The past two weeks this column has been dedicated to my later father, Clair Horn, who left us over 13 years ago.
Today is my final installment of remembering Dad.
I traveled from Alliance to eastern Nebraska on Friday, January 4, 2008, to spend the weekend with my parents on their acreage three miles northwest of Raymond. The trip was two-fold: to visit Mom and Dad and to search the Lincoln Journal-Star archives at the Nebraska State Historical Society in Lincoln for Cornhusker football facts that I did not possess in my personal archives. I hadn’t been in my parents’ home for more than an hour when it became apparent to me my father’s health had slipped considerably from when I last saw him on July 21, 2007. As Dad walked from the kitchen to his living room recliner, he struggled to breath and to keep his balance. When he plopped into his chair, he exclaimed, “I made it.”
Between early January and mid-February, Dad made several trips to Bryan LGH East (hospital) due to shortness of breath, heart problems, blood issues, and pains in his mid-section. He underwent a multitude of tests and spent several nights in one of Lincoln’s finest sickbays. And—true to form—throughout his medical center imprisonments, Dad was more concerned about getting home than he was the doctors and nurses prodding and poking.
On February 20, the doctors informed Dad he had been stricken with cancer of the liver bile duct, and there was nothing more the physicians could do for him. Dad also learned he had anywhere from a few days to a few months to live. He accepted the news very calmly and returned to his home the next day.
My mother called me and informed me of Dad’s fate, and I decided I needed to see him as soon as possible. Mom wasn’t sure Dad would live through the weekend, which made taking another trip east even more pressing for me.
When I arrived at my parent’s home during the late afternoon of Saturday, February 23, my Dad’s physical appearance had changed even more dramatically since early January. He was a bright shade of yellow (caused by Jaundice) and had lost a fair amount of weight. However, my concerns whether my father was going to die that weekend were eliminated 30 seconds after I entered his house. Dad spotted a possum eating grain from one of his bird feeders about 15 yards from his front door. Dad quickly grabbed a rifle and shot the possum, knocking it from the feeder. He reloaded, and the second shot put the animal out of its misery. Minutes later Dad mused, “I suppose that nut (animal rights activist) Bob Barker will be after me now.”
While Dad could get around the house, I knew his days of working outdoors were over. He had my mother and I fill his bird feeders, and I retrieved the mail and newspaper for Dad each morning, which used to be his daily sunrise ritual.
It was heartbreaking to see the man who once worked from sunrise to sunset slowly becoming a prisoner within his own body, but I was thankful his mind was still sharp—especially his memory.
On the morning of Tuesday, February 26, I said goodbye to Dad and returned to Alliance. It was the last day I would see him alive. On my way back to Alliance, I drove through North Platte and stopped at a monument where the Union Pacific Depot once stood. The monument is dedicated to the people who served six million servicemen who stopped at the North Platte Canteen while traveling on troop trains across the country during World War II.
It was a sunny, calm, but cold afternoon, and I stood near a chain link fence staring at several sets of empty rails that separated the monument from a huge grain elevator located just north of the UP’s tracks. A freight train finally passed by and the roar of its engine must have stirred the ghosts of Canteen days past. I thought of my Grandpa Farnham stopping at the Canteen some 65 years earlier as he chaperoned U.S. Navy sailors the government was transporting across the country via the iron rails. I also reflected on the Canteen’s energetic volunteers I had gotten to know by reading Bob Greene’s, “Once Upon a Town: The Miracle of the North Platte Canteen.” As I stood in the North Platte chill, I could sense the energy of the Canteen volunteers creating their legacy by laboring to make homesick soldiers feel at home … even though the soldiers’ stay was only for ten minutes. I fought back tears as I thought of my own father’s legacy, remembering how much energy he put into his life’s work and how his love of productivity would soon be halted. I left North Platte and traveled north on Highway 97—also known as the Glenn Miller Highway—anticipating yet another sentimental journey across Nebraska’s Sandhills and wondering how much longer Dad would be around.
