real gifts of real life...

I have been amidst a tailspin of the real gifts of real life in all of it's madness, sadness, and glory.  The Wasatch is still dry, I fought off a nasty illness, and my family and I mourned the loss of a patriarch.  Rita Formero was my grandmother, and the mother to my own.  I hurried back home to Wisconsin for the services just days after I had returned from there for the annual ski movie premiere party I throw at Wilmot Mountain.  Thankfully, I was able to sit and visit with grandma and grandpa while I was back for the party.  For that I will be forever grateful.  On that following Monday morning Christine and I received the tearful phone call from my mother.  I took a long hot shower, and then wrote down what was coming over me like the morning's steamy bath water.   


"My 30 years of memories and her influence now melts down into gold. However, it is not for a savings account. It is the kind of gold that diminishes in value if hoarded. It is the kind of gold that exponentially grows for eternity when shared. It is the kind of gold that brings true purpose. It thrives in the transaction of a caring embrace. It is 30 years with Grandma, and I will spend the rest of my life happily doing my part to share that kind of gold with everyone. I am rich with it."


I thought about trying to write more about her and everything she was to the line of people that filed out the front doors of the funeral home.  Instead, I will take my own advice, and just share some gold.

More then anything, I found my heart breaking for my grandpa, Don Formero.  By this time he has spent more of his life with her then he did without.  However, I take comfort in knowing that the pain that he and the rest of us feel is the love.  The love we have for her, and the love she has for us.  It only hurts so much because there is so much of it.  When thats had some time to settle in and realize it can then start to change back.  Back into that comfortably pleasant and warm feeling of all the very same love that gathers inside of Grandma's house each winter, on Christmas Eve.  Merry Christmas.