Month: September 2026

And then we were four!?

As much as I would like to keep telling heartwarming stories about dad and I, that is simply not reality. We have to go back to the mid 70’s to bring up some things for future context.

I’m guessing its about 1975, Cherie has moved out and  moved on to dad’s former ski buddy, and its just us dudes in Troutdale. Until,…

I don’t remember how long this lasted, but things were about to change radically. I was settling into Oregon, and my new life with my Dad, for the first time ever.

One fateful day, I returned home from school at Troutdale grade school. I came in, and climbed the stairs to go in my room and do whatever it was I did as an 11 year old. Likely play with some of the toys/games my dad got me after I moved up here. I was greeted by a woman at the top of the stairs. She said “ before you go in your room, please know I’m sorry and I will replace everything. WHAT?!!

Upon entering my room, I saw the destruction. Every cool new toy I had was busted.  Im so confused now. She continues “Earlier, while your Dad and I were talking I let my son hang out in here for a bit and he a little got carried away.”

I was so angry, and confused.

At some point  she told me she had a 5 year old son, and that she was dating my dad now.

I’ve waited my whole life to spend time with my dad, and then, THIS!

We eventually went shopping and she bought me some new toys, one of which was an Evil Knievel motorcycle with action figure.It was kind of a big deal at the time, and ulitimately led to me meeting my new best friend for about the nest 10-15 years. But that’s another story for later.

The exact chronology of things, I don’t remember, but that relationship blossomed and while it was sometimes rocky, they stayed together for about 6-7 years. Yes, I had a step-mom and step brother, neither of which I asked for or wanted, but here we are. One big happy bowl of instant ramen soup.

Im sure I didn’t always handle it the best, but fuck, I was 11 and this was never part of the plan.

Well Shit!! Life is hard, wear a helmet.

Today, August 2^nd, 2026, is my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 84 years old. So I thought today would be a good day to tell the whole story of the best birthday gift I ever gave him.

It was the summer of 1994. I had been working at KGON/KFXX radio for about 2 ½ years selling advertising. One day there was a memo released from the programming department to all staff that a MAJOR concert announcement was coming in a few days, but staff had a limited opportunity to purchase tickets before they went on sale to the public.

Contrary to popular belief, working in radio rarely resulted in free concert tickets, but the buy before sale was common through an allotment from the concert promoter.  It was announced the Eagles were coming to the northwest as part of the “Hell Freezes Over” tour. I was a fan, but not to the level of hard-core Eagles fans, but I knew I had to have tickets and go, regardless. The show was coming to the Tacoma Dome in early 1995. The tickets were  an astounding $105 each to my recollection.$105!!!!

I had gone to many concerts up that time, and had seen almost  everyone I liked from that era. I believe the most I ever paid for a ticket was around $45. OMG, sticker shock, but it’s the Eagles and I had just started making better money than my Les Schwab days, so I could afford it, barely.

All along I had no idea who I was gonna take, but probably thinking about some young woman I could impress and maybe turn into a dream date. Eventually I started thinking with my Big head, and decided I would take my Dad. His birthday was coming and hadn’t got him anything yet. At his birthday dinner, without tickets in hand, I announced in front of the few friends there, Dad, for your birthday this year, Im gonna take you to see the Eagles. Youre gonna see the fucking Eagles  live in concert!!! His eyes got as big as saucers and his confused face turned to pure joy.

This became the theme for the next few months. No matter what upset him, I could always say” but yeah, youre seeing the Eagles soon”. When the announcement came out publicly, he heard about the show, and the ticket prices, and came to me and said let me pay for my ticket, I said no, of course and now we wait 5 or so months. In that time we decided the plan was drive up day of show, get a hotel room, have a nice dinner, then the show. He insisted on buying dinner, to which I gleefully agreed.

We made it to the venue with so much time to kill, Dad was always early. Annoying as fuck sometimes, but he was never late. We waited outside for a long time, but about every 20 minutes I would say:” hey dad, youre gonna see the Eagles tonight!” I know buddy, I cant believe it!

