He was a guard on the varsity basketball team, one of five starters on the first ever Warrior, the first senior class, the first Central High School – at that time housed in the WPA building on 29 Road. At 5’6” he weighed 125 pounds. He was sharp and attentive and rightfully earned the nickname “Live Wire.” They were a scrappy team, they exercised sportsmanship. That was 71 years ago.

He was the coach at Olathe Junior High and then Clifton and later Bookcliff Junior High He was well-loved. He coached a winning church basketball team. That was in the decade known as the 60s. As a player or as a coach of multiple sports he understood two important principles: Keep your eye on the ball. Tuck that football into you so you don’t fumble.

We’re taking a stupendous road trip, this 88-year-old erstwhile athlete and I. We’re enjoying the vast farmland and calculating the worth of cattle herds and mammoth irrigation systems in Wyoming and Idaho and Montana and eastern Washington. When I was young, and yes, this is a trip of memories, we always counted the cattle on a thousand hills and claimed them for Dad’s ranch. After all, he was raised on farms and ranches and he understands the value of each haystack and each cow. 

When we reach Montana, I am smitten by the mountains and conifers and lakes and rivers. Though I like to think of myself as finally in my prime and I also pride myself on averaging three miles of hiking or walking each day, we are not traveling alone. My 88-year-old father and I are accompanied by our own private wilderness guide and martial arts devotee in the person of my 32-year-old daughter. She drives, and does our cooking for us, and is there to pick us up if we fall. I am the planner and navigator – a baton I have inherited from my father – although he still figures the gas mileage and total cost and suggests routes.

Night three of our road trip, we stayed in a beautiful alpine-like cabin. I packed and unpacked. Andrea chopped wood, lit the fireplace, and cooked. Dad sat in the recliner and did the books and composed an email to my brother on his laptop. Yes, we are all internet savvy and each hauled along our essential Macbook Pro for various uses.

Next morning I readied myself for a morning exploration of the exquisite mountain property; the pond, the spring, the evergreen trees, the creek-sized river running through the lower regions. Dad announced that he would go out and walk around the cabin while I was out. The ground and steps from car to cabin were uneven and slick with an overnight skiff of snow. Dad has limited vision with his coke-bottle glasses and macular degeneration. I pondered for one quick moment and determined to accompany him on a walk first and then return him to the safety of the recliner before I meandered further. 

We walked down the decline. He wanted to do it himself. Without help. He didn’t want to take my hand lest he fall and pull me down. I showed him how to use his walking stick with one hand and place his other hand on my shoulder. We walked down to the pond with ease and stood contemplating on the tuffets of grass at the bank. The grass was the color of golden wheat, not yet greening for the spring; the buds on the weeping willow trees and cottonwoods so chartreuse they look neon yellow against the pine trees; the bare stems of the infant willow switches a brilliant red. The day was chilly and frosty like an old-fashioned root beer mug placed in the freezer overnight.

We turned and headed our laborious trudge back up the hill, always moving forward – sometimes at an imperceptible pace. Scattered about our feet were ostrich egg sized pinecones – newly fallen and still red brown. I spied a perfect one. Stooping, I picked it up for closer examination but fumbled it off my cold fingers. Dad snatched it out of the air, cradling it securely to him like a mini football.

“Well look there,” he said proudly with delight. Once again, it’s Dad for the win!