Growing up, I was always around big rigs. My dad, both of my grandfathers, and even my great-grandfather were all truck drivers. It ran in our blood. From time to time, Dad would let me ride along with him. He’d show me the ropes, how to hook up to a trailer, watch your mirrors, shift properly, and then, like any 8 year old, I’d fall asleep in the sleeper.

My relationship with my dad wasn’t necessarily bad, it was just distant. Not out of dislike, but because we were simply used to being apart. My parents divorced when I was seven, and I only saw him every other weekend.

But those weekends in the summer were gold. We’d camp out at the Knox County campground, where they allowed four - wheelers and had trails and a track. That’s where I fell in love with riding quads. We had a crew of regulars out there, and every weekend was a mini adventure. We’d hit the trails, run the track, and race to the mud bogs. Getting to those areas meant dropping down one of two hills: “Widow Maker” or “911.”

“Widow Maker” was the tamer of the two, despite the name. But “911” earned its reputation. It zig-zagged through tight trees and over gnarled roots. If you weren’t leaning forward at just the right moment, you were going down… hard. And don’t forget, those were the only two ways in and out. We’d even do night rides, ripping through the woods, splashing through creeks, headlights flickering against the trees. I swear, we’d ride through some stretches of that creek for half a mile. It was chaos. It was freedom. It is good childhood memories.

Dad had his demons. He’d been through three divorces and was married a fourth time. Drinking was a constant in his life, and it played a big role in the unraveling of those marriages. But to me, he wasn’t cruel or violent. He was just trying to enjoy life the only way he knew how.

I give him grace. He did what he could with the cards he was dealt. His own father died in a trucking accident when he was only a year old. He never had a dad to model manhood or fatherhood. All he had were stories and the guidance of older siblings.

By the time I started my trucking business, Dad had already been on the road for 31 years. Looking back, I think I started the company for two reasons: I liked the challenge and unpredictability of running a business, and it gave me a chance to work with my dad.

He helped me get started, showing me the ropes, passing on his experience, and throwing out ideas for customers based on his years of hauling. I talked to him nearly every day in those early days. Before the business, we could go months without a word. We were just used to that. But the business changed things. We became close again. I looked forward to his calls.

Eventually, the grain hauling dried up and rates fell through the floor, so we pivoted to hauling DDG (Dried Distillers Grains). That pivot worked, at least for a while, but DDG has its slow seasons too. And when you’re running a new business, you can’t afford downtime. Dad decided to move on. He was honest about it, and there were no hard feelings, but it still stung. He stuck around to answer my questions when I called, but he wasn’t willing to run over the road anymore and that’s what the business needed.

Over time, the weight of the business wore me down. I was all in. Up past midnight almost every night doing paperwork and lining up loads so my drivers had something for the next day. It got to the point where I was either going to have to grow, hire help, and delegate…. or get out. After a long talk with my wife, the decision was clear. It was time to walk away.

Then, December 2022.

My wife and I had just left church when my phone rang. It was Uncle John. We didn’t talk often on the phone, so I knew it was serious. I answered like I always did: “Hey Uncle!” He didn’t respond at first. Then came the words I’ll never forget:

“Keith… it’s your dad. It’s not good, buddy. You need to get here now. I think he’s gone.”

He could barely speak through the lump in his throat, and then the line went dead. I looked over at my wife. She already had tears in her eyes.

We raced to Dad’s house in Fiatt. As we came up the road, I saw the rescue truck, but no ambulance. I knew what that meant. From my time working in EMS, I knew that if the ambulance had been called off, it meant he’d been gone for a while. Obvious signs. No chance.

I went into worker mode. I had to be strong for my uncle.

We parked and walked up to the back door, the one we always used. Uncle John was already on his way out. He stopped, threw one arm around me, and said through tears, “I’m so sorry, Keith. I’ve got to go. I just can’t see him like this. I love you, buddy.”

I hugged him. Told him I understood.

Inside, Grandma and Aunt Dawn were waiting. I walked through the kitchen and into the living room. There was Dad, laying on the couch, legs crossed over one armrest, head resting on the other. His hands still clutched his blanket up against his chest like he’d been cold. It was peaceful. Out of all the people I’ve seen after they’ve passed, and I’ve seen more than most, he looked the most comfortable. No struggle. No pain. Just rest.

We all cried. We all hugged

Grandma had found him. Every Sunday morning, Dad would drive into Canton to have coffee with her and listen to the oldies. When he didn’t show, she called. No answer. She assumed he’d just slept in after drinking the night before. But when she got to his house and walked in she found him just like that.

He was 54 years old. The cause? Undiagnosed congestive heart failure, which likely triggered a massive heart attack.

Dad wasn’t a religious man. We had conversations about it from time to time. He believed in God, but faith wasn’t a pillar in his life. I just pray that in those final moments, he found peace… and found Him.