25/08/2025
My dad passed away this week at 98 years old—an age that’s almost unheard of, but a testament to the incredible, fruitful, and passion-driven life he lived. A fourth-generation Californian, a true son of the Golden West, he spent his life outdoors—fishing, hunting, and teaching me to value the real world beyond four walls.
He served in World War II, then became a veterinarian, graduating in one of the earliest classes at UC Davis after the war. He practiced well into his 80s, beloved by the people and animals he cared for.
He was devoted to my mom—his best friend for life. He was one of the smartest men I’ve ever known. Not necessarily book-smart, but inventive, resourceful, and endlessly curious. He could build or fix anything, and he carried the common-sense wisdom of an old Californian.
His life spanned nearly a century—from the shadow of World War I to the atomic age, Korea, Vietnam, the civil rights movement, the space race, computers. Through it all, he stayed grounded, steady, and true.
The week before he passed, I was on a fishing trip with my son, teaching him to fly fish with my dad’s old rod and the flies he tied back in the ’60s. That moment reminded me just how much of who I am—and who my children are—flows directly from him.
They don’t make them like that anymore
