I did not write the obituary that was published in the paper. Mine is different. A balanced view? Perhaps not; but fair, accurate,
and real. Listing his resume doesn’t reveal who he was, his impact on the world, or those around him. His death was not impersonal; to me it was very personal.
He had brothers. He had one he was proud of and very close to, he had one he missed, and he had one he never could click with. He told stories of happy shenanigans they played as boys and kept the darker stories of those younger times to himself never revealing them. He laughed a big belly laugh when he would recall the yearly get together of the “boys”. He liked that trip. It was one of the bonds that hadn’t broken for him. He was anxious the week before, dare I say he showed excitement.
He and I spent a lot of time in motion together. We did better together when we were moving. Those were the times we bonded the most. Some psychologist would be able to draw some significant conclusion about that but it escapes me what it is. He was an equestrian. Later in life if his physical limitations hadn’t hampered him and he was given the opportunity to go for a ride I believe
he would have climbed right on. We rode together side by side hour after hour many years ago. We’d go for miles without a spoken word, just the sound of leather harnesses squeaking and the steady beat of hooves. Corn fields, sunshine, horses, and us. I loved those times. We were happy together then. I miss those times so. He was car nut. He hadn’t owned as many as I have but he was close. We’d go for rides in old sportscars, often breaking down, and explore not only our surroundings but also what it must have felt like to drive those old beauties when they were new. I remember his
big shit eating grin when he looked over at me one winter day and asked, “Warm enough?” when I was busily scrapping ice off of the inside of the windshield so he could see out of the frozen coffin we were in. He loved two wheeled vehicles most of all. Motorcycles and scooters were part of his life to his very last days. He was a nut when it came to 2 wheels. He loved them and couldn’t help having one even if he couldn’t ride it. He and I rode side by side over many a back road. He and his brother did the same. He loved motorcycles. One of my favorite stories about my father and brother is the one about all of us going for a ride. My 7 or 8 year old brother behind my Dad kept falling asleep and would begin to slide off. For 100 miles every now and then I would beep my horn, point to the back of dad’s Harley, and he would have to reach back and grab my brother before he fell to his death. It sounds scary now but it was comical then. He made horrible choices when it came to cars and motorcycles/scooters. His theory must have been “buy high and sell low” since I don’t think he ever broke even on any of those acquisitions; but that wasn’t the point.
He was a wolf of a man when it came to parenting styles. Tender and gentle at times yet would resort to vicious ferocity in order to get his point across. He struggled with parenting. I often saw him speak lovingly about being a parent and
believe he was quite pleased with having children. Unfortunately when it came to the actual act of being a parent he was often a fish out of water. Whether from the lack of a learned skill set or from the unwillingness to sacrifice, perhaps both, he was not a shining example of a loving parent. We talked about that behavior early this year. I was surprised he brought it up. I saw great pain in his eyes and heard his voice crack when he spoke of some of the poor choices he had made and the results on his boys. I remember a stillness in time, an instant where roles reversed; I became the teacher and he became the student, “You can’t do anything about that now Dad. You can get eaten by it or you can go let it go. You can’t change what you did yesterday but you can change what you do tomorrow.” He heard me. I saw it in his face. I wish I could say that conversation changed his life or made a dramatic impact on him but I can’t. There wasn’t enough time left with him to find out.
August 23rd, 1972 changed everything in his life. It changed everything in my life. It was a day which marked like 9/11 does now. 8/23/72 was an important day for him and a day which has to be mentioned in any type of writing like this one. It was one time where he could stand firm on the fact that he thought of someone else forsake himself and did the right thing. Not one person can question it, not one person can help but acknowledge the courage it took, and yet less than a half a dozen people know about that day.
If viewed with a sense of humor his antics certainly were entertaining. Building relationships with women was a strong suit of his; maintaining them was another story. I never knew a time in his life when he wasn’t married and didn’t have a girlfriend at the same time. I knew them all. From the time I was 12 years old he always made sure he introduced them to me. It was odd; it was almost like he was proud and wanted me to see. It was at times uncomfortable. He often used me as his wing man. He’d call and explain that we were at a ballgame from x time to x time, or “um, we had dinner last night in the city, it was late and I stayed with you.”, or some other story. Eventually he always got caught. It always ended in disaster. I saw them come and saw them go. Some were not happy with me because I wouldn’t form a bond. Why would I? I knew they would go soon only to be replaced by another.
