Losing One
"Losing One" is about the memories that shaped my life — and the father who built them. Tustin, California under the Santa Ana winds. The Santa Ana River and Trabuco Creek. Camping in Oregon beneath tall pines. Winters near Erie where the lake-effect snow buried the roads. And an old Dodge truck rolling through all of it.
It starts on a warm evening in Tustin.
The days ran long there. The Santa Ana winds moved through the yard, the radio was on, and off in the distance the Disney fireworks lit up the sky like they did every summer night. Woody and Smokey — our dogs — ran circles through the grass while I threw my toys up toward the evening stars. French fries and ice cream after long summer days. That was the whole world, and I didn't know yet how big it was.
Woody and Smokey running the yard While I threw my toys to the evening stars French fries, ice cream, summer air Santa Ana winds drifting everywhere
That was the feeling.
Even then I didn't know How far those simple days would go
And through every one of those days, there was my father.
There was an old Dodge truck. No A/C. Torn vinyl seats. Windows down in the desert heat, dust and sunlight on the street. He'd take me up into the mountains with him when he went fly fishing — I was too young to fish it myself yet, so I just rode along, watching him work the water while the truck ticked and cooled in the shade. I didn't know it then, but those trips were the beginning of everything. Years later, on creeks two thousand miles away, I'd finally pick up the rod myself. But it started here — Trabuco Creek running close beside, the Santa Ana River rolling slow and wide, and a kid in a hot truck learning by watching.
Riding in that old Dodge truck No A/C and the vinyl cut Windows down in the desert heat Dust and sunlight on the street
He taught with his hands, too.
Tree houses rising in the backyard air, boards and nails scattered everywhere, building things till the daylight was gone. That was his way. He didn't lecture. He built — and he let me build beside him. Learning life while the days rolled on.
And underneath all of it was something I only understood later:
You worked long hours through sun and rain Making a life for mom and me
The song travels, because we traveled.
Southern California gave way to camping in Oregon under tall pines, campfire glowing through the night. And then the winters near Erie — a whole different world, where the lake-effect snow came down heavy and buried the roads. Saturday drives to Buffalo. Baseball cards spread across the kitchen floor — a Mean Joe Greene card and a few more. New Year's Eve in the frozen air, target shooting somewhere out there.
And one night the truck got stuck in the drifting snow — really stuck — until Bimber came along and pulled us out slow, the way people did for each other up there. Kim and mom waiting worried at home, and us finally rolling in after dark, cold and laughing.
Truck got stuck in the drifting snow Bimber pulling us out slow Kim and mom waiting worried at home After dark when we finally rolled home
The heart of the song is in the title — and in what the title doesn't get to take away.
Losing one. Losing him. But here's what I've learned since: the people who shape us never really leave the roads we travel. Every highway I drive, every pine forest, every river, every snowfall carries a piece of those years. The song isn't a goodbye. It's a map of everywhere he still is.
From southern rivers to northern snow Your voice still guides me where I go
"Losing One" is about that map.
Tustin under the Santa Ana winds. Woody and Smokey in the yard. Fireworks over the neighborhood. An old Dodge with torn vinyl seats climbing into the mountains. Tree houses and scattered nails. The Santa Ana River and Trabuco Creek. Tall Oregon pines and a glowing campfire. Buffalo Saturdays and baseball cards on the kitchen floor. Bimber pulling us out of the snow. A father working long hours through sun and rain, building a life — and building me.
And for a few minutes, the song rides along.
Windows down.
Radio on.
Every mile still leads to you.
Still riding.
Still grateful.
Still traveling every road he gave me.
—