"In other words..."

One of the most memorable conversations I ever had with my dad occurred one day while we were alone in UK's Markey Center. I always appreciated that he talked frankly with me about cancer, about how he wanted the last few months to go, about the decisions he and I had both made in our lives. On this particular afternoon, we were discussing the idea of "fairness" as it relates to illness. So many times we (the rest of the family) had said or heard, "It just doesn't seem right. He's young. He takes care of himself. He has so much to live for. We need him." Dad's take on it that day: "well, why not me?"

It sounds simple (as most things with any substance often do), but those four words epitomize why I respected, and continue to admire, him so much. Dad (and Mom, too) never allowed some ethereal notion of "should be" cloud what was. They never felt sorry for themselves. They understood that appreciating what they had - a supportive family, a beautiful farm, a new grandchild who shared his name - was more important than fretting about and questioning daily realities and eventual loss. They were grace and kindness and unselfishness personified. They simply "did the best they could."
***
In memory of CLT, November 13, 1948-November 5, 2010.

He was a farmer who loved his horses, cows, dogs, and cats almost as much as the three little pony-tailed girls who likely drove him crazy for 32 years with pleas of pony rides – both actual and the occasional “buckin’ bronc” game in the living room – , fishing trips, and opportunities to hang onto ropes and “ride” the horse walker. He was a good teacher (based on my own experience and on those that others have been kind enough to share with me), one that could make us laugh with some dry, offhand comment and scare us in the same breath with both his knowledge of “a little bit about everything” and with the pointy toes of those classic cowboy boots. He was a news watcher. He was a reader. He loved to sit in his big brown chair in the living room, often with a dog squeezed in right beside him, and pull out his favorite Wendell Berry collection. He enjoyed horse magazines just as much as books of political theory. He appreciated Kentucky authors. He had an affinity for collections about agriculture, sustainability, and simple pleasures in life. He was open to trying poetry, although it wasn’t his favorite and sometimes invoked a little eye-rolling or sarcastic comment. And, this is one of those everyday things that I will miss everyday – walking by and hearing him repeat some line he found particularly interesting or ridiculous, a line he was able to read only because he had not lost his incredibly dirty glasses that given afternoon – but one for which I am incredibly grateful.

He was a husband who made certain the paths around the wild blackberries were mowed in late summer; the son who inherited his father's work ethic and affinity for the story, his mother's sense of simple right and wrong; the dad who makes me better everyday.


He did like his shirts starched and I did/do think he walked on water.

He always liked Alan Jackson and this song has always made me think of him.

"If I live the life I'm given, I won't be scared to die."