My sister called. The news is bad. Well, she said, not bad. Sad.
Grandpa. Heart attack.
What we’ve all been expecting for the better part of a decade. Truly. But when you grow up sleeping in a bunkhouse in the middle of Wyoming, where your only option for warmth on a cold winter’s night is one more blanket on top of that pile of six…seven…eight… you don’t give up easily.
My grandpa’s horse ranch was magical. Like Disneyland, we’d say. Full of rides, junk food and happy short people. Grandpa Lyman stood at about 5 feet 4 inches, and my Grandma Lois about 5 feet. What a funny joke, God. You made the spirits of those tiny people so big. They must have been just bursting at the seams their whole lives.
Most of my happy childhood memories are associated with them and their ranch. It was a lighthouse through a turbulent childhood. A beacon that called us to a safe harbor. Constant. Bright. Rest your soul here, little granddaughter. And have a Pepsi while you’re at it.