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My dad played professional baseball before I was born. When I eventually arrived, I was a captive audience for the colorful stories he’d gild about his career in the minor leagues. As a kid, I was enamored. But over time, my enthusiasm waned and I began questioning the credibility of those stories. Luckily, I experienced a resurgent perspective after coming upon some old news clippings by writers who’d seen him on the ballfield.

 

 

 

Detailed woodwork and intricate craftsmanship are signatures of heirloom furniture. I think of antique dressers, designer headboards and ornate dining tables.

 

I don’t think of couches. They aren’t like that. They wear out. Rare is the beloved couch that’s been handed down for generations. Once they go south, there’s no return short of spendy restoration.

 

 

I made a purchase that was like a puppy following me home. My investment was a brand-new, eight-horsepower outboard motor. Honestly now, it was insistent that we spend our lives together. Oddly, our relationship began with a flaw from the factory that immediately saved me two-hundred bucks over the counter. Then it became priceless over its lifetime.

 

The flaw was a cosmetic hiccup—the motor’s cover was mislabeled. Instead of reading eight-horsepower, it said six-horse.

 

 

I spit into a test tube then sent it through the mail to a laboratory somewhere. When returned, the analysis would supposedly tell me about my ancestry. I don’t profess to know a lot about science nor do I wish to. I’m a words person. I find more fun in bewilderment about how the physical world works.

 

But I’d been having hunches that my family’s recollections of our history had gone awry. I was told English and German were the dominant influences.

 

 

Body language tells stories at county fairs. It can be gleaned from a distance in silence that engulfs the din of tractor pulls, polka bands, ballgames and the Tilt-a-Whirl.

 

The reigning demolition derby champ at the county fair had a win-streak five years running. He needed just one more title to become the first ever with six consecutive championships in the same station wagon.

 

The final two cars in that competition were driven by the champ and a rookie with obnoxious swagger.

 

 

 

Early on a Fourth of July morning, hours before holiday festivities kicked into gear, I met a friend and his children as we walked across the grocery store parking lot. He was at the end of their family procession trooping toward the door. We exchanged local pleasantries about the day ahead, pretty mundane stuff, then went about our business.

 

I saw him again later that day. But this time, I about did backflips to attract his attention from the porch where I was standing.

 

 

The group of nine parents, siblings, cousins, aunties and uncles endured the arduous twelve-hour drive to the outfitter in northern Minnesota. But the anticipation of backcountry canoeing and camping fueled their resolve. With unshackled enthusiasm, they unpacked, then repacked their gear to prepare for a week of paddling. Two eleven-year-old twin brothers were particularly incapable of containing their fever to get on-trail.

 

 

I’d like to think I’m pretty good at keeping confidential matters under wraps. But sometimes I’ve gone overboard and actually kept secrets from myself. That’s what happened with my marriage proposal to my wife DyAnne. I’d been moseying through our relationship for so long that the voices of the Universe basically had to club me over the head. Once I woke up, asking her to marry me carried such weight that I wasn’t going to let it slip by without some fanfare.

 

 

She was born with gifted intelligence not so much in a bookworm way, but more of a Hannibal Lecter way: she can peer into my soul and know she’s got me cornered. It’s helping shape me as her dad.

 

Her name is Mustang Sally and by definition she’s an Alaskan husky, a working dog. Through centuries of DNA, she was designed by nature to pull. It’s an attribute not always conducive to transforming a husky into a house dog. But her work includes a side gig.

 

 

My dad was director of outdoor recreation during a family camping trip when I was too young to understand what “laugh about it later” meant. At the time, I’m not sure Dad understood it either, but he was determined to show us the outdoor life. The guy took a beating in my behalf.

 

It began with marshmallow practice after our first breakfast. We’d be having s’mores throughout the week and he coached my sister and me on how to cook a perfectly toasted marshmallow.