to help them press on. It was all for the love of Joe and Donna Nethercott . . . and so much more.

Ah, Sam Peckinpah

Sam Peckinpah.



That’s what I remember from my first few weeks of English 102, round one, at least in regards to content. Some twenty years later, my teacher’s name evades me, but not Hollywood director/screen writer Sam Peckinpah. Unfortunately this iconic name doesn’t conjure up warm memories. But in his defense, it actually has nothing to do with him. I’m sure if I watched some of his films or studied his clever screenplays today, his name would garner some admiration—maybe.

Years ago I had watched re-runs of The Wild Bunch and Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid. I don’t recall the story line but I do remember the shoot-em-up death scenes “Bloody Sam” had pioneered on film. I’m sure I've heard his screen adapted lines travel off the tongue of Marshal Dillon through his gun’s smoke as he shot down a black-cloaked gunslinger trying to disturb the peace in Dodge City. My preteen heart raced right along with Miss Kitty’s as she peered wide-eyed through the window of her Long Branch Saloon, hoping the Marshal had survived. And when the fight ended, the attraction that traveled through their lingering words and eyes surely made me blush. But then again, Bloody Sam’s type pads usually tapped on the harder side of the story—blood, guts and gore—1955’s style.

But for me, I must first move beyond English 102. Maybe then I can unearth a deeper appreciation of Mr. Peckinpah’s creative ways and set him free from the grave he has occupied since 1984.

You see, Dr. Nameless had, and maybe still has, a fascination with Sam Peckinpah. He even wrote a book revealing his high regard for Bloody Sam’s part in unleashing the American Cinema from a pseudo-western world. The title of my professor’s book is as elusive his name, though Dr. Nameless used it as the foundation of his class. A required purchase and reading for each of his students.

Our first assignment involved reading a chapter of Dr. Nameless’s Sam Peckinpah book. He proposed a question that we had to respond to in the form of an essay. At the time I likely found the topic rather boring. I do confess to the possibility of high levels of social distraction that year. Do consider my position as a student athletic trainer for the collegiate football team. As a freshman, some of the finest specimen XY chromosomes could create surrounded me. I’m sure my testosterone levels raged against my estrogen production, tainting any common sense a freshman girl could possess.

Did I operate at my full academic potential that year? Probably not, but that’s really not the point.

A week after I'd turned in the assignment, Dr. Nameless walked around the room, calling out names and letting papers flop like a cannon ball on top of the desks. About halfway through his stack, he said, “Jennifer Griffith,” in a firm monotone voice. I raised my sweaty hand to indicate my position amid the sea of students.

He walked over.

I smiled.

He did not.

He let go of my essay. The stapled, loose-leaf papers fell off of his fingertips, landing flat in front of me. I looked down. A red D-minus had decorated the top of my paper.

My eyes widened. A flame ignited in the pit of my stomach, consuming any poise inside of me.

I’d never made a D on any English paper.

Sweat beaded along my forehead. The only D I’d made was in high school Algebra II for a nine-week grading period. But that grade was different. Almost expected in Mrs. Terrebonne’s dreaded, but highly effective, class. I had not been in college long enough to realize Dr. Nameless held a reputation of his own. Even so, I figured I could rise above any teacher’s propensity to challenge students with a little extra instruction from them—if history repeated itself.

I swallowed the lump that had held my throat hostage for what felt like an eternity. My breathing resumed. I searched my essay for corrective marks, flipping page after page—nothing. Only my words, my essay, my thoughts. The search for what I needed—direction, correction, perimeters, encouragement—ended where I had started, with nothing.

I wondered what I could do to rise above this D-grading mark?

There was nothing from the one positioned to help me grow, learn, move beyond my current academic level, to a point I actively sought.

I flipped back to page one. D-minus. Bold red. Nothing more.

I straightened my spine to get a better viewpoint of the others who had received their essay grade. Heavy eyes, droopy lips, heads faced down. A few smiles. From what I could tell, some essays had constructive remarks. Others did not.

Dr. Nameless dismissed the class.

I had to know how to proceed.

A plan rose above my defeating thoughts. I’ll go talk to Dr. Nameless. I didn’t savor teetering on the cliff of failure with nothing to hold on to. Before I could stand up, a line had formed at his desk. A cheerleader, two football players, and a basketball player all waited with essays in hand, and I’m sure, a question trembling upon their tongues.

I joined them, bringing up the rear of the athletes on campus, all hanging from that same cliff. We could at least hold on to each other.

