I.
The details aren't clear -- I know it was summer. I was outside by the garden. I was maybe four. And Dad came across the yard from one of the hog barns. I was mad as could be about something. And pouting. And carrying on. Probably loudly. But he told me I'd better stop. A bug could fly in my mouth, he said.
A bug!
"Do bugs fly in your mouth?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I just swallowed three flies."
That's the first time I remember being in awe of my dad.
II.
Sometimes Mom got me up at what seemed like the middle of the night to put my hair in pigtails so that I could ride along with Dad to take a load of hogs into John Morrell. After that business was done, we'd get breakfast at the Stockyards Café. We'd both get pancakes and sometimes we'd both get chocolate milk.
On the way home he'd sing his version of Convoy, adapted for hauling hogs instead of logs and I'd usually fall asleep.
He still sings that song, and I still think it's funny.
III.
I got a dog for my birthday. I'm not sure what birthday -- but it was before I was eight because for my eighth birthday I got Sparkle, which was the best present ever even if Grandpa did spill the beans before the big day.
The dog was a Springer Spaniel named Benji who was promptly hit by a car.
It was sad, of course, but not worth holding onto.
At least that's how I remember Benji because within days -- maybe even the next day -- mom and dad woke me up from a nap on the couch with a little ball of a puppy mom named Cocoa and Pat renamed Ace.
When that eighth birthday rolled around and we went to get Sparkle home from the neighbor, I was elated and terrified. Mostly terrified.
But Dad didn't have time for that. First I sat on Sparkle while mom led me around the yard, then dad hired someone to give me riding lessons and we rode every day and every day and every day. He set up some railroad ties along the hitching rail so I could reach up high enough to saddle and mount Sparkle by myself. And when he decided I'd outgrown the railroad tie, he made me practice in the yard after supper.
IV.
Years later we were heading to a horse show -- I can't remember exactly where -- but we were heading east on Highway 42 when we ran into some road construction. We weren't running late, but we didn't have time to spare waiting for the pilot car to make its rounds. So dad executed a flawless three-point turn -- with the trailer -- and went around on some back roads.
V.
During my time at NWC, you couldn't loft the beds in Fern and storage space was at a premium so some enterprising soul at the lumberyard sold freestanding shelves that went over the bed. And he managed to get them pitched during orientation so that all future Fern residents could go home to tell their parents.
Dad didn't think much of the idea and instead threw his tools in the pickup on move-in day. He did some measuring while mom and I unpacked, went to the lumberyard for some boards, set up a couple saw horses in my dorm room and built his own shelves. It was hot that day. The dorm wasn't air conditioned, and the smell of hogs and turkeys and feedlots hung heavy in the air.
But Dad just rolled up the sleeves on his new red shirt and told me to find a vacuum.
When he was done with my shelves, he built some for my roommate. And then some for a few other girls.
VI.
My first semester there was hard, as those things tend to be. And I was sad and sometimes lonely and maybe a little lost.
So Dad took a lot of dictation from the family dog, who sent both snail mail and e-mail. Ernie's updates were generally the same: He wanted to pack a satchel so that he could come stay for the weekend to bite stray boys.
The details aren't clear -- I know it was summer. I was outside by the garden. I was maybe four. And Dad came across the yard from one of the hog barns. I was mad as could be about something. And pouting. And carrying on. Probably loudly. But he told me I'd better stop. A bug could fly in my mouth, he said.
A bug!
"Do bugs fly in your mouth?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I just swallowed three flies."
That's the first time I remember being in awe of my dad.
II.
Sometimes Mom got me up at what seemed like the middle of the night to put my hair in pigtails so that I could ride along with Dad to take a load of hogs into John Morrell. After that business was done, we'd get breakfast at the Stockyards Café. We'd both get pancakes and sometimes we'd both get chocolate milk.
On the way home he'd sing his version of Convoy, adapted for hauling hogs instead of logs and I'd usually fall asleep.
He still sings that song, and I still think it's funny.
III.
I got a dog for my birthday. I'm not sure what birthday -- but it was before I was eight because for my eighth birthday I got Sparkle, which was the best present ever even if Grandpa did spill the beans before the big day.
The dog was a Springer Spaniel named Benji who was promptly hit by a car.
It was sad, of course, but not worth holding onto.
At least that's how I remember Benji because within days -- maybe even the next day -- mom and dad woke me up from a nap on the couch with a little ball of a puppy mom named Cocoa and Pat renamed Ace.
When that eighth birthday rolled around and we went to get Sparkle home from the neighbor, I was elated and terrified. Mostly terrified.
But Dad didn't have time for that. First I sat on Sparkle while mom led me around the yard, then dad hired someone to give me riding lessons and we rode every day and every day and every day. He set up some railroad ties along the hitching rail so I could reach up high enough to saddle and mount Sparkle by myself. And when he decided I'd outgrown the railroad tie, he made me practice in the yard after supper.
IV.
Years later we were heading to a horse show -- I can't remember exactly where -- but we were heading east on Highway 42 when we ran into some road construction. We weren't running late, but we didn't have time to spare waiting for the pilot car to make its rounds. So dad executed a flawless three-point turn -- with the trailer -- and went around on some back roads.
V.
