John and I went to visit a woman whose husband passed away last winter. He was the chef in the family, and took particular care in cooking the turkey at Thanksgiving, and a prime cut for Christmas. This was the first big holiday without him at the head of the table. Which would be hard.

As chance would have it, last year a relative wanted to know his secrets and emailed him asking for directions. What followed was a four page, detailed account including basting, temperature, spices, and times. Since he often celebrated in the mountains, the relative playfully inquired about whether the specifics were for sea level or a mile up. He gave a lengthy response. 

What it meant was that the family had a written record with which to follow his tradition. He had gone on without them. Now maybe they could too. 

He died in a plane crash and his wife had wanted to find the watch he was wearing, which did not turn up. Quietly word spread in the small town, and many people went out with metal detectors searching for it. But no watch ever appeared.

Three seasons came and went with all the precipitation common to the Rocky mountains. Then on his birthday the family was reminiscing about him, when a friend called. He had felt the itch to go looking one more time, and after he took a few steps in one direction..... there was the watch. 

He met them at the hangar to give it to her. There could have been no better present to celebrate his life. And when she held it to her ear she heard it. 

It was still ticking.