By Ryan Hilligoss. November 13, 2025

It’s been two years to the day. But does it matter if we remember the actual dates those we love who have passed on? Maybe, maybe not. To each their own and whatever helps you cope with the grief as you go through the process. I think of my dad everyday, usually several times a day. Sometimes for no reason and sometimes because a memory comes to me or a conversation we had or a trip we took. Sometimes I hear his voice in my head and sometimes I slip into my Bob impression which is fairly easy to do because he was so distinctive in the sound of his voice, his mannerisms, his personality, or his Bobisms some of us know by heart. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that we remember a date, maybe it just helps us mark the miles as time rolls down the highway.

We truly never know when it’s our time. A friend once told me of her parents driving in a car, her mom driving and father riding in the passenger seat. He was talking about a trip they were planning and was talking quickly and excitedly. She turned a corner, the talking had stopped in mid sentence, the mom looked over and her husband had simply, quickly passed away from a major heart attack as they talked. The silence was deafening. In my dad’s case, he passed away late at night, early morning on a quiet November night, two months shy of his 82nd birthday. For his age, or most ages for that matter, Bob Hilligoss was a very active man, dancing every weekend, visiting friends, his “dancing partner”, and family everyday, and generally, enjoying the hell out of life.

During his last weekend he lived it up to the fullest with dancing at the Alton VFW on Friday night and the Grafton Winery on Saturday afternoon. He and I talked Sunday morning about his weekly adventures. He visited Donna Sunday afternoon and gave her a kiss on his way out the door which he rarely did in public. His life long friend Tim from Humboldt was in town and they hung out and watched a football game. Tim was headed to Charleston that night but told dad he’d be back Monday afternoon. “I’ll be here,” Dad said as they waved at each other. Little did he know. Next door neighbor Jackson came over about 8:00pm to say their usual heys and goodnights to each other. By all accounts he had a great weekend, was full of life and enjoyed everyone’s company. He went to bed around 9:00pm as usual but woke up around 1:00am not feeling well. He had been complaining of heartburn for a few weeks and propped himself up on his bed pillows at night. He made his way down to the couch and called our neighbor Scott to say something wasn’t right and needed help. Scott called 911 and they arrived within minutes. They worked on him for close to 30 minutes but there was nothing they could do. He’d suffered a heart attack, maybe even a ruptured artery. He was fully cognizant as they worked on him and followed their orders to move this way and that as they moved him from the couch to the floor. Scott was there in the room as the paramedics tried their best, Scott and dad maintained eye contact. He was fully aware of what was happening. His last words to Scott were, “I don’t think I am going to make it.”

Whether you believe in the concept of energy and the spirit or not, some odd things happened that evening around that time. Scott told me their dogs were uncharacteristically howling at something outside that evening. When Scott went to investigate he stepped outside and heard a barn owl hooting in the woods behind our house. My dad was fascinated with and a lifelong student of Native Americans and in some native cultures, the owl carries a heavy weight of spiritualism and an omen of death. In Indiana, my cousin, dad’s niece, woke up from sleep sensing something was wrong somewhere, somehow. On the other side of a town, a young teenage girl who had spent a lot of time with dad woke up from her sleep with the same feeling. Meanwhile 300 miles away, I lay tossing and turning sleeping fitfully when I heard my phone buzz on vibrate. It was Donna, “Dad’s gone baby.” Three simple words. Dad’s gone.

I am two years into my grief process. I’ve gone through most of the stages at least once, some of them several times, in no specific order. The grief never goes away. It changes and ebbs and flows like a river, but it never goes away. The further along we go, it comes at odd, random moments. Recently when actor and activist Robert Redford passed away, my first knee jerk reaction was to call my mom and dad to tell them and talk to them since they both loved him and his movies. It took a moment for me to realize, oh yeah, I can’t.

