When I was a kid and long before my parents built their house in this windy little valley filled with cottonwood trees, back when my great-grandparents owned this piece of land, we'd walk out into what felt like the wild, down to the little creek. We'd climb up the sandstone banks and collect pretty rocks and raw, bright turquoise clay to grind and use for art projects. It was a magical way to spend a lot of my childhood summers and practically every Thanksgiving (which is decidedly a DeWitt holiday).
He loved this sweet little town called Snowflake, and all its windy, quirky beauty. He loved his family most though, and all of us have a hole in our hearts the size of a cottonwood tree.
Love and miss you Grandpa.