The Lost River
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Going to Dip My Toes in the Lost River. Klamath Falls, Here I Come.

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You know, I never knew that reaching my thirties would mean that I would be traveling to funeral after funeral. It seems that the world is losing a generation and it is happening right at the moment I wish they would stick around for a bit longer. In the last five years, I have seen too many family members go. This weekend I will be traveling down to Klamath Falls to remember my Great Aunt Betty. She was a great lady and a blast to hang out with when I was a kid. She was the first adult I met that would lie to me to get me to try new foods and I never got the sense she was apologetic for the deception. She chauffeured one of my most memorable trips to Northern California to hike around and explore Captain Jack’s Stronghold. She could convince two boys that throwing tennis balls over her house, back and forth, for hours was a great bit of fun so she could have some peace inside, and she always aired a sense of decorum and wisdom that made me go quiet and wait for her to speak.

I wasn’t as close to Betty in the last several years as I probably should have been, which seems to be the way life works.



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