I always called him Papa Cowboy.
He was born in Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1928, served in the Navy in World War II, and spent most of his life running restaurants — places like The Red Rooster, famous around town for their southern fried chicken and onion rings. He was an avid history and genealogy buff, the kind of man who actually wanted to know where things came from and why they mattered.
He wore a bolo tie in basically every photo I have of him, and there was always a cowboy hat somewhere in his office. He loved visiting us in Texas — driving the back roads with my mom, slowing down for the historical markers they passed along the way. He would have absolutely pulled over for that brown sign on the side of the highway.



