The snow-covered landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, a pristine white canvas beneath the vast Colorado sky. Christmastime – winter time- at the ranch held a special place in my heart, a place that carried the weight of memories, love, and a deep yearning for the moments that had slipped away like snowflakes dancing in the winter wind.

I stood on the porch of the old farmhouse, the crisp winter air biting at my cheeks. The scent of pine and memories lingered in the air as I looked out at the snow-covered fields, each flake a reminder of the countless winters that had graced this land. Ute Mountain stood majestically in the distance, a silent guardian witnessing the passage of time.

As I closed my eyes, the past unfolded before me like the pages of a cherished book. I could almost hear the laughter of my grandmother, the clatter of pots and pans in the early morning kitchen, and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee that wrapped around the farmhouse like a warm embrace.

Grandmother, with her weathered hands, would rise before the sun, her energy unfazed by the biting cold. She’d shuffle about the kitchen, creating a symphony of flavors that would dance on our tongues throughout the day. The farmhouse, although small, held within its walls the magic of family, the essence of togetherness that defined those cherished moments.

Outside, the world transformed with the sunrise. The winter sun, a golden orb in the crisp morning sky, would cast hues of pink and orange over the snow-covered fields. Ute Mountain, a silent sentinel, absorbed the colors like an artist painting a masterpiece. It was a daily ritual, a reminder that even in the coldest months, warmth could be found in the simplest of things.

I could still feel the crunch of snow beneath my boots as I trudged through the fields, the cold air filling my lungs. The pond, frozen in time, held secrets of its own. Under the full moon of December, a lone fox would visit, its red fur a fiery contrast against the frozen landscape. It was a creature of the night, a silent companion to the solitude of winter.

The farmhouse windows, adorned with frost patterns, framed scenes of love. The warmth of the old coal stove inside would beckon, drawing us together. As daylight waned, the glow from within painted a picture of family gathered around the table, savoring the simple joy of being together.

Now, years later, I can’t help but marvel at the swift passage of time. Those moments, when I was just a 9-year-old child, seemed like a lifetime ago, yet their warmth and significance haven’t dimmed. The farmhouse, though weathered by the years, still stands as a testament to the enduring bonds that transcend time.

My own children, born into a world far removed from that small farmhouse in Colorado, might never have felt the chill of the winter wind on their faces or witnessed the fox by the pond. But through the old stories, passed down like heirlooms, they could touch the essence of what once was.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the snow, I found solace in the beauty of the Colorado sky. The air, clear and cold, carried with it the echoes of laughter and the whispers of stories told by my grandmother. Each snowflake that descended seemed to carry a fragment of those cherished memories, gently blanketing the world in a soft embrace.

In the quiet of the evening, with the farmhouse bathed in the warm glow of light, I understood that love and family were the true gifts of Christmastime. The warmth that radiated from within transcended the boundaries of time and space, connecting the past with the present and promising that the essence of those winter days in Colorado would forever endure in the hearts of those who had known its magic.

I love and cherish you, Grandmother.  You’re beautiful, Summit Ridge.  Thank you for some of the best memories you’ve ever given me:  Love, joy, and hope.  I carry you with me forever.

My cup truly is full.