Dad died during the late evening hours of Thursday, March 13, but since the Hospice nurse did not arrive at Mom’s house until 1:15 a.m., his death certificate lists his official date of death as March 14, 2008. Ironically, had they still been alive, March 14 would have been my Grandma and Grandpa Horn’s 79th wedding anniversary. Just as my father had called me on the telephone at KCOW Radio in 1990 and 1991 to tell me of his parents’ deaths, my mother phoned me at KCOW later that morning to inform me of my Dad’s passing. Mom caught me about 10 minutes before I was to air the morning news. Fortunately, I had pre-recorded the newscast, and all I had to do was punch a button to get my voice on the airwaves. The listener was none the wiser of the loss I had just experienced. Dad spent the last few days of his life confined to a hospice bed positioned in my parents’ living room. My mother’s recliner was just a few feet from Dad’s bed. Mom slept in the recliner the final few nights of Dad’s life. Mom’s care for Dad was exemplary. She did all she could to make sure he was comfortable and that his final hours were positive hours. Mom solidified the vow, “In sickness and in health, till death do us part.”
The Valparaiso, Nebraska, weather on Monday, March 17, 2008, was the type of day that my father enjoyed most. A light drizzle was falling, and the air was relatively calm. It was the day Dad was buried in the Valparaiso Cemetery. Cynthia and I were able to attend his burial, as well as my mother, my two younger brothers, and my Aunt Sally and Uncle Lloyd. Ironically, Dad was buried on the 36th anniversary of the most memorable day I had spent with his father, my Grandpa Henry Horn. It was on an overcast St. Patrick’s Day in 1972 that Grandpa Horn took me to Memorial Stadium, and I was given a tour of areas beneath the stadium I would never see again. 36 years later, on a gray, dreary St. Patrick’s Day, I said good-bye to a man I believe I will someday see again.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. — John 14: 1-3.
A few hours after my died was laid to rest, I drove around our former home southwest of Valparaiso and reminisced about the thousands of hours I had worked with Dad baling hay, herding livestock, moving snow, maintaining machinery, and watching football on television. I also recalled the dozens of pieces of Cornhusker football memorabilia Dad had given me as childhood birthday and Christmas gifts, as well as the autumn ritual of him mailing to me at my adult homes in Cozad and Alliance copies of the Lincoln newspaper whenever he spotted an article about the Cornhuskers he thought I might enjoy. If teasing a child is a sign of affection, then my father’s love overflowed in the early 1970s when Dad took several opportunities to share unprovoked jokes and zingers at NU Head Coach Bob Devaney’s expense. Dad usually had a smile on his face when he presented his sit-down routine (usually at the dinner table), a sure sign there was no intention of malice — but simply good-natured humor—often resulting in a hearty laugh on my part. I especially enjoyed my father’s recollections of Nebraska football in the 1940s and 1950s, when victories were scarce and Memorial Stadium crowds were one-quarter the size of those that filled the stadium during the first few years of the 21st Century. Those memories—and others—entranced me as I cruised south on the gravel of Lancaster County’s Northwest 126th Street. But most of all, I recalled Dad’s incredible work ethic and his burning desire to always make sure the job was done right. He always put himself in a position to make sure his work was successful.
On Saturday, April 19, 2008, the Nebraska Cornhuskers held their annual spring football game. The Red team beat the White squad, 24-14. 80,149 fans were in attendance, boasting a new Nebraska spring game record and the second largest crowd in NCAA history to watch a spring game (Alabama set the record at 92,138 in 2007). It was a warm, spring day in Alliance, so I took my young daughters, Kacey and Christa, to the Box Butte Reservoir, and they skipped rocks while I listened to new Cornhusker football radio announcer Greg Sharpe describe the action on KCOW. As the game unfolded, Sharpe informed his audience that new Nebraska Head Coach Bo Pelini was coaching the game from on the playing field—not the sideline or from the press box—but standing behind the line of scrimmage a solid 15 to 20 yards out on the field. Pelini was putting himself in position where he could be sure things were done right. How ironic! A year earlier, Bill Callahan had elected to serve as a color announcer for a television network that was recording the game for a later broadcast. The difference in the spring game coaching styles—and work ethic—was a true indication that better days were ahead for Nebraska football.
I really believed that the 2008 season would be the beginning of the creation of more great Cornhusker football memories.
And, for the most part, I was right.