Grandad's boots

Walking with me wherever I go ❤

I’ve been dreading writing this.

Not because I don’t want to tell this beautiful story, but becuase I still haven’t fully accepted that he’s gone.

The rock of the Ward family. Our forever cowboy. Our Grandad, Billy C. Ward.

A man of endless talents and legends: a veterinarian, humanitarian, guitarist, golfer, die-hard Aggie, and Texan.

Billy C. Ward grew up in Phillips, Texas, deep in the Texas panhandle, on our great-grandfather Jack Ward’s cattle ranch.

At just 15 and 16, my grandparents met, only to never separate again.

Except on that last day, when heaven finally claimed him, his grasp on my grandmother’s hand slipping at last.

His mind slipped well before then, though. An uphill battle against Alzheimer’s was his demise.

It was a shame to all of us, considering his brain was the most beautiful thing about him.

A few years ago, my grandparents had to sell their home in Georgetown, Texas.

The house that we grew up visiting.

The porch they planned to die on, rocking hand-in-hand, on their Adirondack chairs.

Where I was first introduced to the South Congress bridge bats, the Texas Science and Natural History Museum, the LBJ Presidential Library, and the Lone Star State.

My personal freedom: Schlitterbahn and Chick-fil-A.

Johnny Cash playing on the speaker and Grandad pulling out his guitar after dinner.

The memories that pulled me back to Austin 20 years later.

With selling their house came selling some of their most prized possessions. Things my grandmother couldn’t keep anymore.

Flow Blue China and antique glassware. Vintage food tins and artwork. A library full of Grandad’s books, achievements, tchotchkes, and guitars.

Memorabilia of the amazing life he led.

I remember my mom telling me that whenever our family visited, she would borrow my grandfather’s running shoes.

They’d go on long runs together, talking about life, love, everything, and nothing.

I remember my mom telling me she always felt seen and understood by him.

We would always laugh, “I can’t believe you have the same size shoe as Grandad!”

As my grandmother sifted through their closet to see if I wanted anything (although she is 4’ 11” and I don’t think anything would fit me), she found two pairs of my Grandad’s boots.

But that cowboy hung up his hat a long time ago.

They fit me like a glove. And were actually really cute.

No need for $900 Tecovas, I thought. These were way better.

He passed about a year after I got those boots.

February 6th, 2026. 2/6/26.

I miss him every day and always look at the picture of us on my fridge.

When I was no more than 3 years old, wearing a yellow dress, he held me on his hip in one arm.

I wanted more than just his boots, but a forever reminder of who’s always walking next to me wherever I go.

So a month after he passed, I had a tattoo artist design one of his boots with red ink.

I feel extremely proud to be his granddaughter.

Even if I feel my heart blackening as the memories of you slip.

I think he would be proud of me, too (even if I have tattoos).

I wish we could have enjoyed living in Texas together.

But he’d be happy that I’m not much of a UT fan.

Impressed that I learned to play golf, even if I get frustrated and bored after a few holes.

Satisfied that I always make sure to put the inserts back inside the boot after wearing them.

Cheering on the woman I am, and the one I’m becoming.

I know he’s always with me. Around me. Part of why I am who I am.

Walking with me, whenever I wear Grandad’s boots 🤍