Once inside the arena, I remembered that the only other time I was in that building was for a Boston concert around 5 years earlier A completely different crowd, vibe and intoxicant.

We got to our seats, and he couldn’t sit still. Fidgeting and bouncing his leg/heel like he always did. We hardly talked. He soaked in every element of the evening. I would look over occasionally just to see his expression. I had never seen him this excited and I was so proud I was the person responsible for it.

Once the show started, everyone within 10 feet of us learned how big of a fan he was. Literally singing along at the top of his lungs every god damn song!. The concert sound was amazing, and not too loud, so everyone near could hear him and put up with it. This was the entire night, until they played “peaceful easy feeling. About half way through the song, he went silent. I turned to look to find out why. what I saw was overwhelming. He was bawling like a little kid. Tears cascading off his cheeks onto his shirt. He caught me looking and grabbed me and hugged me and said” I cant believe im finally seeing the Eagles. Thank you thank you buddy.

Words cant describe how into the Eagles he was, thus, so was everyone around him. It was always the Eagles greatest hits 8 track in his Chevy Blazer or at home, or coming out of his mouth while hiking to a fishing spot.

“Happy Birthday Dad, Im glad we are here to share this.” I said as I got choked up as well.

That was all I can remember from that night, and quite frankly, the only thing that mattered.

Happy Birthday Dad. Im so happy I finally got to the point when I could share our great times together. They weren’t all great, but today, on his birthday, I chose this memory to share. I wish he could read this, as I know he would be bawling again.

We find ourselves in the early 1970’s, I am living in Austin with my grandparents (dad’s side). I went to 3^rd and forth grade in Austin. Dad was still in LA doing music in some form but also married a woman named Cherrie(sp?). she was a flight attendant; I mean Stewardess for United Airlines. They traveled a lot including to her home state of Hawaii. Dad was seemingly livin it up! He also began working some indoor labor job for General Telephone (GTE).

I was with my grandparents because my mom was busted for some kind of drug charge and went to jail for a period. That was the tipping point with everyone, and Dad had to reprioritize life and get custody of me. During the court stuff, he was coming to Austin when needed, but also transferring within GTE to the Beaverton Oregon C.O. they called it. He and Cherrie got an apartment in Troutdale. Eventually I made it to Oregon with in 1974. I don’t remember much oft of the logistics of getting here, but I sure do remember moving in with Dad and Cherrie. She was a Total Bitch and clearly did not want kids of her own, or Dads for that matter. She was constantly calling me fat (well, I was) and changing my diet from the surplus loading my grandma was doing.

I’m sure that caused some fights but dad was learning how to be Dad while dealing with her criticism and efforts to change my physique.  She eventually had an affair with one of his ski buddies and soon married that guy, so it was just dad and I for the first time. I was in 5^th grade at Troutdale grade school. Shortly after his first teacher conference with ms Perry, I learned they had a dinner date or two. Years later, as a teenager I learned it was much more than dinner, but alas, she didn’t become step monster v.2. I will get into future fatherly companions in coming weeks. Anyway, Cherrie was gone, and it was just us and there was a strange similarity between us and “The courtship of Eddies Father”, minus Mrs. Livingston. I think our first outing together was a drive up the gorge, to see things my 10-year-old eyes could not fathom. And we ended up trying to catch a trout in the hood river I believe. I was using bait and fishing water I had never seen or heard of… A river with clear water and boulders…. using a single cured salmon egg on a tiny hook was as foreign to me as the green trees, grass, and snow-capped mountains. Everyone was adjusting. Even ms Perry.

I was so amazed at the scenery here, but noted that people were generally snotty, compared to the friendly Texas I left. No, Cherrie didn’t skew my survey, she was gonzo for good. Yay Trey!

