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    A trip back to the midwest — and the passing of my last grandparent — raises the question: what do we have that we can take with us, and what do we leave behind?

What is your legacy?

Start: Around 15 years ago I went home — home being Indiana — to a small town in the lush rolling hills south of Fort Wayne. After living in the Phoenix area, in the middle of the barren Sonoran Desert for the better part of twenty years, the view during the landing run to Indianapolis airport was a stunning contrast to the dry browns, rusted reds, and bleak grays I had been living with for two decades. I was absorbed in the panorama below of a patchwork quilt of vigorous greens, muddy river browns, and flat blues, of furrows of farmland crops bordered and broken with creeks and modest rivers.

It was Life. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see.

What brought me there, unfortunately, was just the opposite of Life. My grandmother, my father’s mother and my only surviving grandparent, had passed away at the respectable age of 90, and I had come to be some support to my father as he faced this grim milestone.

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