Webb: Dad’s last walk

The old man loved to go for walks. When my brother and I were little, he’d wake us up on craft show weekends, and we’d walk from one end of the venue to the other, stopping a few times to chat with fellow crafters before the event started, then all the way back.

By my senior year of high school, those walks were three- or four-mile treks on his property outside of tiny Quenemo. For a few hours each night after he got home, we’d walk on a long trail he’d bush-hogged leading from the trailer in the front yard, down a wooded hill and over a creek to an open field on the back side of the land.

What I remember about those walks in high school are the conversations. Dad and I weren’t as close in my early teen years as we were later. I was going through a lot in those days. Being an overweight adolescent in the early 1990s wasn’t an enjoyable experience, and my parents’ divorce, as it does for many kids, left a mark. I had no confidence and was most comfortable when I was alone. I didn’t speak to my father about any of this.

That began to change during those long walks in the timber on Dad’s property. I started opening up, and, to my surprise, the man who could be incredibly intimidating was understanding and thoughtful. We talked about life and what I wanted to do with mine. We talked about girls, especially how I struggled with them. Time and time again, my father said, “Son, you’re a good person. Someday, a woman is going to see that.” He certainly nailed that one.

By the time I left for college in 1994, the old man and I were very close. His love for walking continued until the end of his life. It was part of his everyday routine. He moved to Melvern in 2005 and walked down to his pond and around the large field to the north of his house every night.

In 2010, when I left the newspaper business to move closer to home, I stayed with him for several months while changing careers. His only requirement was that I work out with him to get back in shape. That process included weights, basketball (at age 65) and walking on the dirt road leading to his house.

Every day that summer, we walked from his driveway to the blacktop a mile away. We talked about the things we talked about when I was in high school. I still had no clue what I wanted to do with my life, and I still was really bad with women. Like before, the old man was kind, listening intently before bluntly offering sound advice.

He kept walking into his 70s after moving to a house outside of Overbrook. Like he’d done on all of his previous properties, he used his tractor to carve a long trail around his land to get his nightly walks in. He was trucking right along until a cancer diagnosis in 2017.

By the end of 2018, the cancer was terminal. In the months after that diagnosis, the walks got shorter and took longer. After he moved in with my brother’s family a few months before he died, the time between walks went from days to weeks. His last walk was about a month before he left this life. I remember pulling into my brother’s driveway and seeing my dad walk outside.

“Where are my two horses,” the old man said, referring to my brother and I. “I want to go for a walk.”

This was the first time Dad mentioned going for a walk in weeks. He stood between us, his body frail and weak, locking one arm around one of our arms. Slowly, we walked around my brother’s property, talking about life. It was a beautiful, warm July day.

As much as I enjoyed being with him, it was sad to see how much he struggled and how slowly he moved. I held back tears while holding him up as we turned the last corner about 50 yards from the house. As we reached the front yard, Dad stopped and kissed each of us on the cheek, then dropped to his knees, exhausted after his last walk.

When I think of my father in Heaven, I picture him sitting with my grandfather, who he missed greatly the last 35 years of his life. I picture him smiling while watching his grandkids play baseball or volleyball. I picture him listening to Creedence and watching “Lonesome Dove.” I picture him making a belt or wallet. And I picture him taking a long walk, waiting to talk to his sons again.