My father passed December 1st. He was a man of many trades: carpenter, farmer, set builder for WCCO, mechanic in the air force, and lumberjack. I think he would like to rest in this snowy Sequoia Forest on the California coast. Dad loved wearing wool flannel shirts. So strong he could split most logs with a single stroke. Two of us stacking firewood, I would scramble to keep up with him. The magic of forest always gave him peace.
Paul and I visited the Sequoias. Along the road, years of falling leaves have raised the forest floor putting it at my eye level as we drove by. The Sequoias dwarfed the large yellow green bushes next to them. The pile of activity in the foreground entertained me, but the large tree trunks side by side really tell the story. Slivers of light among the dark blue shadows danced on the fresh snow that only pure white watercolor paper could illustrate so well.
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