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Debbie Boucher’s review of Snow Globe on Goodreads.

Reader comments:

“Congratulations on an amazing creation. I will never forget the times we lived through, thanks to your sweet, sharp illumination. Snow Globe made me laugh and cry and laugh again. I read and re-read; it is so very evocative and touching and tough. Shards of glass wrapped in velvet, soft and dangerous. Thank you, thank you.” 

– Lanette Smith, Basalt, CO

“I kept putting off reading the whole collection at once, and would read and re-read individual poems, like eating fine chocolate! What a pleasure. 

– Michi Blake, Santa Barbara, CA

“Wow! Snow Globe warmed and broke and inspired my heart and reminded me of the spinning times, the eternal mountains, the friendships that bind them (and us) butterflies together. Beautiful work. DO NOT miss this book, this poetry, this reading.” 

– Dick Dorworth, Ketchum, ID 

“In Snow Globe we follow Diane Eagle Kataoka as she relives her cross-country drive from the east with “Westward Yearning” through Kansas on Route 70 to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, circa 1970s.  There in Aspen the aptly-named Eagle discovers “that nature was [her] touchstone” and that the “snow clouds changed the complexion of [her] destiny.” Her descriptions of the “Mountain Sorcery” that enchanted her are vivid and she evokes an Aspen in all its careless freedoms – skiing, pubs, drugs, random lovers – that is long gone.” 

– Barbara Kraft, Studio City, CA

“This is the first entire book of poetry I have ever read in my life. . . but I couldn’t stop reading Snow Globe!  Very much to the point, I loved it!” 

– Steve Hilbert, Basalt, CO

Snow Globe” is mythical and has such integrity. I can’t believe we lived it; it’s so magical.”

  • Guy Noble, Aspen, CO

Snow Globe 

At the cusp of the 1970s, Aspen, Colorado shone in a last explosion of light from its rising star before breaking up and dispersing into the galaxy. A town without Dannon yogurt or cable TV, it had one traffic light and a freewheeling culture.

Within this pendulum upswing, time was suspended somewhere between past and future, held in the moment. I was irresistibly drawn to the natural wilderness and abandoned the hard edges of East Coast city life to migrate west to the Rocky Mountains. There I encountered an additional wilderness—a societal one—and learned, through trial and error, through wild and glorious fun, to negotiate both. 

Here was a generation full of hope for a fresh powder morning, a kind of family of unrelated people affected by the times—the Sixties, the Vietnam War. We lived in a snow globe, protected by the surrounding mountains, buffered by time, making up our own rules and then breaking them. We made love with anyone and perhaps everyone we pleased. There were no consequences. No one was an alcoholic; we did drugs with impunity. Ate speed and countered with valium. We tripped, got stoned, snorted. We could say yes to anything and change our mind at any time. Cool. Understood. Reciprocated. 

When the sun went down, we gathered to catch up on runs taken, jobs worked, hangovers conquered, and swapped details of the night before. Then we did it again, to blush fiercely when the prick of memory inserted itself under the skin of new mornings.

Despite exceptional survival skills developed in the face of avalanches, ski accidents and overdose deaths, addiction crouched like a mountain lion behind the rocks. How high was too high. When might the blackout come, hovering close by in the shadows behind the jukebox, ready to leap, wrap you in a cloak and carry you away.

Eventually the camera pulled back to reveal that our Peter Max existence had retreated into a faded wall poster. Time irrevocably began to turn…ski instructors were selling out and striking it rich in real estate schemes, monolithic houses began rising squared tight to a city lot, and Hollywood came to town. 

Living each moment had been like quaffing a glass of champagne, tasty yet ephemeral…We spun the times, the mountains and the friendships around us as a cocoon, then broke the bounds and emerged as butterflies…defying convention and predictions of doom. 

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