The summer between 5^th grade and 6^th grade, dad and I moved to Gresham  with  Leslie and Wade, the woman my dad was dating and her son. We stayed there for a couple of years before they bought a house in the Sweetbriar neighborhood back in Troutdale. One Monday, as a 14 year old  freshman at Columbia High, I was riding the bus home, sitting next to Paul Fernandez. He wasn’t one of my good buddies, but for this day, we just decided to get into trouble. We walked past his house to get to mine, but he asked if I wanted to come in and hang for a bit.

I agreed and we sat around staring at each other for a while before he had the idea of showing off his dad’s Extensive liquor cabinet. Paul started handing me bottle after bottle of god knows what insisting I try it.

I have no idea how many shots we did, or of what, but it was Monday and I had to walk home and make sure the house was in order before Dad got home from work. I wobbled my way the 3 blocks to my house, staggered into the bathroom and puked for about a half hour. My first ever booze puke! I then got to my bed and passed out.

A couple hours later, Dad opened my door and asked if I was ok. “ Dad, I don’t feel good, I just puked, it must have been the school pizza or something.” AWE, sorry about that, he said,  well, stay resting, and Ill come get you when the game starts, you don’t wanna miss that!

The Cowboys were on Monday night football, and we never missed a Cowboy game if it was on.

I went back to sleep for a while before he was yelling from the living room that it was kickoff.

I staggered down the hall towards the living room, thankfully he wasn’t watching me navigate the hallway as if the walls were guardrails on a winding road. I made it to the other couch as I wasn’t gonna sit by him. Almost immediately the room was spinning and my insides wanted out again. I jumped up, opened the slider and dove out to the grass, where on all fours, I puked for another few minutes. As I was trying to catch my breath, he came to the slider, and offered sympathy and was so sweet and understanding. That is until I said “ Dad, I cant lie to you, it wasn’t lunch. My friend paul had me over and we did some experimenting in his dads booze cabinet. I am so sick!!”

Then Mount Butch erupted in a Firey fury. Teeth clinched, veins bulging and a voice that started in his bowels, and got louder and higher pitched with every word. “WHAT??!!. You did what? Oh, youre a big man now huh? Wanna be cool?” On and on with a barrage of words all saying the same thing. That I was an idiot. “Well I hope youre happy mr bigshot! Hows it feel ??”

So much for fatherly sympathy.

“get out of the grass, and back in your bed mr bigshot!

So, back to bed I went. I couldn’t care less about the game, or dinner, I just wanted to be still, and calm, and have him shut the fuck up!!

I don’t think we spoke the rest of the day, and the silence was deafening, and the tension was palpable, but I made it to sleep. As you can imagine, my first hangover wasn’t worth the wait and a Tuesday of high school waited for me. I don’t remember the immediate aftermath, or punishment, but I was probable grounded for 2 weeks, or whatever standard was back then.

Probably 10 years later, I was at Elk Camp with dad and some of his buddies, and I told MY version of the story, making sure his buddies knew how insensitive he was.

“Dad, the moral of this story was you taught me that afternoon, that honesty wasn’t the best policy with you. That hit hard, and in front of his peers he had to admit he handled it poorly.

I felt better finally getting that off my chest because that incident was always a “What the Fuck” moment for me. He apologized multiple times over the years admitting he sent the wrong message, it turned out to be quite a bonding moment, and by the time , we were transitioning from dad/son to best friends, fishing, hunting, golfing buddies. He was my best friend through high school and I think he appreciated my calling him out, although it took ten years.

I realize my timeline of stories is being told in a bit of a Pulp Fiction mold, but Im trying to provide context for future stories for those that don’t know my dad or myself very well, while telling the stories I remember best.

Today, we go back to roughly 1980. I am heading into my Sophomore year at the Mighty Columbia high school in Troutdale. Dad and I have moved out of the house from Leslie and Wade, into a duplex adjacent to the high school property. This is where our relationship really began transitioning to friends/buddies. It was steelhead fishing every weekend, hunting in season and just spending a lot of time together as buds.

