“He loved the warm sun of summer and the high mountain meadows, the trails through the timber and the sudden clear blue of the lakes. He loved the hills in the winter when the snow comes,” Hemingway said. “Best of all he loved the fall … the fall with the tawny and grey, the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods, leaves floating on the trout streams and above the hills the high blue windless skies. He loved to shoot, he loved to ride and he loved to fish.” Ernest Hemingway
Shortly after I wrote last, my 89-year-old dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer and after a short battle with it, passed away in September. We were all able to gather around him for one last visit over Labor Day weekend, then a few weeks later he was gone.
The funeral, held on a beautiful fall day, was a fitting tribute to this kind, funny man.
|Granddaughter watching the grave being dug.|
|At the cemetery. The coffin was built by my brother.|
|In a nod to the Native Americans living near the area, we each took a handful of dirt, turned once in each direction, and as we passed the coffin, placed the dirt on top of it.|