Part one of the story of my dad lives here.

Chapter Two: In the Desert, a Well

“The work is long. The road is dry. But somewhere under all this dust, there is water.”

Before the father becomes a myth,
He must first become a man.

And so Richard, son of Dora and Dick,
Having walked from football’s field into stone’s domain,
Traded jerseys for blueprints, helmets for hard hats,
And entered the strange and shifting world of urban planning.
Not a hero’s path, no trumpets nor cheers —
Just paper, meetings, models, maps —
A world of zoning codes and water mains, of transit lines and dreams deferred.

He chased the work like a pilgrim in the sprawl,
Across cities and counties,
Consulting firms and government halls,
Learning the lay of the modern land —
Not just its streets, but its silences,
Where power moves like groundwater, unseen but shaping everything.

At night he studied.
The University of Southern California became his forge.
Urban planning — a discipline for those who see what could be
Hidden inside the chaos of what is.
There he earned his master’s degree,
Hammering together vision with sheer will.

And then, one day — the break.
A chance to lead water infrastructure for the MX missile project,
A Cold War cathedral buried deep in the Nevada desert.
Pioche, they called it. Middle of nowhere to some.
To Richard, it was the edge of destiny.
He worked his tail off under the high sun,
Running water lines for weapons and life alike.
And in that unlikely place,
He met someone who would become more vital than any utility:
Erin, his future wife —

A tennis star turned urban planner herself, a brilliant mind full of curiosity, a successful environmental professional,

Who pivoted to teaching midcareer
A woman of clarity and courage,
Whose laughter cut through even desert heat.

From that desert came the call:
Washington D.C.
The U.S. Bureau of Reclamation.
He rose to number two,
Holding the reins of western water from the capital's marble halls.
There he glimpsed the scale of things,
The politics of rivers, the maps of power,
And how water is never just water —
It is life, law, and longing all braided together.

But it was back in California where his legend would crystallize.
He returned to lead the Metropolitan Water District’s water resources group,
A vast, humming engine that quenched the thirst of millions.
From there to West Basin and Central Basin,
He steered Southern California through the narrow canyon of the 1990s —
Helping craft smarter pricing, guiding integrated resource plans,
Pioneering water recycling at scale before others dared dream it.

A bold approach with a simple goal: drought proofing the region.

And beyond our borders, he carried the lessons of the West —
Twice to China, where ancient rivers met new machines,
Where he offered insight but listened deeply.
And once to Australia,
Where kangaroos roamed and eucalyptus trees swayed,
And where he brought his whole family — not just knowledge,
But a vision of the world as deeply connected by water and wonder.

That global perspective stuck with me.
It whispered that wisdom wasn’t bound by state lines.
It taught me that even far from home,
My father’s cause — stewardship, integrity, service —
Still held water.

To some, he became a titan —
A lion in the field of engineers and district heads,
The man who walked with geologic scale gravity through rooms of policy and concrete.

But to me?

He was the man who stopped for free compost
On the way to Disneyland.
Who stuffed that stinking bag in the trunk
Because public resources should never be wasted.
He was the man who tossed the football with us boys before school,
Who coached me in the YMCA Y-Winners leagues,
And made clear that I would be held to a higher standard.

What am I most proud of?
Again and again I’ve heard it:
From the IT support who said my dad treated him well.
From the many staff across the district who've shared fond memories working with him.
From the managers and engineers who called him their hero
Ultimately not just because of all the accomplishments— but because he tried to treat others as would like to be treated.
I admire that quiet kindness.

Now I sit at Metropolitan myself.
I walk the same halls.
I see the shadows he cast not from standing tall —
But from standing true.
From treating people as they ought to be treated.
From living the answer to Ward Elliott’s ancient question:

Who is your hero? And what is your cause?

For me, the answer has always been the same.

My hero wore no cape.
But he carried compost.
And a football.
Building a better world quietly,

Decently and with devotion to the greater good.

(More to come...)