At some point after that though,  a new woman came into his life. Susan was a woman he worked with at GTE. He had recently transferred from Gresham to a central office in Beaverton called the SSOC center and they worked together. She wasn’t much older than me, maybe 5-8 years? He drove from troutdale to Beaverton every day for work so I didn’t have to change schools. But now we all know the  other reasons why he didn’t mind the drive. hahaha

Susan began hanging out with dad in troutdale occasionally, which became more often as time went on. Here we go again, I thought. While I don’t recall a lot of details about them during that time,  it was determined that after graduation, we would be moving to Beaverton and getting a place with Susan. This is about to open a chapter of life that was about as bizarre as it gets.

Not sure if it was before or after we moved, but they got married and soon after, Susan was pregnant. I was 18, Dad was 40. I am about to have a baby sibling at 19 years old. What the actual Fuck??!How do I even process this. I am losing my best friend again and he is about to be a new father. Im sure none of this was in his plan, but, here we are. In time I might reveal some of the conversations about this Dad and I had, but for now, to protect feelings, I wont. He did everything he could to keep our relationship intact, while “managing” the Susan and new baby situation. If I seem a bit dodgy on this, I am. It was very tricky for all involved with the relationship dynamics of Dad/Susan and Dad/me and the coming baby.  Im getting anxious just trying to put this all together for this story. But hey, the duplex we moved to in Beaverton by Sunset high school got cable shortly after we moved in, so that was new/cool. I saw MTV and HBO for the first time.(timestamp.) Looking back, Dad was really endeavoring to spend quality “man” time with me, so away from home we could really talk about the home situation.

I had established myself as a good fisherman amongst a group of dad’s friends, so when dad had marital obligations, I would get asked to join one or more of his friends to fish with.  One guy, Mel Ando, lived in Beaverton, but we knew him from fishing the same spots on the upper Sandy river. Mel would often come and pick me up and we would make the drive to the sandy and fish. There were others as well, probably a group of 4-5 that I would frequently catch rides with to hit the river. I was really maturing in some ways,  spending all of my time with men much older than me. I had buddies my age, but they didn’t fish, or weren’t any good, so….

My Weird-shit-o-meter is pegged right now, so, until next week…

As some of you are aware, my great friend, Erin, helped me tell my story about my stroke, and a few other things 10 years ago, shortly after returning home from the hospital. Additionally, I began sharing pics and video on social media of some therapy and other training I was doing in an attempt to get back to normal. This went on for a few years until I finally decided it was a waste of time. See, maybe 2 or 3 people who followed that journey could even slightly understand what was happening and what brain injury recovery is all about.  Yeah there was lots of kind words of support and such, but until yall understand what I was doing, the comments felt empty. So I stopped. I could write 10 books on the subject and most still wouldn’t get it. Also, I was tired of this injury, and recovery work, being my entire life. It was time for everyone to move on.

In fact, when I decided to stop therapy, I told Yoda, my pet name for Deb my therapist, that I need to just start living my life, whatever its gonna be at this point.

I was doing three or four 45 minutes therapy appointments every week, and yes I was making small gains. I was making enough improvement to keep insurance paying, but not enough for me to keep enduring the time, toil, and tears involved. Not to mention 90 minutes on a bus, for 45 minutes of therapy! Once I realized what brain injury recovery really was about, it didn’t take long to conclude I was NEVER gonna golf, fish, hunt, etc, ever again, and the sooner I start learning how to live this new life I created, the quicker I can start letting go of the past and all the things I used to enjoy. Missing those things serve no positive purpose in my life. I have the memories, and that’s enough for now,

I missed the storytelling aspect and decided I need to get back to it, and that’s where the idea for these weekly stories came from. One of the blog stories years ago was about my mom, but hardly anyone who read it, ever met her. My dad, since he was basically my best friend since I was 12 or 13, was known by virtually everyone I knew, so it seemed appropriate to write about him, but as I started downloading memories and kicking ideas around, I discovered the real benefit to this, is for my own introspection. So yes, there will be some rather unflattering things come out about both of us and that’s a good thing. Again, life is hard, wear a helmet.

There really is no roadmap as to where im headed with this. Youll see it as I decide. This is my project, and its for me.

