Lord Calvert Springs will forever be synonymous with the man I only knew as Grandpa Leo. A man who wasn’t my Grandpa at all. A man who tells it like it is with a scotch and water, little ice if you would please.

Back in the sage brush and pine mountains that he called home while alive, we rest in blue sky and sunshine. Time is a non factor. We hearing the fishing is good and head to a secret cove my brother knows, safely anchored from the wind and occasional mid day thunderstorms. Deer find their way to quench their thirst, beaver scurry about building their home on the lake shore, we pull trout from the water to abundance.

The little ones catch their first fish ever, excitement brimming across porcelain skin. The adults take them under their wing, show them the circle of life as we knife the life out of our dinner, fry them with butter, and lick the fresh meat from our fingers. Savage can be the mountainous routine.

We sleep well.

The next morning rises, as it always does, to crystal clear skies and soaring temperatures. We want to get to the lake early before the heat is unbearable.
The adults stretch tired bones on wakeboards while the little ones work up the courage to enter the deep water. We remind them of Grandpa Leo and they summon the strength to brave the waters.
With no ticking clock, one watches the sun rise and set. Clouds burst into strange shapes in an endless sky. Hummingbirds dance on the air. Grandpa Leo presses ever so slightly on my shoulder, gently tapping his fingers through the heavens.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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