I stand on the soil of the Wyoming homestead of my forebearers, in what is now the Grand Teton National Park. The mighty peaks are watching, just as they had watched my great-great-grandparents Charles and Mariah break soil here. My rubber soled running shoes are planted upon a foundation stone that was likely laid by the hands of my father's great-grandfather. I am contemplating the discovery of some now-wild strawberry plants under the brush near where the house once stood. Did my great-great grandmother plant the great-great grandparents of these hearty strawberry plants? I cannot know.
"They had a refrigerator", says my Great Aunt Joy, who has childhood memories here. Once the baby of the family, she is now,
at 89, the matriarch of the family. I shiver slightly as time speeds, quietly but manifestly, by. "They opened a window in the kitchen and dug a box out of the snow to place the perishables in, closing the window to keep them cold."
Well, of course! The epiphany of pioneer practicality washes over my modern mind. Why didn't I think of that? Well, ...because I didn't need to, of course.
Could they have known that a century later, their descendants would marvel at this revelation? I'm sure not; they were simply keeping the milk cold.
I glance at my daughter, who will bring her grandchildren here, to stand upon these stones. She is talking to the cousin that is closest to her in age. They aren't thinking of it today, but they will meet, many years hence, in the shadow of these mountains, to stand upon foundation stones and to bend to find hidden hearty strawberry plants. They will talk of refrigerators of snow. They will tell the stories, and the minds of their grandchildren will be filled with thoughts of college and futures, but, still, those grandchildren will quietly tuck the stories away in their hearts, and they will remember.
Memories of MY Father, part one, 
I stand on the soil of the Wyoming homestead of my forebearers, in what is now the Grand Teton National Park. The mighty peaks are watching, just as they had watched my great-great-grandparents Charles and Mariah break soil here. My rubber soled running shoes are planted upon a foundation stone that was likely laid by the hands of my father's great-grandfather. I am contemplating the discovery of some now-wild strawberry plants under the brush near where the house once stood. Did my great-great grandmother plant the great-great grandparents of these hearty strawberry plants? I cannot know.
Well, of course! The epiphany of pioneer practicality washes over my modern mind. Why didn't I think of that? Well, ...because I didn't need to, of course. Could they have known that a century later, their descendants would marvel at this revelation? I'm sure not; they were simply keeping the milk cold.