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Yesterday, the 33 miners trapped in the San José mine for the past 17 days were found, amazingly all alive. Nothing else was on the news all day as the Chileans celebrated and rejoiced in the simple message written in clear, red letters by the miners and sent back to the surface: Estamos bien en el refugio los 33 (We are alright in the shelter, all 33 of us). This news was made official in the early afternoon as my family and I were eating lunch and in the evening the first images from inside the mine were shown on the news. The camera moved along the narrow earthen corridor drilled in search of the miners and then in the distance, circles of light appeared—the lights from the miners’ helmets. They bobbed and flashed in the darkness and then a man’s face slowly moved into focus in front of the camera. His face floated in an odd, disconnected way because of the darkness and the low quality of the image but it was proof that the miners were truly, incredibly, alive. It will be several more months before a tunnel is finished to actually remove the miners from the collapsed mine, but all of Chile celebrated yesterday with the families and friends of the miners.

            I shared in the relief and happiness of the country but for the past week my heart has not been here in Chile. My heart has been home—home which is family and friends, home with Karen and with Popeye, and with all those who loved them.

            I’m going to end this with a letter to my grandpa but I also want to say thank you to all of you, my friends and family who enrich my life beyond measure.

. . . . . . .

Dear Popeye,

           

I’m writing to thank you and to tell you I love you.

Thank you for my mother, for your fifth daughter, and for raising her so that she could raise me with love and patience and humor. Thank you for my education, at Hyla and at Middlebury. Thank you for sharing your stories of your time in Japan, your time in Washington D.C., and your incredible contributions to history. Thank you for Arizona and the dry, dusty heat and the saguaros stretching for miles. Thank you for Snowmass and the aspen trees and the amazing feeling of floating through powder down the Big Burn. Thank you for the newspaper clippings sent over the years, of anything you saw that made you think of me. Thank you for oatmeal raisin cookies. Thank you for making me say, “yes,” instead of “yeah.” Thank you for your harmonica, for the songs that enchanted me as a child and then your great-grandchildren years later. And of course the same harmonica that turned you into the Pied Piper on your horse, with the cows curiously gathering around you. But most of all, thank you for the ranch.

By bringing our family to the ranch every year, you built us into the close-knit family that we are today. You gave us the Bighorn Mountains, rocky and densely covered with trees, transforming into brilliant, chalky, red rock in North and South Red Canyon. You gave us the golden grasses on Chocolate Drop and the land beyond, the folded, rolling, beautiful land that stretches out until it is lost in the hazy join between earth and sky. You gave us this amazing place to gather each year and to grow together and to watch a new generation enter the world. The ranch will be forever imbued with memories of you and Gam. Memories of you, wearing your beat-up old felt cowboy hat, zipping around on the golf cart. The year of the fire, you drove that golf cart right up to the top of hill by the garden and sat taking pictures. Memories of the first ride up North Red, always the first because it was your favorite and even after you stopped riding we continued to ride there our first morning. Creatures of habit, just like the horses. Memories of Stanley Camp, the pool, Storybook, and the corral, of cocktail parties, and bingo, and softball games, and dances.

The last time I saw you, you danced. Remember? When my mom jokingly suggested we go dancing, you started to push yourself out of your wheelchair, ready to dance like I remember you dancing at your 90^th birthday party, and with Gam at your 60^th wedding anniversary, and at all the weddings. But this last time you danced with your arms only, hilariously, endearingly, amazingly. I will always remember that last dance and how we laughed.

The truth is, the only way I can thank you for all you gave me and our family is with all my love, from my heart. Thank you and I love you. Rest now.