My dad is the biggest hero of my life. When I say that he is the most wise, compassionate, truthful, honest, and sincere rancher in the world, it is not based solely on my "daughter's-point-of-view". The hundreds of people who know him, from mere acquaintances to close family members, would agree.


My dad is so much more than a likable guy. He's the perfect husband, the wisest father, the best rancher, and the most interesting conversationalist. He can also be ornery, overly strict, late to important functions, and a wandering talker where topics either stray to historical Old West battles or the Rapture as explained in the Book of Revelation.


If I were to think of words or phrases to describe my dad, there are many. If you ask my little girl what "Grandpa Lewis" is, she says, "Cowboy!" He is a rancher. Sunday School teacher. A fixer-upper. A thinker. Great at math. Loves a good ROOK card game. Avid reader who perseveres even though glaucoma has left him nearly blind. He's a neighbor in the Biblical sense of the word, because like the good Samaritan man, he will care even if he owes nothing to the problem at hand. He is strong but sensitive. Wholeheartedly a servant of God, willing to go to great lengths to share the Bible with anyone who may be receptive to it.


I have many short "films" in my memory, of my dad in action. I remember one spring day we were trying to get cow-calf pairs brought in from the field. These were newly-born calves with mothers that could be feisty and downright stubborn. Dad usually slid a loop of twine around one of the calf's hind legs, lifted it into the back of the old purple pickup, and tied it there. It would lie or stand near the tailgate, tied short enough it couldn't fall out, and the cow could walk up close and sniff it and know it was her calf, and follow as the pickup drove slowly up to the corral. Well, one wicked old cow was fighting mad and protective of her new baby. She wouldn't follow the pickup and wouldn't turn when you tried to drive her, she was mean and was just going to trample over anyone in her path. Dad got the pitchfork, rolled down the pickup windows, and drove up beside her and jabbed her in the neck with the pitchfork to get her to turn and move off towards the corral. I was in the passenger seat, ducking each time he had to switch the pitchfork over to my window to head the cow off again, and hanging on for dear life as he switched gears, forward and reverse to push and drive that cow with the pickup. He was running into her with the grill guard, jabbing out the window with the pitchfork, and throwing the pickup in reverse each time she stopped to duck behind us and go the way she wanted to go...and my dad was humming the whole time! Many a man would have been cussing up a storm. I have never heard my dad use even a slang word. But my dad always has a song to sing or hum.

I haven't always lived up to my dad's ideas for me. We've had a few differences of opinion, and one or two big arguments in the past. But I owe my dad a lot, and he'll always have my love, admiration, and respect. They just don't make men like him anymore.