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About Chicago

Last summer, I dragged my sorry butt up there—total shitshow. Slipped on scree, twisted my ankle, yelled “I’m too old for this crap!” at a marmot. Made me so mad I could’ve chucked my trekking pole into the abyss. But then—bam!—summit views hit me like a truck. Snowy peaks, wildflowers, air so crisp it’s like snorting freedom. I was happy as a pig in mud, giggling like an idiot. “Nothing’s hidden anymore,” I said, quoting Haneke, ‘cept I was probs just delirious from altitude.

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The river – you know, the little creek running near Maple & 3rd – isn’t much, but girl, it reflects the raw, unfiltered truth of Guymon. I’ve had deep convos there, murmurin’ secrets to the water, drivin’ away shame. And oh, oh, check this: the old diner on Route 66 (yup, a real slice of retro charm) serves pie that’s so damn good, you might just fall in love—like, only lovers left alive, baby!

Obituary for Mary Inez (Guymon) Whitledge