I can still hear those words

"I'll shoot the first pot licker to show up on my door step to see my little girl on a motorcycle."

Even though it's been 25 years, give or take, I can still hear those words like it was yesterday coming out of my overprotective Dad's mouth when we lived at Iodence Hereford Ranch, along the Niobrara River in the Nebraska Panhandle. And, being the very literal, very gullible 12 year-old girl, I feared for the day that some young man a/k/a pot licker showed up on a motorcycle. I knew that it would never happen though. I knew everyone in our neighborhood, and there were no boys around except those from the ranch. Or were there?

Then, it happened. It was a hot day early June between my fifth and sixth grade year, and this blond, curly haired, sort-of plump, but in his growth spurt boy came to my door step on a motorcycle. Thank God my dad was in the hay field that day, as I feared for his life. I explained to him, that he had to leave IMMEDIATELY before my dad came home and shot him. Today, I'm sure that would be construed as a threat and their would be a lawsuit, but this was just a kid a couple of years older than me that wanted to know if I could hang out for the afternoon. His name was Ryan, and his parents were educators at Bridgeport a couple hours away, but came up in the summer and lived in the yellow house on the hill. He was Bob & Vi's nephew, and his dad, Myron, helped on the ranch during the summer. I said I thought I could come over, but NO WAY was I getting on that motorcycle. I didn't want my dad mad at both of us! So, I got my bike, which had been my mom's (interpreted old), and I peddled the mile or so on sand and gravel around the curve and up the hill to Ryan's house, and that day a friendship between two families was formed. We played basketball, I stayed for supper, and his dad put my old bike in the back of the pick up and drove me home and quizzed my dad, "I understand you wanted to shoot my son today," all of which was a BIG misunderstanding that my dad was unaware of since he was in the hay field the entire time!

After that initial meeting, Ryan became like a brother to me. We were both only children, and both of our families had sheep; ours had Hamps and Dorsets and his had Suffolks. We got Ryan involved in our 4-H club, and traveled countless miles to sheep shows and sales throughout the year. We cooked out, floated the Niobrara River daily in the summer and when he got married the first time, I was a bridesmaid, and my dad a groomsman. Our families became families for each other.

As happens over time, miles separate us. But, just earlier this week, I learned of Myron's death. He was only in his late 60s; way too young. It's amazing how something so sad can bring back the memories in one's mind. It's like I'm 12 again, and teaching Ryan to show a lamb. Or hearing Myron yell at Ryan because a ram literally chased him up a tree. I can still hear those words.

The last time I saw Ryan was 8 years ago. I will call him this week. It won't be easy. But it will be necessary. And, I hope he hears my words. I hope he knows that just because time and distance have separated us, the memories never will. Thanks Dad for not shooting Ryan.