I started to think about the students in front of me. A pretty sturdy bunch, not just on the field, but also in the classroom. And, I happened to know the ACT scores of the two football players in front of me. Perfect. Both of them. I had gone to high school with the basketball player. He graduated with top honors. Not sure about the cheerleader, but I'd gained a little more confidence standing on the ridgeline with this superior lot of academic warriors. At least behind a pair whose brains far exceeded my capacity, according to the ACT.

Dr. Nameless stood at his desk, acting like the lead in Have Gun, Will Travel. His tongue shot off like a well-oiled six-shooter in Paladin’s hand. He must’ve sized up each questioner before the individual battle.

To kill or merely wound.

I watched the sullen faces walk away from the firing line. Sam Peckinpah’s fixation of high body counts must’ve rubbed off on Dr. Nameless. I noticed his methods garnered similar results of the academic variety.

I’d suddenly found myself quivering and face-to-face with Dr. Nameless. I looked into his craggy eyes and crinkled up face, and mustered up some courage to proceed, hoping I would be one he’d chose to merely wound.

“I got a D-minus.”

Dr. Nameless kept the bothered look going, like he owned the trademark of such discouragement and secretly reveled in bloody climaxes.

I pressed on, hoping he would engage with a hint of kindness.

He would not.

“There are no corrections. Could you tell me how I can do better in your class?”

He lifted up one gray, whirly eyebrow. I interpreted it to mean, “You idiot, you should know the answer.” Suddenly the vision of Paladin looked tame. Dr. Nameless appeared to morph into the railroad detective Harrigan from The Wild Bunch. If there was a commission, he wanted it. Dead or alive, he’d collect his money all the same at the end of the day.

Delivered in what felt like classic, Bloody Sam slow motion, Dr. Nameless replied, “I don’t like your style of writing. You might as well drop my class today because that’s the highest grade you’ll ever make in here.”

To kill.

My jaw likely hinged open. My eyes probably looked like Miss Kitty’s Long Branch Saloon fight eyes. He stepped over my body to give the next freshman a chance to live or to die at the words from his six-shooter heart. I realized Dr. Nameless wasn’t interested in cleaning out and sewing up my wound. His answer flat lined my excitement for college on the invisible screen that displays life’s emotions.

I turned around, limped out of the class and across the campus to the comptroller’s office. I officially dropped the class.

DOA—dead on arrival.

If a thought or dream had existed in regards to writing, some nameless, faceless gray-haired man shot it down in less than ten seconds when I was eighteen years old. His bullets etched discouragement into the stone that records all of the negative banter a person receives through time.

But I’ve since realized that one person’s opinion and prejudices are just that—theirs. There is life after the death of a would-be writer. Life does move on beyond the misspoken words of a grumpy, old soul.

Today, I write.

Sam Peckinpah’s opening words in The Wild Bunch was delivered by William Holden. “If they move, kill ’em.”

Maybe Bloody Sam has more in common with Dr. Nameless than I’d first thought.

Ah, Sam Peckinpah.

Fall's final fall, or just winter's early call?

Yesterday I woke up to leaves doing a tap dance on top of the tin roof of home. I looked out the window to find the wind blowing the last of the golden aspens from the trees as if the pitter-patter upon the roof was Fall’s encore dance before the snow started to fly. Last night, I shouldn’t have been surprised when flakes the size of quarters started to cover the landscape of the valley where I live. Yesterday's fall storm was like God forewarning of the latent season ahead. Where nature mostly hides beneath the shell of snow, resting in the provisions spring, summer, and fall had offered.

This time of year always brings in a mixture of mourning and anticipation, tugging on me, making me pause. First, the remembrance of the season that has passed. Realizing that my bicycle would soon take a rest, and the possibilities of riding it verses driving my car dwindles like the leaves that had once filled the trees. “Don’t worry,” whisper’s on the tail of the breeze. I am baffled at the speed at which all time flies. Don’t worry. Has another year really passed since the last fall? Don’t worry. Have I accomplished what I thought I would? Did I see my family down south as much as I wanted to? Did I come close to reaching the goals I had loosely set?

The answer to all of these is yes and no. But the “no’s” seem to linger over the “yes’s”.

Don’t worry.



In a month, I pray to hear my ski boots lock into my bindings. Feel my feet secured on top of my skis. Grip the poles in my hands. Push off on the edge of my skis to the lift line. Exchange “Hellos” with familiar snow chasers, and then allow the lift chair to take me up into the air. Anticipation stirs the butterflies in my stomach, up through my heart, liable to spark an “Aiyeee” right off my tongue for all to hear. It is then that I know that winter has arrived in full. I then become absorbed into the “now” of life, instead of what could-have-been the season before.

My mourning ends. A new season of begins.

