Bill Grenemyer.
When we first moved to Colorado, Bill and Marge welcomed us into their house and their hearts. We could stop by their farm outside Broomfield any time; we often did; and it was always hard to leave. A second home for us. Judy and I were practically kids ourselves, and *our* kids got to grow up knowing Bill and Marge, Debbie and Donnie, and the farm. Chickens, cows, dogs, cats, sheep, hogs, horses, and guinea hens. Corn fields, hay, and bales. New and old tractors, parts, sheds, and farm equipment everywhere. If we ever needed a part or fix, we always knew who to ask. A farm pond with majestic old cottonwood trees around the edges. So many memories and stories.
This city boy got to fulfill childhood dreams by helping on occasion with chores (mostly I just went with him and watched and talked), in the corral for a branding of that year’s calves (that was memorable and messy), and riding along on a corn harvest (I ended up back at the house because all the chopped crop dust in the air gave me hay fever so bad I couldn’t see). It never mattered how much I could or couldn’t do, the welcome never changed.
Later, when it got too crowded where they were in the Denver area, they bought a farm outside Wheatland, Wyoming. It became an annual affair to make sure we stopped in Wheatland for a visit while out and about on our travels. Nothing but the location changed. They might have just picked up their farm outside of Broomfield and dropped it down in Wyoming. I can’t even imagine how many dinners they fed us over our fifty years together.
Bill and Marge. Family you get to choose and that chooses you. It’s hard to say Bill’s name alone, without saying Bill and Marge. It will be hard to say Marge’s name alone.
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