My father still lives in my home town in Central Oregon and takes long walks everyday. It's his time to observe the changes in the city, to think and pray. Whenever I go home I join my dad on these long walks. They're often early in the morning, our routine is for him to wake me up early, often as the sun is still rising, before the house is abuzz with activity. He's always well armed with a strong cup of coffee. Depending on the season the air is thick with the smell of wildfire smoke, or a light dusting of snow on the ground. What's not dependent on the season is the continually clear skies and the sun rising over the mountains.

These walks are a time for us to really connect. We talk about the rapid changes the city has gone through, his and my memories of the places we pass, as well as deeper conversations about marriage, work, friendships, finances, etc. We have an unspoken rule about religion and politics being out-of-bounds but we venture there sometimes as well.

On the day that he gave me these tiles, the walk started out like any other. We shared our stories as we walked up to the top of Hospital Hill and watched the sun continue to rise. We walked around the nunnery and looked at the landscaping the McMenamins brothers were putting in at their new property. One our way downtown, my dad all of sudden stopped in front of a constructions site. I thought he was going to begin a dialog about the evolution of the old building into the new and was completely surprised when he called out to one of the workers. A little bewildered, the young man came over. "Can you do me a favor?" my dad asked. Now I was completely confused and certainly curious. "See those tiles in the dirt over there?" he asked as he pointed to a mound of debris. "Would you mind picking out about 10 of them for me?" The construction worker did as he was asked, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, with no hesitation. 10 tiles in hand, my dad then turned to me and placed three of them in mine. "These are tiles off the floor where your mom and I had our first date".

There a couple of things which really moved me about this experience. One of them, is that my dad still considers that memory precious even though my parent's have been divorced for over 22 years. I can understand him being moved by my birth or other such things which came as a result of their relationship, but to still hold onto the circumstances of their meeting is a testament to his sentimentality (and undying romanticism too I guess). The other his just simply his keen sense of observation. He clearly pays a remarkable amount of attention to the changes being made in the city and makes note of what that change means to his personal history in those places. His effort to try and retain pieces of those memories through photographs, stories and artifacts like these tiles is really striking. I'm deeply touched not only by his depth of attachment to the people in his life, no matter how sour the relationship may have become but also the thoughtfulness with which he observes his surroundings. To me these are the indicators of a human being unafraid of really deeply engaging in the world and the people around them. The lesson for me has been that this is the key to a rich life. After the building has been demolished, the divorce papers signed, the house sold, it should be the memories of falling in love, having grand new adventures and learning new things that you hold onto. I won't ever forget these walks that my dad and I take and am pleased to have a these three tokens of the lessons I've learned.