I will do an entire story sometime, but this injury was the best thing that ever happened to me. It changed virtually everything about me for the better, but that’s a future, and very long subject to dig into. Honestly typing one handed wears my out and theres only so much I can get to the page each week.

I introduced alcohol into my stories recently because alcohol was a central theme of dad an I’s relationship.

Alcohol is absolutely the reason my life is what it is at this point and I was absolutely an alcoholic because my dad was. I really don’t care who that statement triggers. As I said last week, finding the reason for something is not the same as blaming them, and this is my platform, and these are my words.

Thanks for reading, and letting me better myself by going through the process. Til next time…Trey out!

As many of you know, I do not believe in God, any god, spirit, or entity supposedly in control of everything. I do not believe mythology, astrology, or tarot. None of that stuff. But, I do believe in coincidence. And boy do I have a doozy!

Today is September 21^st, 2026.

Exactly 11 years ago today a blood vessel in the right hemisphere of my brain burst.  After rides in an ambulance, and Life Flight helicopter, I spent  2.5  months in the hospital. I wont detail that here, but click the link at the end to read about that. I was lucky to be alive,

September 21^st, 2016

My former coworker and friend, Glenn Meyer died from complications of a stroke he had months earlier.

September 21^st, 2021

My dad died.he was 79, and died from cancer

The reason I bring these together goes beyond the significance of this date, but the connection of alcoholism. My dad was an alcoholic. Glenn was an alcoholic. I, of course, was also an alcoholic.

Add numerology to the above list of things I don’t believe in, but the coincidence is striking.

If I had died 11 years ago, that would mean three alcoholics, Dad, Glenn and myself would have all died on September 21^st.

I stopped celebrating this anniversary  roughly  the time I concluded I would no longer be recovering 100%. The dream was over, and reality set in. This is my life, I caused it, and now I have to learn how to live  it. Next week I will be celebrating the fact that these events, mostly my portion, were the best thing that ever happened to me. It made me the best version of me there has ever been. So I’ll put a bow on the coincidence of Sept 21, and move on to more important topics

So now its mid 5^th grade or so, Im unsure of exact years, so its easier to timestamp with school levels. 5^th grade, attending Troutdale grade school. Dad and I are living alone in treehill apartments. Cherie is gone, and it’s just us dudes. We are going “fishing” a lot, although Steelhead fishing seems more like hiking and casting practice to me as I had seen no proof that the fish actually existed, or was in the river we were casting in. he was dragging me to the Sandy River, Nestucca river and other places, and it must have been a year before I actually saw one of these mythical creatures caught. Why the fuck do we get up at 5am, drive 30 minutes, hike 30 minutes, practice casting for 10 hours, when no one has even caught anything?! Not just us, but anyone we saw on the bank. Dad assured me the fish were in the rivers, and to just keep at it….

.PFFFT!  At least in Texas we caught bass, catfish, crappie etc. and it was WARM. We’re out the on the river for hours in 30-degree rain practicing casting and hiking for exactly what??! Well, it was the first time I could remember having quality time with Dad I was getting to know my Dad first hand, not from his parents, or my mom etc. yes, we spent time in LA when I was 4 or 5 but memories are so vague.

Eventually I was there when dad caught a steelhead. I was blown away at the size of that monster. It must have been 9 pounds!!? In steelhead terms, not huge, but compared to the biggest bass I ever caught in Texas, 6 pounds, I was blown away. That might have energized my enthusiasm for about an hour, but soon it was back to cold weather practicing for naught.

This agenda played out countless times over many months. Months later, on a a typical east county winter morning we set out to replay the rehearsal, this time on the Sandy River. We woke at the butt crack of dawn. Packed up the gear and drove to Dodge Park, a place we had “fished” before, but this morning there was a change. We hiked downstream a good ways. It  was clear a and bitterly cold morning and the east wind was blowing. Probably about 28 degrees. We get to “the spot” dad had been thinking all week was the place to be. Yeah right, my inside voice screamed. We waded out into the river maybe 10 feet or so, breaking through surface ice where the river was freezing against the shore rocks. We probably fished for 20 minutes, when I decided to shift my feet to a more comfortable spot between rocks, having never had hip waders before, I was still getting used to it. One little side step, I stepped on an ice-glazed rock and before I knew it, I was sitting in 40-degree water with an east wind blowing 28 degree air. Dad turned to look and saw what just ruined today’s fishing practice.

