I had a good day because I got stuck in my driveway, I got stuck right where it meets Riley Street, which the plows had cleared to a nice, smooth surface. But right there, right before the smoothness, was a wide-based snow dyke where the plows had pushed the snow. And, despite my grandkids digging and pushing and being downright good and cheerful workers, we were in that spot . . . for a long time, not making any progress. It was four degrees, with wind.

A young man came along on an ATV; he was dressed for winter and he offered to give me a tug out to the road – a tug of a few inches, maybe a foot, that was as good as a mile.

We talked a bit as I pressed some money on him that he didn’t want to take, and then I asked his name.

“Don Moore,” he replied. Yes, he was Don Moore Sr.’s son. You may remember Don Moore Sr., the dynamo of a man who lost his life too early. He had earned every wonderful word spoken about him  and was  posthumously named a Sagamore of the Wabash Award winner.

There, in front of me and smiling, was his son. Actually, when he was passing my house, he was on his way to help an older lady with her driveway. Thought he’d check on her, he told me.

I told him his dad would be proud and we spoke of his loss. He said it was the hardest thing to get through he’d ever experienced. Said he’d been out to talk to his dad at the cemetery just the day before. Said he served for a year in Iraq and would do ten more if it would “bring Dad back.”

His voice was strong and friendly and masculine, but I saw a glimpse of his face becoming momentarily drawn and heard his voice start to get husky. He caught himself and smiled and headed toward his ATV to get on with life – as his dad would have wanted.

Don Sr., you would be magnificently proud.  I know you were all along, but the way he’s handled this and is pushing ahead with your positive attitude is  – to use an expression that captures true admiration in America’s Heartland – really something. It’s the type of thing that old men – and old men have seen a lot –  witness and don’t spend a lot of words on.  It’s the type of thing to which they give their greatest accolade – a solemn nod and the hint of a soft smile. That fellow can cut it, they think; that fellow’s a solid man.

I used to write about a lot of people for publication in a large city and when it came time to put my words down, there was a worried tension that I wouldn’t get it right. A day or so ago, I was thinking that I actually missed writing those stories after all. They brought out the best in me and allowed me to be let others see the best in my subjects. It felt good, doing that.

And, now, again, I’m felling good.

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*Originally, I wrote Sycamore, instead of Sagamore. Well, you spend a lifetime with they lyrics of Back Home Again in Indiana and what do you expect? Thanks for pointing it out.