As much as it’s pained and drained me emotionally, mentally, and psychologically, I’ve gotten through it with the help of family, friends, my brother and aunts and uncles. But one thought has haunted me constantly: what was he thinking about in those last minutes? Other than being aware of what was happening, the medics working on him, and seeing Scott in the room, what was going through his mind? Was he in pain? Was he worried about his dog, was he worried about me and Kevin and what would happen to us? Was he thinking of our mom, Sean or his parents, was his life flashing before his eyes, moment after moment flying by at lightning speed? The fact I wasn’t there at that moment after having spent all my life being near him will haunt me for the rest of my life. I was just there with Graham the weekend prior as we had a great weekend at a dance and golfing with the family. I know it’s not reasonable and I shouldn’t, but I will. I wasn’t there to help in any way I could or to say goodbye one last time.

While I will be thinking of his last thoughts for the rest of my life, I do know that our dad lived a long, good, and decent life filled with love of all the countless people he had run across in his time. His family and friends from Humboldt, Mattoon and Charleston, his students and athletes in Divernon and Rochester, his large extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles, his former employees at the restaurant and all the other jobs he had. He never stopped working from the time he could walk until the day he left. Work was how he proved himself as a person and gave him a purpose. And when he went, we were all there in spirit, standing around him, sharing the love we carried for each other.

Maybe it’s not important to know what he was thinking. It is simply enough to know that he lived. We lived to bear witness to the person who was Robert Lee Hilligoss. And that is good enough.

For Graham and Rory

Two things I have been telling myself, and anyone else who will listen, for 10 years now after our brother Sean passed away: get your affairs in order and to not carry grudges as best as possible because you never know when it will be your last time seeing or talking to someone. So here is me taking care of some of my business. So my kids don’t have to wonder what I am thinking when it’s my time hopefully a couple, several decades, from now.

It was 2002. I was 28 years old. You two were a few years off in the horizon. I was sent to southern California for work training. I was in Thousand Oaks for 3 weeks. On a Sunday morning, I left Thousand Oaks for a day trip down to the ocean. A state highway led down the mountains into Malibu, dropping me at The Pacific Coast highway near Pepperdine University. I turned south on the PCH headed towards Venice and Santa Monica. It was a beautiful September California morning, 75 degrees, nothing but blue skies and sunshine. I wanted to get close to the ocean. I spotted a sign for a state park. I parked and walked up a small incline on a path with flowers and bushes on either side of me. As I crested the rise, the vegetation fell away and I stepped into Eden. There was the Pacific, blue as blue could be, stretching out as far as I could see. I was at a small park on a cliff, the beach 30 feet below. There was a small wooden bench facing the water. I had the place to myself. On a quiet Sunday morning in southern California, I had a magical moment all to myself with nothing but the water, sunshine and birds flying nearby. I sat on the bench and took in all the beauty I could take. In life, some of our deepest, most profound moments are small happy accidents that befall us if we are open to the experience.

When it’s time, that’s where I’ll be. Sitting on a bench on a sunny quiet morning, looking at the vastness of the ocean, thinking of time, feeling grateful for all life has given me. But this time, you’ll be with me sitting on either side enjoying the view and the sunshine on our faces, and the warmth of the sun on our shoulders. Everyone else will be there too, standing behind us their hands touching ours. Maybe I’ll tell a stupid dad joke. Maybe Woody will pop out of the bushes chasing a rabbit. Maybe we’ll see some surfers out on the water catching a perfect wave. Maybe. Just maybe……. You two are the best things I’ve ever done in life. And that’s pretty damned good. I’ll see you in my dreams.

Jim Harrison, Hard Times, In Search of Small Gods

” The other boot doesn’t drop from heaven.

I’ve made this path and nobody else

leading crookedly up through the pasture

where I’ll never reach the top of Antelope Butte.

It is where my mind begins to learn

my heart’s language on this endless

wobbly path, veering south and north

informed by my all too vivid dreams

which are a compass without a needle.

Today the gods speak in drunk talk

pulling at a heart too old for this walk,

a cold windy day kneeling at the mouth

of the snake den where they killed 800 rattlers.

Moving higher my thumping heart recites the names

of a dozen friends who have died in recent years,

names now incomprehensible as the mountains

across the river far behind me.

I’ll always be walking up Antelope Butte.

Perhaps when we die our names are taken

from us by a divine magnet and are free

to flutter here and there within the bodies

of birds. I’ll be a simple crow

who can reach the top of Antelope Butte.”