He came over and helped me up and consoled me. I was freezing, crying and a little scared he was gonna be pissed, but he was gentle and held me and told me stories of him falling as well.

He said, come on over here and sit. He built a fire on the shore so I could warm up. We sat together talking and enjoying the fire. He took my socks and laid them on a rock near the fire to try and dry them. He wanted to be fishing, but his son, his responsibility, needed him. So he did nothing but just comfort me.

After a few minutes I stood up and said maybe I will just fish to keep warm. He didn’t, he sat by the fire and watched me and coached me. After about 20 minutes I guess,  I experienced my first bite.

As far as I knew it was a bite as no one seemed sure what it felt like when the mysterious steelhead takes the bait. I set the hook violently, as I had done 100,000 times or more during previous practices outings. But this time, I had a fish!!..”I got one!!” I screamed. “You sure do!!” Dad barked while rushing to my side to coach me on the fight. I am crying right now reliving this, as it was one of the most bonding moments with my dad. 15- 20 minutes of struggle, coaching and shaking, we landed it,

My first Steelhead, and dads proudest moment all in the same frigid morning. Only to be told we have to let it go. It was a fish that had spawned and was headed back to the ocean to rebuild its muscles and fat for an upriver return the following year. My life changed that morning. I felt close to dad for the first time, and I felt his pride and even some of mine knowing I had done something not many adults did that day, I caught a fucking Steelhead!!

Only someone who has started steelhead fishing can appreciate the gravity of this day.

Thus began a journey of dad and I becoming quite a tandem of fisherman on the sandy river.

More on that to come in future stories, but this one will always be a special memory.

Mokey see, Monkey do.

When I first started this endeavor to do some typing and storytelling on Sundays, I knew I would have to eventually deal with this topic. There is a lot to unpack, and it wont all happen today, but its coming.  I simply cannot tell the story of my dad and I without putting Alcoholism on the table. Like many things in life, hindsight is truly 20/20.

Going back to last week when I described the time I got drunk after school, I left an important detail out. You see, while I was on all fours, hurling my guts up into the back yard, Dad was standing at the slider barking insults and belittling me. The whole time, he  was holding what was likely a glass of Cutty Sark, the only scotch whiskey he could afford. The retrospective view of this scene is so powerful and telling, and was likely just one of many hypocritical parenting moments we experienced in my early teens. Telling your child not to drink alcohol, while simultaneously sipping whiskey is so rich. The whole idea of “do as I say, not as I do” is complete horseshit, and Dad said that phrase many times when we were together. But Alas, I became an alcoholic, just like my father before me. When I was younger, I never recognized dad as an alcoholic because I, like many,  had this vision of alcoholism that was an old dude, sitting on the curb, with a bottle in a brown paper bag. Dad wasn’t that, and neither was I. But I grew up to be a fully functioning alcoholic as well.

For those that spent time with dad, and you don’t think he was an alcoholic, then you aren’t being realistic, and you were possibly one as well. Its important to set this distinction. Determining the cause of my alcoholism, is not the same as assessing blame, but its fair to look back and try to determine what put me on the path to addiction.

Since I was 10, and moved to Oregon, all I ever wanted was to spend time with my real Dad and have an actual father figure to grow with, so its natural I would follow his lead on everything. Fishing, hunting, golfing, womanizing, and of course, drinking. I got pretty good at all of them, and I learned from him, and his buddies at the time.

