Tom didn’t enjoy holidays. They were all the same: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, just another excuse to spend money or have a party. Sara had asked him to Thanksgiving dinner with her folks but he refused. A cheeseburger platter at the diner and writing some letters was how he spent the holiday. It was typically the way he caught up with family and friends, it was the least he could do, since he didn’t visit them. It was how he was going to spend New Years. Tom had almost five pages written to his Godson and was still at it. David of course would have to do the actual reading. Young Tom would at least know his God Father was alive and well. Someday he could look back and remember those letters and get to know Uncle Tom and the mountains he loved so deeply.
Tom had always been an avid reader, He remembered his parents, once a month, opening the family diary and read stories of their history. Uncle Snowshoe, the famed skiing mailman, started the tradition. Through the generations, the album had collected hundreds of stories, it was a unique family tree passed down from father to son. The telling of stories was imprinted in Tom’s heritage. Tom contributed when he was young and he looked forward to including his mountain exploits. He wanted to give back to his family and to others less fortunate all the days he had cherished so fervently. Life itself was one long story he believed, and the best tales were beginning right now. He wrote them down when he could. He felt he owed it to his family, children and future generations. The true great legends are the ones that give back what they take.
He looked out the window. It had started snowing. The bright amber streetlights illuminated the large swirling flakes. They were millions of gold coins falling from heaven.
“God really knows what he’s doing up there,” Tom thought. Sometimes he wished he had paid a little more attention to religion over the years. Living up in the mountains surrounded by all the incredible wonders makes you realize that it didn’t just happen by accident. A higher power was definitely at work.
He clicked off the light and stretched out on his bead. The room was small. It barely fit the matching dresser and the desk was jammed tight into the corner. It was at least clean and he had slept in some miserable places and some very interesting ones. In Wyoming, he slept in a converted railroad box cars in bunk beds, ate in dinning cars and showered in separate shower cars all for the sake of money for another season pass to Jackson Hole, Wyoming and a chance to ski Corbett’s Colouir. This was a pleasure. The falling snow reminded him of building a leanto in the Arapahoe Natonal Forest. He had slept through a fierce blizzard only to be awakened by a hoot owl. He could have sworn it called out his name. The owl had saved his life.
He looked up at the ticking alarm clock. It read 1:15 in the morning.
“Happy New Year, Tom My Boy,” he said to himself. The New Year had come and gone while he had been so engrossed in his writing. He reflected cheerfully that a full year had gone bye. It seemed to him that the years flew by quicker. The changes are the only things that remain the same in life. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and silently prayed. Not for any one or anything in particular, but just to let God know he was trying his best to lead a good life. What better way to live than to enjoy and love the magnificent work and the fresh powder he had lain down for him.
“Thank you,” he whispered. He drifted off to sleep.
Sri Hanuman Chalesa/Gates of Sweet Nectar, Krishna Das, Door of Faith