He was pleased with his accomplishments at the university and his publications. He would strut around like a
proud peacock when he talked about his conference or how others would come to him for advice. He loved teaching at the university. He relished the respect he received and loved the admiration of his
students. He had a love/hate relationship with the administration. He truly wanted them to build a better university; he just wanted them to do it his way. I remember how engrossed and focused he was when he was the publisher of his magazine. He would talk about young artists, writers, and poets from around the country and marvel at their skill or future potential. He used to show me cover illustrations, “What do you think?” “How about this one?” My observation is he really liked that part of his career.
During his last days I realized we no longer lived in the same segment of, or under the same rules of, time. My world consists of a day and a night. The sun rises and the sun sets. There is a time for sleep and a time to be awake. My day is measured. He did not live in those terms. In the end time meant nothing to him. Sun rises and sets were no measure of how he should live; his last times were spent living in a never ending linear time. A day of no nights or daylight, rather just the passing of time. 2am didn’t mean sleep; sleep came when he was tired. The proper time to be awake was when he had enough strength to open his eyes. This was how his last time was measured. During those last days our worlds were already separating.
Men who live large make an impact on a huge number of people. Large personalities often take some extra effort to get to know and to understand.
My Dad was a large man in stature and in persona. Large men live large lives and my Dad was no exception. His voice carried through a room with a booming bravado. There is not one person who knew him who didn’t know his raucous laughter. Sadly there will be an emptiness now where he was. The effect of his life and of his passing will be felt far and wide. His impact on his beloved university was large and will be felt for many a graduating class to come. His brothers have lost their larger than life leader and will always be minus one now. His youngest son has lost his father and a large part of his ancestry. There are friends and colleagues who now have a void. When large men go they leave large holes in hearts. His oldest son is trying to find a way to stop the bleeding from the hole in his.
Bye Dad,
























































I remember the smell of oil, fuel and exhaust. Why did it always smell a little better there than in a garage full of Chevys? My Dad would take an old Mercedes Benz to Rick’s place for service. Dad always got there late in the day often armed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I think the bottle was Dad’s attempt to bribe Rick into lowering the bill. He and Rick would sit over in the corner drinking whiskey and talking about who knows what. I can still picture Rick’s dog, who was mostly a wild wolf from the mountains of Colorado mixed with some domestic canine. He would keep an eye on me as I wandered from car to car.
Triumph, Jensen, Alfa, Fiat, Ferrari, & Maserati were the names I whispered. Astons and Austins, Bug-eyes and Bugattis, Lolas and Lambos, Spitfires and Sunbeams; it was a grand time to like cars. There
were scantily clad chromed women adorning the radiators and handmade cloisonné badges proclaiming the manufacturer’s name. Interiors were covered in acres of leather all of it rolled or pleated. Carpets were Wilton wool. Oh the smell was pure heaven. Wooden dashboards had gauges inset.
Shiny chromed bezels surrounded black or white faces with white or red needles. There were no “idiot lights”, no true enthusiast would ever trust a light. Oil pressure, oil temperature, water temp, amps, volts, rpm, fuel pressure, vacuum, and many other functions
were all monitored by these little dials. I can still remember the odd feeling of seeing cars where the hood and the fenders were one unit so the entire front end was rotated forward in order to get to the engine.
measured by the half century mark. Over the years many of these moving sculptures have spent time in my stewardship. Recently an attempt was made to name them all. The number is staggering, embarrassing, un-nerving, and humbling. Another acquisition or two and it will take three digits to count them all.
Some of them were as new as could be; others required a huge imagination to be considered anything other than scrap. Oh my, they were so much fun. A few were the definition of frustration. Some of them were true history. A couple were my friends. Some are missed to this day.
