Debbie Gipson, author of Stories the Canyon Keeps... in her own words:
I was a hitchhiker when I was about five years old. I guess that statement needs explanation. My mom, dad, sister Julie, and I lived in Keams Canyon in Navajo County in northeastern Arizona, where my dad worked for the government.
There was a trading post a little ways down a dirt road from our house where penny candy called to us. As we had no interest in walking, my seven year old big sister and I would stand on the side of the road, thumbs held high. Julie had an unruly curly mop of brown hair and I had sandy blonde hair and green eyes, obviously not Navajo. The Navajo families would drive by in horse-driven rickety, old wagons, loaded down with family and supplies. I remember the traditionally-clad Navajo women would giggle and twitter among themselves at the sight of two little white girls standing on the side of the road with big grins on their faces. Before the wagon came to a stop, one of the men would hop down, scoop us up and plop us down in the back. More often than not, a twenty pound bag of flour would be my seat. Off we went down the bumpy, washboard road to the trading post. A quirky experience that burns bright in my memory.
After moving around northeastern Arizona, we eventually came back to the town of Holbrook, on the sandy, lonesome, windblown Colorado Plateau. I would spend my childhood there, surrounded by generations of friends and family. Living in Holbrook gave us a laid back, run-free childhood. We wandered willy-nilly like the tumbleweeds that populated our town. Our parents, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and friends formed our safe borders. All of the urchins were surrounded with their unspoken, steadfast concern as we grew. Be that as it may, I find it amazing that we weren't injured, given our summertime activities. One of the favorite playgrounds of my youth, were the gigantic, car-sized, slabs of sandstone, that centuries before, had broken apart and slid down the sides of the plateaus that held the town of Holbrook. Few moments in my life have measured up to the endless summer days, scrambling up these ancient, slumbering behemoths. We would run and jump across the gaping crevasses, innocently ignorant of certain death if we missed our mark. Talk about the arrogance of youth! Hours were spent wandering through nature's sandstone ruins, hunting for arrowheads, potsherds, and strangely enough, seashells. These treasures, from centuries gone by, would fill our pockets, sharing space with Kleenex and Double Bubble bubblegum. Lunchtime would find us, perched on a precarious sandstone outcropping, our noisy group of knobby-kneed kids were briefly silenced as we stared out across the miles of vast, empty expanse that spread before us. That lonesome beauty of the high desert, was the canvas of my youth and affects me as deeply now as it did then.
Another of my favorite pastimes was wandering the halls of the Holbrook Public Library. My mom, Virginia Probst, was a librarian there for twenty-eight years and ruled with humor, knowledge and "the look," that in a single glance, could silence crying babies, rowdy teenagers or even the mayor. Mom sparked in me, an enduring, lifelong interest in history and in the intricate, intertwining stories of America and our people. My mom and dad are gone now, but their gifts to me remain: an abiding curiosity, wonder, knowledge, and an appreciation for those who came before me. I don't consider myself to be a writer... more a storyteller. I think mom and dad would have been tickled that I decided to start telling these stories. Dad, always one of few words, is smiling that quiet, impish smile of his and adding an approving wink. Mom is giving me a look that encompasses pride and exasperation at my having waited so long. Yup, I think I would have made them proud.
"Curiosity is eternal."
-Debbie Probst-Gipson
About the Author:
A journey through Debbie Probst-Gipson's life is like a long and winding road trip down a path where the glow of the sun dips behind fall leaves as pastel shadows bounce against the car's glass window. The feel of something enriching and memorable, true sustenance for the heart, is what Debbie observes in every facet of her world.
Marveling at the tiniest of hummingbirds to the sheer vastness of the Grand Canyon, Debbie has displayed a sense of innate duty to praise and honor her Arizona surroundings, roots and windswept history. Always involved in the Arizona tourism industry and invested in the Arizona tourist's experience, she has a rich background in selling authentic Native American artifacts, jewelry and other unique items distinctive of the southwest. In her youth, she worked for Fred Harvey Company in gift shops at Painted Desert and Petrified Forest. She also worked with her husband Mike, born at the Grand Canyon, in his petrified wood business, selling custom pieces to the gift shops in Northern Arizona. In the 1970's, they owned and operated jewelry stores in Scottsdale hotels, catering to the tourism industry.
A watercolor portrait artist, she also has an eye for capturing the beauty in the soft coloration of the sweetness of character, creating intricate pieces. A commissioned painter, her work has been featured on the cover of Country Register.
Always a knack for connecting over the pleasantries of design, art and the sublime destinations Arizona offers the traveler, Debbie makes friends with every client who crosses her path. They all delight in a shared interest and in the elements in which Debbie takes great pride and consciously cares about. The new book she has authored, Stories the Canyon Keeps, is no exception. She has meticulously searched for what she calls "sparkly bits," the extra special pieces that have shone magically, wanting to share their incredible journeys and stories of the past.
She is thrilled to connect once again, with an audience who shares a love for and interest in the Wild West and a vein of Arizona's bloodline. She takes great honor in feeling her readers can trust her work and her effort to share Stories the Canyon Keeps.
