I didn’t really know him, but I wouldn’t be here without him.

We may have crossed paths when I was younger, but the picture memory is escaping me. The one time that I remember meeting him was when we visited his farm in rural Maryland. A slight hunch to his towering frame, smiling, with hands that had seen a lot of work. We walked through the barn that had been built when America wasn’t yet America, the stacked stones still framing bales of hay and a handful of horses, and I was struck by how many majestic animals and silly humans this place must have seen come and go.

He was my dad’s stepbrother, and figured deeply in stories of my dad’s growing up between Southern California and the family ranch in Montana. One story held greater import than the rest, though. After a sweaty game of basketball their senior year in high school, he’d suggested to my dad that they stop by Judy Johnson’s house on Park Avenue to say hello. My dad didn’t know her, but agreed.

I grew up in Judy Johnson’s house on Park Avenue.

And so I didn’t really know him, but I wouldn’t be here without him.

Rest in peace, Garvin, and thank you for who you were to my dad.

And to me.