Dad, Walter Harrison Henley, was born October 10, 1885 on a primitive tobacco farm in Clarksville, Tennessee. His lineage traces back to Ireland. In order to feed their ever-growing brood of thirteen children, his parents, Thomas and Clawdell Henley, literally scrapped the poor soil. Their sturdy Irish heritage saved them from starvation.

Dad was a master woodsman, one with a deep love for the land and all wildlife. Dad knew critters’ watering and feeding habits. He could follow their trails better than any hound alive. He hunted for food, not sport.

One crisp October morning, Dad crouched behind a scrawny bush and aimed his shotgun at a squirrel. The gun misfired. His bullet ricochet off a tree. Dad’s brother fell to the ground.

Dad was only fifteen and didn’t know how to cope with the possibility he’d killed his brother. With only a few pennies in his breeches, Dad hitched up his suspenders, shouldered his gun, and started walking. His final destination was Omaha, Nebraska.

Fifty years later Dad returned to his roots. I’ll never forget the day we walked, unannounced, into a tobacco barn in Clarksville, Tennessee. A man shaded his eyes, mopped the sweat from his brow, and jumped down from the tobacco bales. As he walked toward us, time stood still. The man offered his hand to Dad, and uttered a single word, “Walter.”

Dad clasped his brother’s hand and said, “Tyler.” For a half-century the brothers were strangers. But now in that musky tobacco barn, the layers of years were peeled away.

Dad never talked about it, but we knew he was relieved of a heavy, life-long burden.