I was a hitchhiker when I was about five years old. I guess that statement needs explanation. My mom, dad, sister Julie, and I lived in Keams Canyon in Navajo County in northeastern Arizona, where my dad worked for the government.
There was a trading post a little ways down a dirt road from our house where penny candy called to us. As we had no interest in walking, my seven year old big sister and I would stand on the side of the road, thumbs held high. Julie had an unruly curly mop of brown hair and I had sandy blonde hair and green eyes, obviously not Navajo. The Navajo families would drive by in horse-driven rickety, old wagons, loaded down with family and supplies. I remember the traditionally-clad Navajo women would giggle and twitter among themselves at the sight of two little white girls standing on the side of the road with big grins on their faces. Before the wagon came to a stop, one of the men would hop down, scoop us up and plop us down in the back. More often than not, a twenty pound bag of flour would be my seat. Off we went down the bumpy, washboard road to the trading post. A quirky experience that burns bright in my memory.
After moving around northeastern Arizona, we eventually came back to the town of Holbrook, on the sandy, lonesome, windblown Colorado Plateau. I would spend my childhood there, surrounded by generations of friends and family. Living in Holbrook gave us a laid back, run-free childhood. We wandered willy-nilly like the tumbleweeds that populated our town. Our parents, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and friends formed our safe borders. All of the urchins were surrounded with their unspoken, steadfast concern as we grew. Be that as it may, I find it amazing that we weren't injured, given our summertime activities. One of the favorite playgrounds of my youth, were the gigantic, car-sized, slabs of sandstone, that centuries before, had broken apart and slid down the sides of the plateaus that held the town of Holbrook. Few moments in my life have measured up to the endless summer days, scrambling up these ancient, slumbering behemoths. We would run and jump across the gaping crevasses, innocently ignorant of certain death if we missed our mark. Talk about the arrogance of youth! Hours were spent wandering through nature's sandstone ruins, hunting for arrowheads, potsherds, and strangely enough, seashells. These treasures, from centuries gone by, would fill our pockets, sharing space with Kleenex and Double Bubble bubblegum. Lunchtime would find us, perched on a precarious sandstone outcropping, our noisy group of knobby-kneed kids were briefly silenced as we stared out across the miles of vast, empty expanse that spread before us. That lonesome beauty of the high desert, was the canvas of my youth and affects me as deeply now as it did then.
Another of my favorite pastimes was wandering the halls of the Holbrook Public Library. My mom, Virginia Probst, was a librarian there for twenty-eight years and ruled with humor, knowledge and "the look," that in a single glance, could silence crying babies, rowdy teenagers or even the mayor. Mom sparked in me, an enduring, lifelong interest in history and in the intricate, intertwining stories of America and our people. My mom and dad are gone now, but their gifts to me remain: an abiding curiosity, wonder, knowledge, and an appreciation for those who came before me. I don't consider myself to be a writer... more a storyteller. I think mom and dad would have been tickled that I decided to start telling these stories. Dad, always one of few words, is smiling that quiet, impish smile of his and adding an approving wink. Mom is giving me a look that encompasses pride and exasperation at my having waited so long. Yup, I think I would have made them proud.
"Curiosity is eternal."
-Debbie Probst-Gipson
About the Author:
A journey through Debbie Probst-Gipson's life is like a long and winding road trip down a path where the glow of the sun dips behind fall leaves as pastel shadows bounce against the car's glass window. The feel of something enriching and memorable, true sustenance for the heart, is what Debbie observes in every facet of her world.
Marveling at the tiniest of hummingbirds to the sheer vastness of the Grand Canyon, Debbie has displayed a sense of innate duty to praise and honor her Arizona surroundings, roots and windswept history. Always involved in the Arizona tourism industry and invested in the Arizona tourist's experience, she has a rich background in selling authentic Native American artifacts, jewelry and other unique items distinctive of the southwest. In her youth, she worked for Fred Harvey Company in gift shops at Painted Desert and Petrified Forest. She also worked with her husband Mike, born at the Grand Canyon, in his petrified wood business, selling custom pieces to the gift shops in Northern Arizona. In the 1970's, they owned and operated jewelry stores in Scottsdale hotels, catering to the tourism industry.
A watercolor portrait artist, she also has an eye for capturing the beauty in the soft coloration of the sweetness of character, creating intricate pieces. A commissioned painter, her work has been featured on the cover of Country Register.
Always a knack for connecting over the pleasantries of design, art and the sublime destinations Arizona offers the traveler, Debbie makes friends with every client who crosses her path. They all delight in a shared interest and in the elements in which Debbie takes great pride and consciously cares about. The new book she has authored, Stories the Canyon Keeps, is no exception. She has meticulously searched for what she calls "sparkly bits," the extra special pieces that have shone magically, wanting to share their incredible journeys and stories of the past.
She is thrilled to connect once again, with an audience who shares a love for and interest in the Wild West and a vein of Arizona's bloodline. She takes great honor in feeling her readers can trust her work and her effort to share Stories the Canyon Keeps.