My mom and I flew out to see my Grandpa Dave one summer. He herds cattle and rides horses in the mountains of Wyoming. My grandpa is an 82-year-old cowboy.
When we first saw him, he didn’t recognize us. He would tell me, “Hey you look just like one my daughters - Missy!” Missy is my mother. After a couple of days his memory started coming back, as did his stories. We spent the week talking, riding horses and drinking whisky. My grandfather has encountered more heartbreak and pain than anyone I’ve known. Yet he somehow manages to greet every morning with his unrelenting work ethic, mischievous sense of humor, and a twinge of optimism. This is my Grandpa Dave.