I was born in Columbia Falls, Montana and spent the first few years of my life, and many summers afterwards, there, at my Grandpa Larry’s house. He passed away this year. I didn’t make it back in time to say goodbye, but I managed to be there with my family for the memorial service. I made the painful realization that the place I had always thought of as home was inextricably tied to that wonderful, loving man.
It is still hard to come to terms with the reality that he won’t be there when I come down that old dirt road.
I miss him very much.
I never took a picture of him. Instead, here are some that I took this summer at his memorial, of the place that reminds me of him, my home.
