What to say to a curious group on a Tuesday night in a small valley town?

The call came and I said "yes," now what do I do?

I have a speaking engagement tonight in a friendly small town up the valley. I’ll be talking with a gathering of good-minded folks who belong to an organization that does excellent work in their community. This is their annual meeting, so I’m hoping punch and cookies will be involved.

I suspect at a minimum this is likely at least the 100th such annual meeting of this particular group, but the 99 previous speakers were not available. And that’s when my name got into the mix.

“What about that dude from Davis?”

I’m not sure what I’ll talk about. Humility prevents me from bragging about my Pulitzer or my Nobel Prize for Literature or the fact I once made 10 straight free throws on the 8-foot outdoor chain-link baskets gracing the West Davis Elementary School playground.

I plan to get there early enough to read the room.

“Hi,” I might begin. “My name is Bob Dunning and I’m happy to be here tonight. Actually, I have one of those big birthdays coming up that ends with a big fat zero, so I’m pretty much happy to be anywhere tonight.”

If they don’t laugh, or at least give me a courtesy smile, I’ll tap the microphone and say “Is this thing working?”

Since discussing the issues of the day in a town I’m only fleetingly familiar with might cause a riot and end up with me coming face to face with the county sheriff, it’s probably best to not take any chances.

As such, I’m likely to discuss my 57-year career as a daily columnist, the first 55 as The Wary Eye at the Daily Surprise and the last two as The Wary One on Substack.

I can only hope that the audience hears me say “columnist” and not “communist.”

I do have many, many memories, all of them fond, from all these years of typing for a living. And I hope to make many more memories in the years ahead.

Over the years, I’ve frequently been asked, “What’s your favorite all-time column?”

Although the volume of columns is now somewhere near 15,000, it’s hard to find more than a handful that I think are worthy of mention.

The ones I remember most, however, almost always have to do with family.

A tribute to my mom on Mother’s Day, a memory of my dad on Father’s Day, a child’s first Christmas and the last Thanksgiving dinner where every family member was present.

And, of course, the day I met the love of my life, about which I wrote, “Nearly 30 years ago, while searching the wilds of Northern Idaho for a place to wash my dirty clothes, I walked into an aging, steamy laundromat with no more than two washing machines and there she was: the Red-Headed Girl of My Dreams. I married her on the spot, halfway through the rinse cycle, and four kids and a million memories later, I remain the happiest man on earth.”

One Father’s Day I remembered what dad had done for me on one of my childhood birthdays.

Birthday cards started arriving in the mail for me from distant places. One card had the signature of every member of the New York Giants, including Willie Mays. Another had all the signatures of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Another the St. Louis Browns and another the Washington Senators.

Within three days of my birthday, I had them all. The Redlegs, the Cubs, the Braves. Mickey Mantle, Moose Skowron, Whitey Ford, Jackie Robinson, Gus Zernial, and my favorite of favorites, Ted Kluszewski.

Dad had written them all letters explaining his plan and had included a birthday card for each to send back.

Even today, it’s a memory that brings tears to my eyes.

A while ago, I wrote about the many struggling folks I encountered when I boarded a Greyhound bus in Weed and headed for home.

These were people who, almost without exception, were down on their luck. Not one of them I talked to owned a car, had a steady job or had ever set foot on a college campus. There were no Ph.D. candidates among them or anyone planning a summer trip to Europe.

These folks didn’t know Obamacare from Trumpcare from Medicare. They didn’t know if the Giants were in first place or last. There were no families on this bus and no kids. Not even any couples. Just a bunch of folks hoping that the next stop would be better than the last.

And then there was the time I watched in awe as former mayor Julie Partansky, addressing her colleagues on the Davis City Council, let loose with the longest run-on sentence in human history, a stream of consciousness that I painstakingly transcribed from a tape recording of the meeting.

“Uh, well, just a second, Stan, um, yeah, I just wanted to make some comments about this, um clearly, um, like Ken was mentioning, this is a sort of a subjective type of aesthetic issue and what’s nice to one person isn’t necessarily nice to another person and, um, it doesn’t mean, you know, I mean, it’s just a subjective thing, and so, and you know, just from my own personal, sub, um, subjective opinion, um, I, um, I’m thinking, I, I, what keeps coming into my mind is the green street, um, along Fifth Street, uh, across from the post office and there’s no, um, grass there.”

