The trouble with grief is that it follows you everywhere. No matter where you go or what you do, it’s there. For me, grief is like a haze of fog that settles and clouds everything I do. I still have fun, I still laugh, I still enjoy myself, but the fog is always there, dampening the fun and enjoyment so that it isn’t quite as bright and sharp as normal.
I’m here in Yellowstone National Park in early January, on a dream-come-true vacation. Ever since I watched Christmas In Yellowstone on PBS, I’ve wanted to visit Yellowstone in winter. I’ve watched every possible DVD and photo book the Montana Library System has about Yellowstone in winter, and it’s only deepened my love for the park. Here I am on this incredible experience, with a cloud following me around like I’m a Peanuts character.
For most people, a Yellowstone winter vacation might not be out of reach. But for an unemployed, very frugal grad student it is. Everything costs a fortune here in winter; you can’t drive into the park on your own, so you have to either pay to ride a snowcoach or hire a guide and rent a snowmobile to come in. Price: $60 to $300, one way. Staying in the park ranges from $96 to $206 per night. Once you’re in the park, you can’t get around without a shuttle, thus requiring you drop more $$ in transportation. Luggage is limited per person, which means you’ll likely only bring in clothing and other necessary items like laptops, cell phones, ski gear, knitting, etc. There won’t be any room to bring in your own food, so you’ll be at the mercy of the dining facilities. The Snow Lodge in Old Faithful has a Grill with a reasonably priced menu that’s open for lunch only, the dining room menu features Filet Mignon and other things I can’t pronounce or afford. These costs aren’t likely something I’ll feel ok about spending.
I got a free ride into the park by care of Christine who could sign-out a snowmobile to meet me in West Yellowstone and bring me straight to the gov’t housing where she and Scott reside. The guided snowmobile services have outlawed park employees from “touring” on their own, so we couldn’t even stop to take photos on the hour-long drive from West to Old Faithful in fear that Christine would get caught by any one of the numerous guides we saw along the way. The images in my mind will suffice. We watched two bison about 3 feet away digging with their massive heads in the snow for food. Their faces were all covered with snow and icicles, just like I’ve seen in pictures and PBS specials. Amazing!
The first night I was here, I opened the Yellowstone Journal I bought last summer to document my adventures, and a postcard I had bought for Grandpa D fell out. I bought the card on my very last trip in September. Apparently, I had forgotten all about it. Tears filled my eyes, and I journaled for 4 pages. I couldn’t sleep after that, thinking about how I missed an opportunity to let Grandpa know I was thinking about him.
The next evening, I learned that my Dad, aunts and uncles had to move all of Grandpa’s things out of the house and into the pole barn. The haze of grief turned to a thick smog and I had difficulty carrying on conversation with Scott & Christine. All I could think about was how quickly life moves on after someone dies. It’s only been 6 weeks, yet it feels like just yesterday. It doesn’t seem like it’s time to move his belongings yet.
That night, I had a strange dream about Grandpa D and my family. It was quite bizarre with random events like Aunt Pat being overly concerned I had a tick on me, my Aunt Teri finding thrift store items that belonged to my Grandpa, and my dad searching for a deer hide of Grandpa’s that he wanted to hang up. Near the end of my dream, I was helping Grandpa eat (which is ironic since in his final days he didn’t eat a thing), he looked pale and sick just like he did when I visited him before he died. And just like in real life, in the dream we all knew he was going to die, but we were so hopeful he would pull out of it. I awoke with a heavy heart.
The next day Scott, Christine and I cross country skied and had dinner in the Snow Lodge. Afterwards, we sat in front of the fire in the lobby. There were quite a few people around playing games, reading and just enjoying the rustic atmosphere. I sat down next to a woman who was knitting an orange and black intarsia scarf with geometric patterns. Of course I couldn’t help myself, I commented on her handiwork. She and her husband both laughed and said it was a long story. She had knit scarves for her grandkids for Christmas, all except a few who she was certain wouldn’t care about getting a handknit scarf. One of the boys, the one whom she least expected to want a scarf, was a little upset. He asked if she would make one for him too. It turned out to be a nice adventure for the both of them. They went to the yarn store together and he picked out the colors he wanted. She joked that he would likely never wear it, but I think that he’ll love it anyway because his grandma knit it. The story was so sweet and touching, it brought tears to my eyes.
I’m a little sentimental right now, and I tear up over the tiniest things. But her story really struck a chord. As we left the Lodge, I realized why. I had knit Grandpa D a blue blanket several years ago. He had it on the back of his recliner, and to my knowledge that’s where it stayed. But I knew he loved it, he would say so every time I came to visit when he was still living in the trailer. I didn’t care that the blanket was never used, I cared that he loved it simply because I had made it for him. Damn, here come the tears again!
It’s interesting how when someone dies, they’re all you can think about. You see them everywhere, you’re reminded of them all the time, and you miss them more than you ever thought possible. I know this will pass, the pang of grief lessens over time. It’s strange that I’m currently comforted by my cloud of grief. And I actually like that my first (and possibly only) winter Yellowstone visit will forever be synonymous with remembering Grandpa D.
I’ll close with my version of a well-known quote; Smile because it happened, Cry because it’s over. I hate that the real quote is “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” I despise that our society shuns crying. It’s ok to cry, it’s a natural and automatic response. We grieve over things that are important to us; it’s the price we pay for love. And that’s a cost I’ll always be ok spending.
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