Pictures remind us what people looked like. Stories remind us who they were.

Today every phone is filled with thousands of pictures. We capture birthdays, vacations, graduations, weddings, fish that somehow get bigger every year, gardens that somehow get bigger than originally planned, and just about every other moment worth remembering. Years from now those pictures will still be there, but they won't tell you why everybody was laughing, what happened five minutes before the camera clicked, or why that particular photograph became one of your favorites. A picture captures a moment. It doesn't capture the story.

That's why I'm writing this book.  Not because my life was extraordinary... but because the people who shared it were.

If you'd asked this engineer a few years ago if I was ever going to write a book, I'd have laughed and told you it wasn't in the plans. Truth is, it never was. I've always enjoyed telling stories. Put me around a campfire, on a fishing boat, at the dinner table, or sitting around with family and friends, and sooner or later somebody says, "Tell them the one about..." Usually everybody already knows how it ends, but they want to hear it again anyway.

A while back I turned sixty-three, the same age my dad was when we lost him. That birthday didn't scare me, but it got my attention. It reminded me that if I kept saying, "Someday I'll write these stories down," someday might never get here. I hope I've got a lot of years left, but I finally realized these stories don't belong only to me anymore. They belong to my family... and to the generations that come after us.

The people who shared these experiences with me don't really need this book. They'll laugh every time one of these stories comes up. This book is for everyone who comes after us. Someday my kids, my grandkids, and maybe even generations I'll never get to meet will look through old photographs and recognize the faces. I don't want them to inherit a box full of pictures. I want them to inherit the stories that go with them.

This isn't the story of my life. These are the stories from my life. The family and friends who shaped me will show up throughout these pages. Sometimes they're the subject of the chapter. Sometimes they're simply the reason I became the person telling it. They're not in chronological order, and that's intentional. Memories don't work that way. One memory reminds me of another, and before long we're laughing about something that happened thirty years apart. That's exactly how I hope you'll read this book.

Over the years I've answered to a lot of names. Most people have always known me as Ken. My mom usually called me Ken too, although every now and then she'd call me "Kenny Rich," and I always knew that came from a place of love. "Kenneth Richard!"... now that came from a place of fear. Then my kids started calling me Dad, which is a title you don't really understand until somebody's calling you by it. My two nieces and my nephew were the first to call me Uncle Ken, and I wore that title proudly. Years later, Uncle Ken took on a life of its own. Then came Grampa... and I'm still not sure there's a better title than that. I've answered to a few other names over the years too... but they're probably not fit to print.

I'm not famous. I never invented anything that changed the world, played professional sports, or walked on the moon. What I have done is live a life full of people I love, projects that usually ended up bigger than they needed to be, mistakes I'd rather not repeat, and enough stories to keep my family smiling long after I'm gone.

This book isn't about accomplishments. It's about the family and friends who filled my life with laughter, adventure, mistakes, second chances, and memories worth keeping.

Some of these stories will make you laugh. A few might touch your heart. Others will probably leave you shaking your head and wondering, "What the fuck was he thinking?"

Believe me... I've wondered the same thing.

So grab a beer, pour a glass of wine, or whatever the hell you want. If alcohol isn't your thing, that's fine too. I'd like to share a few stories before they fade a little more each year.