I've been so blessed to have all of my grandparents for so long. 24 years I've lived to be with all of them, but my dear grandpa passed away on March 19. He had cancer, and we didn't find out until a week before he died. He was a tough man and through the end, he would never complain or ask for anything, and was always sure to thank us for everything. I miss him so much. After someone is gone, you wish you would have done more for them and I regret not spending more time with him. Before I went to Kindergarten I was at his house probably every day and then school got in the way. Growing up I did spend a lot of time with him though and I'm so grateful. He was a great grandpa and I can't wait to see him again. I feel blessed and I'm especially grateful that Brayker got to meet him. Love you grandpa.
This is a poem that Pete Cornia wrote for our family and I was asked to read it at his funeral:
"Cowboy, Come On Home"
He called himself a cowboy, went nowhere without his hat.
But to earn that simple title took more, much more than that.
Wearing fancy boots and silver belt buckles were never enough.
Because cowboys in his country were bred to be tough.
His hands were huge, calloused and wore.
But on the mouth of a colt, they were soft and sure.
Dug hay for his cattle, fed with a team and sleigh.
For much of his life, there was no other way.
He summered his cows over the Bear River Divide.
Hereford bulls and Hereford cattle wearing Diamond W on their hide.
Whit faced bawling babies trailing mama through the dust.
Over the sound of barking dogs one can hear a cowboy cuss.
When hard frost comes to the high country it was time to bring them home.
Through rough and broken country he seldom rode alone.
The roundup crew were all his friends, throughout the long hard days.
And when they headed for Bon Rico, the boss, he knew the way.
They crossed the icy Bear, late November every fall.
Their hads so cold upon the reins, they could scarcely feel at all.
His cattle, home at last, now grazing on the fields.
As fall departs, to bitter winter, finally yields.
He called himself a cowboy, sought for no higher praise.
Spent the best years of his life, on land where cattle graze.
Now a merciful God has called him "Cowboy, come on home.
There's plenty of good horses here and you'll never ride alone."