Many mornings, before daylight, standing by a fire waiting to fish a spot, I was “one of the guys.” It was when I was treated older than I was. Someone in the group would pull out a flask and offer everyone a “snort”, or a sip. So, in the most influential time of my life, im around alcohol, in the seemingly least harmful stage. These were great guys, and treated me as one of them, and I felt like a grown up at times around them. I certainly was an adult when it came to my fishing abilities, and that contributed to me fitting in I believe. Regardless, this did nothing to tell me alcohol is bad, so later, telling me it is, holds no water with me.

Mokey see, Monkey do.

If the stories about my dad and I were a TV series, consider this a “spin-off.” Today, I want to introduce you to Grant. Grant is the brother-in-law of Leslie, of the Leslie and Wade season. Not long after Dad and Leslie got together, Grant and my dad quickly became buddies. Their shared love of steelhead and salmon fishing was the superglue that bound the friendship. Obviously I got to know Grant as well, and we all went on countless fishing adventures, primarily on the Sandy river. Many times, when dad couldn’t go for one reason or the other, Grant would take me with him. These outings were great because I wasn’t treated as a little kid, even though I was probably 12-13 years old. I was just his “fishing padnah” for that day. I don’t remember many specific conversations, I just remember, often times we would talk about things I wouldn’t feel comfortable addressing with my dad. It was so cool to have an adult man to talk to without risking embarrassment or retribution from a parent. Over the years, I often think back and realize what an important role he played in my early teens. One summer, he was not working, and we spent a lot of time together. Sometimes hanging at his house in Gresham, sometimes fishing, and that summer he introduced me to tennis. We would go to the local school or park and bang the ball back and forth, it wasn’t tennis yet, but it didn’t matter. I enjoyed it, it was good exercise, with a person I really looked up to.

One time, while at his house, he showed me a little wooden jig he made that was used to make fishing rods. That is, tie the guides to the pole and what not. I was amazed. Having been fishing since age 8, I never heard of anyone making their own rods.   He sat me down and showed me how he did it, and let me have a go.

I was hooked, so to speak, and he suggested I make my own rod. So we did it together. Together we built my first rod. Pole, cork handle, guides, thread, and varnish all sold separately. I got to pick the style of pole I wanted, the colors/patterns of the thread( that secure the guides to the pole) It seems like it took a few weeks, working together when we could, and what we created was fucking awesome. The really cool part of that was when I was up on the Sandy, catching steelhead with the pole I made, in front of other guys. I was so proud. I went on to build others by myself, for practice. But eventually, my best friend Greg told his dad what I had done, and his pop called me and asked me to build one for Greg, which I did, and his dad PAID me. What the fuck? I was 14 and making a fishing rod was way more fun than picking raspberries. So, Trey’s custom rod building was born. Yes, it was a “business” but really just a hobby in training. I had a business card, and I had a customer, so I was in “Bidneth” What that meant was, I had access to buy all the rod supplies, as well as all the gear we used for fishing at a wholesale place called All-Sport supply. I could make trips and buy all our tackle in bulk and the fellas would chip in and we all shared in the savings.

I cannot overstate what my relationship with Grant meant to me then. I gained maturity, knowledge and skills I would never have had without him.

After we moved to Beaverton after high school, we all spent less and less time together, and eventually I lost touch with Grant. I actually think about 20 years later, Grant and I found each other on I-Fish, a local fishing website/message board. Later still, on Facebook, of course. I am happy to say that to this day Grant is a treasured friend. We talk/text almost weekly, and I never tire of his infectious giggle that starts while forming a sentence and then turns into a full-blown cackle. Grant drove us down to southern Oregon to see dad one last time, as it turned out 9 days before he died. We have deep meaningful conversations about the heaviest aspects of life as well as the typical dumb stuff. I am sure I am leaving some things out, but he knows what he means to me and I know I have played a positive (mostly) role in his life. At a critical time of my growth and development, Grant was there providing a positive role model.

He was more than a friend, more than a role model. I guess you could say he was a “Frientor” friend and mentor. Yeah I made that word up, I often do. I wish that every young person can develop that kind of dynamic with someone, it’s more powerful when not coming from a parent in my opinion

Grant, I love you, and you are a great man. You helped make me the man I am today.