This change is good, but not certain as life throws its curves at the most inopportune times. But I do know who holds me in the palm of his hands, and in him, I rest, trust, rest, trust, and move forward with whatever may come next.

Don’t worry. Fall is passing. Winter is coming. Life is moving forward, just like it should. Don’t worry.

[Note: this is a repost from 2007 but the timing is perfect]

ACFW Award Results--Fun

The American Christian Fiction Writers Awards 2009...you may recognize a familiar name and face...I'm honored.



2009 Mentor of the Year- Donita K. Paul

2009 Membership Service Award- John B. Olson

2009 Editor of the Year Award- Ami McConnell, Thomas Nelson

2009 Agent of the Year Award Steve Laube, The Steve Laube Agency



2009 Book of the Year Contest

Debut Author- A Passion Most Pure by Julie Lessman
Lits- Sweet Caroline by Rachel Hauck
Long Contemporary- Symphony of Secrets by Sharon Hinck
Long Contemporary Romance- Controlling Interest by Elizabeth White
Long Historical (tie)- My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer, and I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires by Cathy Gohlke
Mystery- For Whom the Wedding Bell Tolls by Nancy Mehl
Novellas- Stuck on You in A Connecticut Christmas anthology by Rhonda Gibson
Short Contemporary- Family Treasures by Kathryn Springer
Short Contemporary Suspense- Broken Lullaby by Pamela Tracy
Short Historical- Family of the Heart by Dorothy Clark
Speculative- The Restorer’s Journey by Sharon Hinck
Suspense- Fossil Hunter by John B. Olson
Women’s Fiction- The Shape of Mercy by Susan Meissner
Young Adult- The Big Picture by Jenny B. Jones


ACFW 2009 Genesis Contest

Contemporary Fiction- Jennifer Griffith, Magpies in Trees



Contemporary Romance- Christy LaShea Smith, The Bridge Between
Historical Fiction- Christine Schmidtke, Unveiled
Historical Romance- Lacy Williams, Marrying Miss Marshal
Mystery/Suspense/Thriller- Alan Schleimer, Q.doc
Romantic Suspense- Jan Warren, Katherine Octavia, C.I.A.
Science-Fiction/Fantasy/Allegory- David Fry, Lies To See
Women’s Fiction- Cathleen Armstrong, The Church of Last Chance
Young Adult- Gretchen Hoffman, Rewind

The Perfect Time

“Kelly loved the Lord,” Lola said as I hugged her neck and met her for the first time. That was two and a half hours after her 53-year-old husband’s artificial heart valve blew while on a bike ride together in the valley. The husband and wife had met ten years earlier when Lola conquered her first century bike ride in Colorado where they both lived. Kelly offered to accompany her for the last 40 miles upon realizing her desire to give up. That encounter started a friendship that turned into an enduring love.

Leading up to their arrival to my town a week prior, Kelly and Lola had spent four years traveling around the west in an RV, going wherever God led them. That morning Kelly woke with a smile on his face and said, “I get another day with Lola. I can’t wait to see how God uses us today.”

Late that afternoon, I got the call from my pastor who said, “Jennifer, I have a sister in Christ with me who just lost her husband on the bike path…” Lola had no one to be with her through the night as she waited for loved ones to drive in from southern Colorado and Indiana. At the time of the call, my body was very weak and I had just left a job incomplete to go home for bed. But when you know what it’s like to suffer alone, you know that someone who never has would need you even more.

There was no question as to whether I would go to her RV or not, but I confess that I had a discussion with God regarding my current state. I said to Him, “She needs a healthy person, not me. You’re going to have to give me strength, because I don’t have anything inside of me to give to anyone right now. Why did you call on me tonight?” That conversation took place for the duration of the short drive to the campground, and as soon as I saw Lola reaching her arms out to me, I felt strength first enter through my toes. It then traveled up and through my entire body to fill me completely as I felt Lola’s embrace. God had never let me down, and His timing was perfect that night.

As we sat and talked about what had transpired, I noticed a slight cross of sapphires and a single diamond. It had settled against her chest, after what I’d figured was rough sailing that day. I’d quit wearing my own cross a year earlier, fearing dependence on a symbol to speak for my faith. Yet when I saw hers, I thought, It’s time to wear mine again. And I wondered where I’d hid it all this time.

The numbness that had consumed Lola wore off through the night as the reality of losing her husband and best friend took over. Wails and prayers interchanged as Lola sought consolation from The Comforter. It was beautiful and gut wrenching at the same time, and tears from my own eyes wet my pillow for her loss. Lola knew where Kelly was and his entry into Heaven could not have been planned any better…pedaling a bike was high on his list of loves. Yet the vacancy tried to consume her. She battled back in prayer, though I don’t think she even realized it as the Holy Spirit interceded for her through the night.

