Memories of my boyhood days, an old K. C. Baking Powder can, and two little red hounds.
Memories of a wonderful love, unselfish devotion, and death in its saddest form.
As I turned to enter my yard I started to lock the gate, and then I thought, “No, I’ll leave it open. He might come back.”
I was about halfway to the house when a cool breeze drifted down from the rugged Tetons.
It had a bite in it and goosepimples jumped out on my skin. I stopped at the woodshed and picked up several sticks of wood.
I didn’t turn on any lights on entering the house. The dark, quiet atmosphere was a perfect setting for the mood I was in.
I built a fire in the fireplace and pulled up my favorite rocker. As I sat there in the silence, the fire grew larger.
It crackled and popped. Firelight shadows began to shimmer and dance around the room. The warm, comfortable heat felt good.
I struck a match to light my pipe. As I did, two beautiful cups gleamed from the mantel. I held the match up so I could get a better look.
There they were, sitting side by side. One was large with long, upright handles that stood out like wings on a morning dove.
The highly polished surface gleamed and glistened with a golden sheen.
The other was smaller and made of silver. It was neat and trim, and sparkled like a white star in the heavens.
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