Columnists
My father believed a missed shot mattered. Most of us can trace parts of who we became back to habits or responsibilities that seemed small at the time. A skill practiced repeatedly. Someone whose respect mattered more than we realized then. Childhood often forms us quietly long before we understand
Columnists
By the time a Reno television crew came to interview my father about D-Day, he was already well into his nineties. Age had slowed him physically, but not mentally. Some memories remained as sharp as ever. The young reporter arrived eager to interview a surviving World War II veteran
Columnists
Not long after moving to Wisconsin, my father met a boy named Makwa. The name meant “Bear.” To Bobbie, who had grown up in New Jersey dreaming of open country, even the name sounded like something from another world. The West he imagined was mostly made of cowboy stories. But
Columnists
When my father, “Bobbie” King, was ten years old, his world opened up. Not all at once, and not in a way he could have explained at the time. It began with a move—away from the brick streets of New Jersey and out to a farm in Wisconsin, where
Columnists
For his fourth birthday in 1930, my dad—Robert “Bobbie” King—received a gift that would stay with him for the rest of his life. It wasn’t much to look at. A record player. A 12-inch record. But in a small New Jersey apartment, it might as well
Columnists
When my dad was a boy, he brought a horse to school. That sounds like the beginning of a joke—but to him, it was just another Tuesday. He was eight or nine when his mother decided he belonged in Catholic school. My grandmother Julia was a force of nature;
Columnists
Some boys test the limits of everything—and everyone—around them. Most of us just learn to do it more quietly. My father, Robert “Mark” King—Bobbie then—was not quiet about it. By the time he was in grade school, it was just him and his mother. His father,
Columnists
It takes a village to raise a child. It might also take a village to remember who we are. I was reminded of that while restoring an old car. My dad, Mark King, and I were driving home down Hwy 50 from Carson City when I spotted a Ford Model
Columnists
Easter is a time when we remember the most important words ever spoken… which makes it all the more interesting how easily we can get them wrong. My dad, Robert “Mark” King—known as “Bobbie” when he was a boy—had learned how to follow instructions. At least, that’s
Columnists
If you’ve ever looked back on your childhood and wondered how you survived it, you’re not alone. Some of us were guided carefully. Others… were retrieved regularly. That was certainly true for my dad, Robert “Mark” King—known as “Bobbie” when he was a boy growing up in
Columnists
There was a time when you could keep a family secret. Not anymore. But the real surprise isn’t that we can now discover things. It’s that the truth seems to have been waiting for us all along. I saw that the day my dad, Mark King, looked at
Columnists
I escaped a head-on collision by the narrowest of margins four years ago. Back then, Hwy 50 past Silver Springs toward Fallon was a worn strip of asphalt—one lane each direction, no margin for error. Near misses were common. Accidents were no surprise. It is much improved now.