The morning breeze brought with it God’s mercies while Lola gently stirred quinoa on the stove to mix with blueberries…a staple breakfast for the two. We waited for the arrival of her sister and brother-in-law as Lola frequently glanced at the clock on the wall. Between her checks for the time that seemed to have stopped, she shared who Kelly was as a man of God. How he truly lived out “A husband is to love his wife as Christ loved the Church.” (Eph 5) She told stories of Kelly laying face down in prayer and tears as he pleaded for our country that once stood strong upon In God we Trust. Lola showed books that she’d read weeks prior, which had dealt with suffering and the Bible verses that had spoken to her, though at the time she wondered why. Less than 24 hours after losing Kelly, the purpose of her preparation had become all too clear.

While at the mortuary I realized that I had seen Kelly’s smile and heard his kind “hello,” alive just a week earlier. I also remembered the yellow jersey he’d worn that day, and this day to be his last. Kelly and Lola had passed me on the bike path, and Lola confirmed that encounter. Kelly had said to her after we passed on the path, “She’s a skier.” And I remembered thinking of the two as I fought the wind heading to town, what a wonderful thing to share between a husband and a wife…biking on a beautiful summer’s day. Amazing the thoughts that cross our minds when we pass, once strangers in our lives.

The miracles of God’s provisions continued as I visited with Lola and what turned into four members of her family by day three. God put it on the heart of my friend to bring food for them, all at the perfect time. My work schedule was flexible enough those particular days to visit and celebrate Kelly’s life with my new friends. We laughed and rejoiced at the beauty of his passing as one demonstrated how Kelly would raise his hands with tears running down his face while he praised and worshipped God in church. He’d become a changed man, according to Lola, truly born again by surrendering to Christ just six years before, and he deeply understood the grace he’d been given—freely. And more tears flowed as Kelly’s absence was felt amongst them…us.

By Saturday we sat and watched a favored clip of Kelly’s on the Crab Family while Lola pulled out her journal to show me how she’d written down the lyrics to one of their songs. It had a suffering theme, and how God see’s us through those times. While I read and marveled at God’s preparations for Lola for this exact time, I realized that I had not written in my own journal in a very long time. I thought, I need to start journaling what God is doing in my life again. As those thoughts brushed against my heart, Lola reached around me and placed her sweet cross around my neck. In my protest, Lola said, “I want you to pray for me every time you wear this cross. I’m going to need all of the strength I can get to live without my Kelly.” She kissed my cheek, now wet with my tears.

On my way to clean my church that Saturday night, I marveled at God’s timing and blessings that flowed from this encounter as I clutched the cross around my neck. But I knew that words could not convey and my fingers could never touch most of what I’d gained through walking this path with Lola, feeling Kelly’s absence along the way. But the gifts are more real than what anyone could really know, and I never felt so humbled and unworthy to be used in such a way by God.

I stopped at the post office to pick up a package that a friend had sent to me. I’d tried the day before, but couldn’t. I sat in my car and opened the box to find note cards, newspaper clippings, Camilla Red Beans, Tony Chachere’s seasoning, and underneath it all was a journal. I sat in awe at the thought of how much God loves me and the reality of His presence touched me deep again. I no longer needed a journal to start recording how God has worked and continues to do wonders through the events we call life. He supplied one—at the perfect time. I marveled again at how he keeps His promises found in His Word. “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” (Ps 37:4) And He truly does.

We often miss the blessings of the Lord due to the busyness of our priorities, or how we feel, or through self-imposed boundaries between those we do not know. What’s more important, I ask? What can be? Though many things I’ve gained through this experience and others are not tangible, those things that God does for me are irreplaceable, unconceivable; they are priceless. For if we miss blessings such at these through the excuses that seem so real, what more is there to live for that’s more precious than the gems of the heart...the ones that no one can steal. Our time is now to live and give and ultimately receive…at the perfect time. And each time I bike the path where Kelly last pedaled, there’s a cross at the place where God called him home. I’m reminded of this time, and how precious our time really is to God, most of all. And His is the most perfect of all.




Pepper & Salt: Lola & Jennifer. [This is the first entry into that journal that arrived at the perfect time.]

Paparazzi in Yellowstone

Paparazzi is "a plural term for photographers who take unstaged and/or candid photographs of celebrities caught unaware." (Wikipedia)



This roadside celebrity, and an unidentified friend, stood up and turned their butts to us when we stopped our car to take a picture.


I figured their "mamas" must've warned them about the paparazzi.