Robert C Kniss
Bob, to most.
But also Bobby, Kniss Kid, Uncle Bob.
Grandpa Bob.
Dad.
Born July 31, 1945, he would have turned 80 years old today.
He knew every fishing hole on the Red Willow, and every dirt road in Morrill County. For as long as I can remember, he’d spend the better part of every day driving around in his pickup checking crops and checking on people. I suspect there are county road employees who didn’t put half as many miles per day on those roads as dad. There was often a hunting dog along for the ride. Labs, usually yellow, were his regular companions. As far as I know, only one of those dogs jumped out of the back at high speed to chase a bird. And that dog also got shot with a .22 and clipped in the back leg with a bean cutter. (Dad didn’t shoot him, but he was running the bean cutter…) He was almost as hard on dogs as he was on pickups.
On his drives, dad spent a lot of time checking in with neighbors. Some of my earliest memories are riding around in the pickup with dad. Sometimes we’d stop for a burger and a game of darts at the Pink Palace. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I knew a remarkable proportion of the Bayard community before I was 6 years old, all because dad considered so many people his friends. Dad was human, and certainly no saint, so I suspect there were probably people he didn’t like and who didn’t like him. But I honestly can’t recall a single instance of Dad saying an unkind word about anybody.
He was kind, and he was one of a kind.
“You can’t soar with the eagles if you’re up hooting with the owls.”
I don’t know the origin of that phrase, but my friend Nick reminded me this was something my dad used to say quite a bit during the summer. I suppose lots of dads say that sort of thing – but my dad said it without any hint of irony. My brother and I dreaded the 5:30am summer wake-up call: “Time to go set some water!” Early to rise, early to bed was a way of life for my dad, at least for as long as I’ve been in this world. He was usually snoring asleep on the couch in only his underwear by the time MacGyver came on. My brother & I were always a little bit nervous to bring a girlfriend to the house. Luckily for all involved, he started wearing pajama pants later in life.
Dad had a tremendous work ethic. He truly worked hard, probably harder than he should have. His body bore the brunt of many years of hard work.
But he also played hard – probably harder than he should have. His body bore the brunt, and finally succumbed, to many years of starting a little too early and playing just a little too hard.
But working hard and playing hard was his way, and I think that’s part of why he loved being a farmer. He was really proud to have been a farmer, and that job allowed him to be independent, to work hard, and to play hard. Dad loved the process of farming, but merely tolerated the business of farming. I get the impression he was not a particularly astute business man. Being a farmer gave him time to follow his other passions – he loved hunting & fishing, taking his boat out on the lake, and spending time with family and friends. So many mornings were spent at the duck blind, many afternoons spent chasing up pheasants or searching for trout or walleye.
Dad had a boat with an outboard motor that worked really well just over 50% of the time. He used that boat to take us fishing or water skiing at lake Minitare, Glendo, Grayrocks, or McConaughy. If you only knew him over the last decade or so, you might be surprised to learn that he was quite the slolam water skier! He mostly shuffled around in his later years due to a bad ankle, back pain, and other ailments. But in his youth he was quite the athlete. I have it on good authority that he ran the quarter mile. (And by ‘good authority’ – I mean he told me this himself, when he was trying to convince me the 400m dash wasn’t straight up masochism.) He somehow enjoyed running the 440 yard race – and was on a record-setting mile relay team his senior year of high school.
Dad spent his life keeping busy, doing things he enjoyed – and mostly avoiding the things he didn’t. Farming kept him busy for most of his life; and so he had kind of a rough transition when that stopped. The year he ‘retired’ from farming, he was absolutely stir crazy watching all the tractors in the field, tilling, planting, spraying… After that first summer, though, he started to enjoy the new time he had available – not spent planting and irrigating. He had time to go visit even *more* neighbors; “help” them irrigate, from the driver’s seat of his pickup, on the ditch road at the other end of the field. He’d drive around checking out the bald eagle nests, or figure out where the local flock of wild turkeys were at. He eventually even seemed to enjoy traveling out of town, as long as he was going to Arkansas or Wyoming to see his grandkids. (I guess he probably liked visiting the rest of us, too, but there was absolutely no doubt his grandkids were the focus of his visits.)
So to my Dad: I wish we could have had some more time. More time with grand kids, who adored you and looked forward to your regular phone calls; who enjoyed the tractor rides and would have loved going fishing this summer. I wish you had more time to spend with your neighbors and your friends and your family. I even wish you could make a few more big-ass pots of chili that was way too spicy for Mom to eat. (Sorry mom – I kind of liked his chili…)
While I am sad we didn’t get more time, I’m intensely happy he was able to keep doing what he loved. Right up until his last days he was putting even more miles on his pickup, visiting with neighbors and friends, spending time with his grandkids, and not opening his bills.
