In Montana my Dad goes by the name Bill. His actual name is Willard, but that is not as common in Montana as it is in Missouri, and he doesn't want to to be nicknamed Willie, thus the name Bill. So in Montana I am Bill's daughter and in Missouri I am Willard's daughter. It is an honor to be identified this way because Willard is well thought of in his home state. I know this because I am in Missouri with him now, as I was five years ago, and as we were about every three years throughout my childhood, despite the expense involved in getting our family of six from Montana to Missouri. Dad's determination made our paycheck to paycheck purse strings stretch far enough to get there.
The road must be longer from Missouri to Missoula than the other way around because few of his relatives made it to our house in Montana, but Dad made sure we knew our grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins nonetheless. I am staying at a cousin's house now, so that investment has matured. Dad, a spry 87 years old, believes this may be his last trip to Missouri. I don't yet know if I will have the heart or desire to come here without him but, whether I am in Montana or Missouri, whether he is on earth or in heaven, I will always be proud to be known as Willard's daughter.
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