During my time at NWC, you couldn't loft the beds in Fern and storage space was at a premium so some enterprising soul at the lumberyard sold freestanding shelves that went over the bed. And he managed to get them pitched during orientation so that all future Fern residents could go home to tell their parents.
Dad didn't think much of the idea and instead threw his tools in the pickup on move-in day. He did some measuring while mom and I unpacked, went to the lumberyard for some boards, set up a couple saw horses in my dorm room and built his own shelves. It was hot that day. The dorm wasn't air conditioned, and the smell of hogs and turkeys and feedlots hung heavy in the air.
But Dad just rolled up the sleeves on his new red shirt and told me to find a vacuum.
When he was done with my shelves, he built some for my roommate. And then some for a few other girls.
VI.
My first semester there was hard, as those things tend to be. And I was sad and sometimes lonely and maybe a little lost.
So Dad took a lot of dictation from the family dog, who sent both snail mail and e-mail. Ernie's updates were generally the same: He wanted to pack a satchel so that he could come stay for the weekend to bite stray boys.
VII.
Moving to Omaha for graduate school shouldn't have been as simple as moving into Fern, but it was. Here's why:
Mom, Dad and I left Bridgewater for Omaha at 6:00 one morning in July. We got into town about 9:00. We looked at two apartments; by 10:00 we signed a lease at the second place. Then we went to the Nebraska Furniture Mart, found a couch, love seat and bed at Mrs. B's, arranged for them to be delivered to the new apartment on my move-in date in August, and met Stephanie for lunch at Chili's.
We were back on the road for home shortly after noon.
VIII.
As an adult looking back over the expanse of my childhood, I know my dad worried about me. But I didn't know it then. Had no clue that there was anything to worry about, that I was anything less than capable and confident and strong.
IX.
Dad has always wanted ride cutting horses, so a few years ago he sold some horses, bought a couple of others, signed himself up for lessons and drove down to Cody, Nebraska, to take them.
Last winter we went to the stock show in Rapid City for a cutting. We've spent a lot of time around horses together, so I can say, objectively, that had his life turned out differently, he would have been a horse trader. Or an engineer. Or maybe a psychologist.
He gets pretty worked up around horses. Ridiculous amounts of energy. Plus he was on steroids.
No, really. He was. So factor that in.
We ate steak at 10 o'clock Saturday night and while I was sleeping that off the next morning, he was up surveying the situation at the fairgrounds. He picked me up at the hotel for breakfast and then I watched him make his social rounds for the next eight hours until it was time for his class.
And then I watched him, a few weeks into chemotherapy at that point, cut three calves just as pretty as you please.
X.
Moving to Omaha for graduate school shouldn't have been as simple as moving into Fern, but it was. Here's why:
Mom, Dad and I left Bridgewater for Omaha at 6:00 one morning in July. We got into town about 9:00. We looked at two apartments; by 10:00 we signed a lease at the second place. Then we went to the Nebraska Furniture Mart, found a couch, love seat and bed at Mrs. B's, arranged for them to be delivered to the new apartment on my move-in date in August, and met Stephanie for lunch at Chili's.
We were back on the road for home shortly after noon.
VIII.
As an adult looking back over the expanse of my childhood, I know my dad worried about me. But I didn't know it then. Had no clue that there was anything to worry about, that I was anything less than capable and confident and strong.
IX.
Dad has always wanted ride cutting horses, so a few years ago he sold some horses, bought a couple of others, signed himself up for lessons and drove down to Cody, Nebraska, to take them.
Last winter we went to the stock show in Rapid City for a cutting. We've spent a lot of time around horses together, so I can say, objectively, that had his life turned out differently, he would have been a horse trader. Or an engineer. Or maybe a psychologist.
He gets pretty worked up around horses. Ridiculous amounts of energy. Plus he was on steroids.
No, really. He was. So factor that in.
We ate steak at 10 o'clock Saturday night and while I was sleeping that off the next morning, he was up surveying the situation at the fairgrounds. He picked me up at the hotel for breakfast and then I watched him make his social rounds for the next eight hours until it was time for his class.
And then I watched him, a few weeks into chemotherapy at that point, cut three calves just as pretty as you please.
X.
Before Dad sold Edgar to the hot-dog-stand mogul in Minnesota, he tried to give him away several times.
He didn't stake him out by the road with a "Free" sign, but he was constantly coming across people who he thought were in need of a good horse. Like rolly poly 13-year-old boys who want a horse but don't know how to ride. That sort of thing.
Edgar came back from that escapade beat up by broodmares with his tail chewed off. And I'm guessing that boy still doesn't know how to ride.
But that's my dad: He sees someone in need or something that needs doing and he does what he can.
That he can see those things so clearly and always be moved to act? That's the thing that impresses me most.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
He didn't stake him out by the road with a "Free" sign, but he was constantly coming across people who he thought were in need of a good horse. Like rolly poly 13-year-old boys who want a horse but don't know how to ride. That sort of thing.
Edgar came back from that escapade beat up by broodmares with his tail chewed off. And I'm guessing that boy still doesn't know how to ride.
But that's my dad: He sees someone in need or something that needs doing and he does what he can.
That he can see those things so clearly and always be moved to act? That's the thing that impresses me most.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
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