from the Archives, "Dad"

I remember the first time I came near the card aisle the first Father’s Day after my dad died. You couldn’t have drug me down it with a bulldozer. In fact, if I remember right, tears sprang to my eyes and I had to turn and leave the store.

My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.

It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.

Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.

I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.

He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.

He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.

I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.

The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.

Thank you, Dad. I love you.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007