Thank you for the childhood summers that made me who I am, Papaw. Thank you for bringing all of us kids to your forest, for creating the magical, bright green months of throwing rocks and twigs in the creek and creating our moss-floored clubhouses, the summers that even now in my memories seem too good to have really happened, the home that’s still imprinted on my best dreams a decade and more later. You taught me what it means to know the land; you made me get out there and climb the trees and run up and down the hill and get dirty. You were the rock. You were 82 years old, but I’ll live to be one with the hills the way you showed me, and you’ll live on in all us cousins. Thank you for everything, Papaw.
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