There was the GT6 that shed its wheel on Lake Shore Drive. The Reynard that tried to kill me. The Stag that was so eager to get to its new home it tried to pass me by as I was towing it to my garage. The Z in which I stole that first kiss.
The 275 I drove in the funeral procession as I followed my friend who was killed in his E. The 6 in which I took her for her first ride in a convertible. Many a fond picture has been burned into my memory. The sunset in the mountains of Tennessee behind the wheel of an Italian V12.
The sound of the exhaust echoing off of the walls of an old covered bridge in southern Indiana. Seeing the firelight glint off the chrome bumper at a campsite in the boundary water country. Ripping down a
mountain road, tires throwing gravel out over the valley, wondering just how close I was to the edge of the cliff wall. Watching the sun break the surface of the ocean as I laid my head in the crook of my arm resting it on the roof of another one of these beauties.
one occasion she has rolled her eyes and gone back inside after I’ve sheepishly said, “It was lonely and followed me home. No kidding, honest.” Or steadfastly shouted, “No!” when I’ve just merely mentioned the name of some make or model she hasn’t heard of, only to later say something like “Where in God’s name are you going to put it?”
I’ve tried to share my passion with my family. My son learned to love boats and the water when we had boats and the car bug never bit him. My oldest grandson would rather spend the day conquering the world with some electronic contraption. My grand-daughter loves to go for rides, but the sickness, err, passion isn’t there.
the late 60’s. So the other day I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride. As he nodded his head I told him to get his hat and meet me in the garage. My beautiful daughter and his grandmother weren’t quite sure of this plan but we were too far along to stop at that point. He was quiet as we buckled him in. He watched intently as the 35 year old engine roared to life and I reached out to tap the oil pressure gauge, a habit performed by all pilots and sports car owners. He didn’t move a muscle. Even grandma
thought he was frozen with fear. As we backed out of the driveway he slowly waved his little hand “bye” and we were off. I tried talking to him as we drove around the block but he wouldn’t answer. His face was covered by his oversized baseball cap. When we got back to the house I asked him if he wanted to go again. A small nod of the head, a wave to grandma, and we were off. I thought he might be saying something so I leaned over to get closer to him. That’s when I heard him. I admit it, a tear came to my eye as he turned to me and said, “Vrrrrrr Vrrrrrrrrooooooommm”.
seen soaring high in the sky hawks and eagles were abundant at eye level. With every turn I saw the flash of feathers. Great wings stretched out, their spans riding the ground effect cushion of air just over the tops of the wild grasses. From all points they came; across the valleys, down the hillsides, from the tree tops, and through the fields. Big birds so close I looked them in the eye. Talons held at the ready. To be small, on the ground, and to move meant sure death.
a coyote came crashing through the brush to the left. Razor sharp teeth bared, its tail fully extended acting as a rudder in midair to help with sudden turns, the adrenalin in its system would naturally dilate its pupils so it could gain the upmost advantage of sight; singularly focused on one thing, the running deer. The time span of a heartbeat, not seconds but tenths of seconds, separated it from victory.







I hope to stumble upon some sense of normalcy, some place where things just make sense. Rejuvenation of the soul and finding something real is the goal.
I find mys

Outside of Winchester I always draw a sigh and my heart goes quiet for a second as I come upon a scene. At the top of a hill is a steel statue of a horse and a cowboy on his knees, hat in hand. He’s kneeling in front of a cross. Respect and faith; nothing more needs to be said.
There is an area in the foothills of West Central Texas that always makes me smile and then launch into a belly laugh. It’s the place where on a spring afternoon I took a picture of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen while she was sitting in a field of Texas wildflowers.
The Colorado River wanders in and out of view as I begin to enter the Lost Pines area. Loblolly pine trees that live here are separated by over 80 miles from their nearest relatives in East Texas. The legend is Native-American runners carried seedlings from East Texas to comfort a homesick girl who married into a Central Texas tribe. Botanists say they are left over from glacier activity. 










