November 10th, 1979 dawned bright and frosty at our Ozark farm in Missouri. From our front patio, my husband Clayton and I watched the river run clean and clear. Ducks and geese dined on the leftovers from the corn harvest across the way. Two of our senior citizen horses nibbled at remaining grasses in our pasture while the young buckskin, Smoky, in foal, whinnied for oats. Inside our warm house, our granddaughter Jami played on the kitchen floor. We’d celebrated her third birthday just ten days before. She looked forward to big plans. She and “Poppa” would do a little fishing in the morning. Then a horseback ride with Aunt Lynn and grandma, a nap and out for an evening with neighbors.
All went well until after dinner. Then, Clayton began to suffer an asthma attack. The next few hours flew by in a mad rush to get home, call the doctor, drop Jami off with Aunt Lynn and the final, futile dash to the hospital.
We still find it hard to talk about, so we call each other and murmur words of sorrow and comfort. We remember.
Lucky for us, Grandpa Glenn came into our lives. He stepped into the role of husband, step-dad, grandfather and great grandfather. We love him dearly and congratulate ourselves that he found us.