My father died of car crash injuries when I was fifteen in 1954. Now I am eighty-three. Despite our few shared years, he remains the person most influential in my life. I think of him often, and with gratitude, and wonder at how he inspired me.
My father, born in 1897, lived through repeating hard times. Born and reared the son of a livestock dealer-farmer who conducted business largely on horseback through my father’s youth when he apprenticed, my father was drafted for Army service in World War One and completed Officer Candidate School at Camp Zackary Taylor in Kentucky just in time for the Armistice. Read more
