I saw a plastic roping steer head at Tractor Supply on Saturday. It reminded me that I want to buy one, mount it to a sawhorse, and start practicing again.
Once upon a time, I roped.
Not professionally, just for fun at the Kilcups’ house.
Brian and Ladele, the parents, along with their oldest son, Kasey, were team ropers. Although I initially started hanging around because of their younger son, Jesse, our friendship eventually reached its expiration date after a jealous new girlfriend entered the picture.
Maybe I stayed close with the rest of the family because I wasn’t ready to lose all of them.
Who knows the ways of a broken heart anyway?
I’d go with them to local rodeos, ride their horses, let Ladele cut my hair, or spend evenings on their front porch, rocking in the chairs and laughing until my stomach hurt.
I loved them.
And they loved me.
During college breaks, I’d drive down their long, J-shaped gravel driveway, passing horses in fly masks lazily swishing their tails. I especially remember their white horse and how easily his face sunburned. Every summer day meant sunscreen.
It was at their house that I went snipe hunting for the first time. Brian introduced Jesse and me to one of his favorite Westerns and taught us about the feud between the Hatfields and McCoys.
It always felt good there.
Friday nights were nacho nights, and their top kitchen drawer was always stocked with full-sized candy bars.
Brian was heavy on my mind today.
Jesse and I have stayed in touch over the years. Every January 14th he calls me on my birthday, and every February 15th I call him on his.
This year, when I called, he told me Brian had died.
Quite suddenly.
Just days before, Brian had stopped by Jesse’s job site. They laughed, talked, and went about the day as they always had. Years earlier they’d owned BK Foundations together and built a successful concrete business.
I don’t remember everything I said to Jesse. I do remember him telling me he hadn’t even begun to process it. I told him how much I loved his dad. How unbelievably funny he was.
I remembered Brian once saying he wanted Go Rest High on That Mountain played at his funeral.
I don’t even know if he had one.
I don’t know every chapter of Brian’s story, but I have so many stories about him.
Stories of a man who lived big without ever needing to make himself the center of attention. Someone who was generous, funny, steady, and deeply kind.
I’m grateful I knew him. Some people leave you with memories. Others leave you with a way of feeling. Brian left me with both.
Love, Jaclynn
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