And so it goes…

Do you ever just lose your breath, suddenly, without knowing it?

All of a sudden, you realize there’s no oxygen left and you gasp involuntarily.

It’s been happening to me lately, usually as I begin to understand the gravity of something. Like when Campy stopped by today to drop off a thank-you card for the story about Grampy Campy’s 75 years of marriage.

He wrote: “Every day since the 75th anniversary story ran, at least one person has stopped me/us and tells us what an amazing story it was. We’ve had people tell us they cut out the article and put it on their refrigerator to remind them what true love really is and what an inspiration the story was to them in their own lives. It was such a well-written story.

“Now, since the obituary article came out, we are being told by numerous people a day, they are sorry to hear about Grampy Campy. Although the last time he was in Summit County was in 2004, to come see Rivers and his trophies that are displayed, you made him a legend and a hero here.”

Tears spring to my eyes as I read this, and realize that something I did had such an impact that it was clipped out and saved as a reminder. It’s all you can ask for, right?

Tears sprung to Campy’s eyes when we chatted about it, but he also knows that death was best for his grandfather, and that his grandmother, Daisy, is strong as ever. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll pass soon, too. She did seem like a sprightly 70 year old when I met her, though she tallies 92 years.

I can’t help but wonder if that’s how my 60-year-old aunt will react when her husband dies.

It, too, makes me catch my breath when I didn’t realize I’d lost it in the first place.

I wonder what she’ll do when the meaning in her world goes away. I told my mom today that she has meaning; that she just needs to find it again. But where?

I wish so badly that I’d spent more time with Rod. Reading the books he gave me, like John McPhee’s “Rising from the Plains” or the book by Annie Proulx, and chatting with him about them. I tucked them on my shelf to read when I could, and never got to them. I think I lost the one by Proulx. Don’t even remember the title. He gave me a hard time about it one Christmas. I think it was when I announced I’d be moving to Summit County, and he asked if I’d ever read the Wyoming books he’d handed over. He has a special place in his heart for the West and I could have learned so much about such an interesting man by reading these pieces and being willing to talk about them with him.

He’ll pass soon, and I won’t have that opportunity. I wonder if, maybe, if I don’t shelf  them (and the idea) again, if I could help my aunt out by reading the books and writing my reactions for her? It’s a shred of an idea, and it’s not well fleshed out, but maybe it;s something I can do to be at peace with my forever interesting and passionate uncle passing from this world…

They look like glow worms up there, those snow cats.

Moving slowly around the mountainside, which has long since disappeared into the blackness of night, the singular headlights on the fuel-guzzling beasts shine brightly.They look suspended, as the night sky has no pricks of light itself; it’s cloud-covered, with none but one bright star peeking through a break in the whispy blanket covering earth.

They say they’re not good for the air we breathe, making ski resorts dirty in a hidden way. Like a prostitute that ambles about in the dark but tosses on a white dress to greet the day.

Yet there’s something intriguing about the beasts; some might call them monsters. Mostly nocturnal, their powerful engines don’t rev until skiers clamber off the hill, headed this way and that for happy hour, a hot tub soak or to relax before cooking up a family feast. They mysteriously groom the slopes, creating a carpet of fresh corduroy for bright-eyed skiers the following day. Perhaps the drivers sleep all day and get up to greet the night, clocking in a 4 p.m. and out at 2 a.m., only to gather at each others’ homes to catch a reprieve before doing it all over again.