Some people’s lives belong in history books—and Gator’s is one of them.

Raised “dirt floor poor” in Midland, California—a Mojave Desert gypsum mining town in the 1940s—Gator came from a family of Texas transplants who moved west looking for work after the Great Depression. His early years were shaped by hard work, grit, and a deep appreciation for the simple things in life. He graduated from the school of experience with what I like to call a master’s degree in the economics of saving every penny and seizing every opportunity.

For Gator, poverty wasn’t a roadblock. It was rocket fuel—fuel for ambition, self-reliance, and a lifelong reverence for the American Dream.

Now 88, Gator has become a historian in his own right. He’s shaped by a life of service, a voracious reading habit, a sharp sense of humor, and endless conversations—some with real people, others with figures from the past, whom he knows so well they might as well have been friends. His passion for World War II history is matched only by his admiration for capitalism and American ingenuity.

To this day, he sends me books and articles clipped from the Wall Street Journal, which he still reads cover to cover, daily. He introduces me to war heroes, entrepreneurs, and visionaries who made their own way. His bookshelf is a tribute to the American spirit—his latest favorites include The Capitalist Code by Ben Stein and Unstoppable, the story of Siggi B. Wilzig, a Holocaust survivor turned banking tycoon. One of the first books he ever insisted I read was Hillbilly Elegy—a story he saw as both a mirror and a message.

Gator’s love for this country is infectious. It’s moved the hearts of friends, family members, and even perfect strangers. And if you’ve met Gator, you’ve probably heard a story—he’s never met a quiet room he couldn’t fill. Whether he’s at a holiday party, on a walk, in a grocery store, or at the doctor’s office, Gator draws a crowd with his jokes, anecdotes, and charm. In his own corner of the universe, Gator is a legend.

There’s so much more I could share…

His sayings—known affectionately as “Gatorisms”—are repeated often.

There’s the photo of young Gator sitting on a Sherman tank in Midland, helmet on, surrounded by GIs from Patton’s 2nd Armored Division during their desert training before deployment to Africa.

The time he joined a Tiger Cruise with his cousin Connie and Connie’s son Eric, a Navy helicopter pilot—who would later give his life during the early stages of the Iraq War.

His service at Ft. Lewis and in post-war Korea.

His role as a docent at the WWII Air Museum in Palm Springs.

The fully restored WWII Jeep he used to chauffeur veterans in countless parades, and the military “Mule” vehicle he maintained to give unforgettable rides to his grandkids along the Columbia River in Eastern Washington.

But of all his accomplishments, the one I treasure most is his love, support, and unwavering commitment to me and my mother. Last year, they celebrated 50 years together. From the moment they met, Gator took me in as his own—and I’ve been proud to call him my father ever since. Like many men of his generation, he’s never short on opinions. But with time, those opinions have softened, and I’ve come to appreciate the wisdom behind them. His bond with his grandchildren is quieter, gentler—and filled with the same stories I’ve heard a hundred times. But now, I listen a little more closely. Because someday, I hope to pass down his legacy of humor, resilience, and love to his great-grandchildren.

He may not have given me life, but he gave me everything else—and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. Gator didn’t just raise a family—he built a legacy of character, conviction, and love that we will carry with us, always.

Happy Father’s Day, Gator.