The last time I cried was a month ago when I saw my Grandfather in his casket. There's nothing like seeing the strongest, most bad-ass, tell you the hard truth because he loves you, conqueror in a casket. The damn guy kicked lung cancer's ass at 74, and went on to live several years after because he wanted to. So yeah, I don't feel bad about letting some water slip. The world lost a man who could build a house with his hands, shoot a crow on the wing in mid-air with a .22, or kill a buck at 150 yards in one shot with a .22 rifle. Work his ass off herding cattle and bailing hay, shrug off a broken arm, burn his callouses in a wood stove at night to harden them and cut them off with a knife, and still take his grandkids fishing. Still miss my Grandpa.