Down this dusty road is found the path of a million dusty footprints
The natives to the land gathering for the long and desperate winters
The deer running through the forest as the hunters track and trail with the arrows of their Fathers

Creeping past the creek near white men’s homesteads
Uncertain what a meeting meant between them
footsteps treading lightly past the trails of smoke from occupied cabins
Families who know nothing of the wilderness and who themselves would brave the winters to make this their home in the west—rich farmland to be sewn

Edwards came home after many years
Chasing the Indians himself—but not with distain or harm toward them
With interest for their way of life--for their ceremony
He photographed them—a feat that was rare if ever done
His pictures came to Crossman Gallery with Rick’s and so many other’s help
Jeanine watched as he explained to group after group the meaning of this exhibit to this community—she actively joined with him in his dream and went onto support those that proudly battle with Cancer—as did Cheryl and others too numerous to mention—the churches, the women—strong women of Whitewater uplifting others in their despair—yes we are proud men and women who work to build bridges and live in peace.

The Victorian on Main stands proud and silent as the tour passes
How much history has passed through town—past her door
How many strangers have come by on their horses
the hitching post bares the history of many horsemen

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