It’s 1977, and I just moved onto a newly developed, dead-end neighborhood; the kind that all the homes lookalike. Only a few homes are completed, and there is this one house across the dirt street with a family pulling into their driveway. It’s the Truschel’s.  I didn’t realize at the moment, but I was introduced to a family that would be a big part of my life forever.

On April 2, a man who lived in that home, passed away in that house that I played, skipped school, had parties, sleepovers, and great memories of family. He was my best-friend’s father, but he was like a father to me.

Some called him Truschel; some called him Mr. Wilson; and some called him Dick. Whatever you called him, he was a loving, genuine man who touched our lives.

I count myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to spend time with him in his favorite place on earth, Las Vegas. Last June 2009, my best-friend and I, went to Vegas with him. Of course, we pissed him off on the last night because we were drunk and it was only three in the afternoon. He was yelling at us as if we were 10 years old again. It was quite comical.

To Truschel! I love you, and I’ll always remember you working in your yard sportin those cut-off jean shorts.