And then there was the day I took my oldest daughter off to college to a school 900 miles away. That one will forever be locked in my memory.

My turn came several weeks ago when I drove my daughter to school at the University of Arizona. So far away when you’re driving a car jammed with the odd collections of a 17-year-old’s life. A stereo. Clothes. Shoes. Favorite posters. Photos of friends and family. Several stuffed animals, some nearly as old as she is.

And her hopes and dreams were also packed in that crowded car, for this was something she had imagined since she was a little girl. Not necessarily this school, maybe, but going off to college one day. Someplace. Sometime. It’s a good dream and you’re lucky if you get to live it.

Still, as we laughed and sang and stopped at nearly every roadside attraction that offered a chance to eat or to play, it was like every other vacation we had taken since she was just a baby.

Traveling. She had always loved to travel. Packing up the car and taking off on the spur of the moment. Going for a ride up the valley late on a summer night. Driving to a nearby town just for an ice cream. Going away for a weekend. Or a week. Or longer. She loved it. We both did.

Only this was one vacation where she wouldn’t be making the return trip home with me.

Fortunately — very fortunately — when you arrive on campus with a freshman in the front seat, there are many, many distractions to keep you occupied. But you know that no matter how much you push it to the back of your mind, just around the corner the moment is coming when you will say goodbye to each other in a way you have never said goodbye before.

And, no matter how many times you have thought about it, no matter how many times you have prepared yourself for what you will say and how you will deal with how you feel, it smacks you in the face when it actually happens.

We sat for a long while in the warm Arizona night on a cement barrier surrounding a tree outside her dorm room. Talking only with our hearts. Wishing we could freeze the moment forever and never move again.

Yes, there were tears, but you can’t cry if you don’t love.

Since then, I have been asked many times by people who know me well about just how hard and how sad that moment must have been.

And I tell them yes, it was hard. But no, it wasn’t sad. It wasn’t sad at all.

For this is what you dream of for your children. This is a part of your fondest hopes.

You want them to grow up. To go off on their own. To be independent. To find their way. And yet, to let you know, in no uncertain terms, how much they love you. And for you to be able to show them in return how very much you love them.

A parent can experience no greater joy than to watch his children spread their wings and fly.

I will always be her father and she will always be my daughter. No amount of time or distance, and no combination of circumstances and events, can change that simple, wonderful fact.

But the practical aspects of our relationship will change in significant and, yes, wonderful ways.

For instance, never before have I received a long, heartfelt letter from her explaining what is going on in her life, a life that is now 900 miles away from mine. Before, she could always just come into the kitchen and tell me.

Never before have I received a phone call from her just to chat. Just to see what I was doing. Just to see what was going on.

Never before have I been invited to something called “Parents Weekend,” where I’ll be allowed and perhaps even encouraged to act like the proud father I am and root for a football team I wouldn’t have dreamed of rooting for just six months ago.

Then one day late last week came a copy of her first freshman English essay.

And I realized the last 17 years have been as wonderful for her as they have been for me. That we’ve been thinking the same thoughts all this time.

The essay was titled simply “My Dad” and it began, “Ever since the day I was born my Dad and I have been very close.”

And then she remembered all those early days when I was lucky enough to take her along to my job as a sports writer.

“When I was a baby, my Dad used to take me to football and basketball games in my baby basket. Actually, I went to many places in that basket with my Dad.

“Basically, everywhere my Dad went, I went, too.

“I finally outgrew that baby basket, but I never outgrew my Dad. My bonds with my Dad go so far back and so deep they can never be broken.

“Now I am in college, hundreds of miles away from my Dad, yet he is still my best friend. It broke my heart to say goodbye, but I know we are always in each other’s thoughts. He will always be my best friend.”

Sad?

No.

I’m the luckiest guy on the face of the Earth.

It has been my great joy to have a forum where I have been able to say all these things for so many years.

I appreciate more than anyone can know that some people have taken the time to read what I have to say.

From my heart to yours, thanks for listening.

Reach me at bobdunning@thewaryone.com