Footsteps

 That deep baritone. The hearty laugh. These sounds will always be at the root of my memories of my father-in-law. Long before I was dating his daughter, she came to a party I threw at my parents' house in high school. Two years behind us, she came with my friend. When the doorbell rang, my father answered the door and for a moment, the only sound in the world was that of this concerned dad. He was there to take his daughter home. To keep her safe. How could he have known then what would come to pass?

Before I was dating his daughter, he came to look in on me as I woke up from my knee surgery. Doctor Baumgardner had a very reassuring bedside manner and put my mother and father at ease. It was comforting to have someone we knew checking in on me as I started my long road to recovery. 

Thirty years ago on Father's Day, I attended a gathering of the Baumgardner tribe just prior to my departure from Boulder, Colorado. I was dating his daughter by now, and he made a point of checking my teeth to insure that I was healthy and a good prospect. And with this odd blessing, I moved to California to shack up with his little girl. 

It wasn't long after that when we returned to Boulder to get married. Now there was a legal bond between myself and "Doctor Daddy." He became my Father In Law. 

Then there was the birth of his grandson, with whom he shared a fascination with trains. The two of them had numerous adventures chasing locomotives and discussing all manner of rolling stock. They built tracks in the living room for various gauge toy trains. They rode up to Sacramento on the Coast Starlight to quiz the docents at the California State Railroad Museum. 

Over the years, we were treated to many lyrical interludes as he shared his love of barbershop music with us, in person and over the phone. He shared the family history, and made a pilgrimage with his little girl to his hometown of Tiffin, Ohio. At times, the connection between him and his own children was shaken by the things that life brings, but his wish for love and understanding was always front and center. 

In his last few years, trips to Boulder allowed us to connect with him in new ways. We witnessed the cruel ravages that time can take on a soul, but he kept his sense of humor, never lacking for a story to tell. Even if he had told it a dozen times before. 

When we received the news that he was gone, I told my wife that her father had stomped on the Terra. She laughed a little and wondered if that was really the case. I conceded that "stomping" might be a little extreme, but she agreed that he had definitely left his mark: Footsteps in which to walk.