Raising little Texans and the legacy I leave behind

A reflection on time, memories, and what we pass along.

I was catching up with my sister earlier in the week and asked if she’d read my last post about the farm. She had, said it brought back a lot of memories, and then asked something that sat with me. 

“Do you think our kids will have something as special as that? Something they’ll remember that will leave such an impact?”

A few days later, I was having coffee with a colleague I’d worked with while at Whole Foods. A lifelong Texan from a multi-generational Texas family. She shared a story about a place her grandparents had when she was growing up and how those memories moved her and her husband to buy a small spot along the Guadalupe. A place for their kids to grow up and make memories.

Two conversations, just days apart, both circling around the same idea: legacy. Not in the financial or estate-planning sense, but the quieter, more personal kind. The legacy of memories, stories, and shared experiences that last long after we’re gone.

Those conversations come at a time when I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of legacy I’ll leave behind. They reminded me of my journey down this path a couple years ago when I first caught the episode with author Bill Perkins on Andrew Yang’s podcast. The timing of this episode, Getting More Out of Life couldn’t have been more perfect. I’d been pondering what the “second half of my life” should be focused on and how to find more happiness, purpose, and meaning in the years ahead.

In the episode, Bill talked about his book Die With Zero. He makes the case that time, energy, and health are finite currencies; and that if we wait too long to “start living”, we risk saving up experiences for a future version of ourselves that may never arrive.

It hit me hard. Like most people, I grew up thinking about legacy in the practical sense: saving, planning, preparing... squirreling away acorns... building a "nest egg". And while there’s wisdom in that, Die With Zero reminded me that the most meaningful thing we can leave behind isn’t money or property; it’s stories, laughter, lessons, and memories. It's those lived-experiences we are likely to value the most as we near our final breadth.

I know that’s not easy to focus on when affordability and uncertainty are front of mind for most. When bills, mortgages, and responsibilities weigh heavy; “investing in experiences” can sound out of reach or even indulgent. But what Perkins was really saying is that our most precious resource isn’t money,  it’s time. The vitality we have right now won’t last forever. We should enjoy the time we have now, with the ones we love. Our loved ones will cherish the time with us, and when taking stock of one's life it will be those memories we cherish and not the money we'll gift to our loved ones.

That message reframed how I think about parenting, about raising two little Texans who are growing up far from where my own story started, and giving my kids lived experiences with friends and family.

My kids were both born in Austin, TX. They’ll say “y’all” without irony. They’ll think “cold” means 55 degrees. And yet, they’ll grow up knowing all about Wisconsin; cheering for the Packers, eating cheese curds, and hearing stories about my wife’s and my childhoods up north.

I want them to feel connected to where my roots come from, but even more, I want them to have stories of their own: campouts, road trips, backyard projects, and everyday adventures that become the raw material for their memories. The kind of things they’ll talk about decades from now when they tell their own kids their most cherished moments.

And now that I’ve been in Texas for more than a decade, I’ve come to appreciate some of its own traditions around legacy and family. This weekend is Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), a tradition deeply rooted in Mexican culture, where families build ofrendas to honor loved ones who’ve passed - and this only deepens my reflections of last week and the week ahead.

I remember the first time I saw an ofrenda that really moved me... up close at Chuy’s Tex-Mex, of all places. They had (and still have) an altar set up for Elvis. It was bright and joyful and oddly touching. It made me smile, but it also hit me on a deeper level because it reminded me of my dad. And to this day, every time we’re at Chuy’s I think of my Dad... more than the King. Sorry Elvis ;).

Elvis ofrenda at Chuy's Tex-Mex on William Cannon

My dad, in his “before-children” days, was a lead singer in a Country Western band... and he is an Elvis superfan. At every wedding you can count on him to grab the mic at some point and sing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” It’s a moment everyone waits for, not because he’s a master Elvis impersonator (though he does a pretty darn good job), but because it’s pure joy. It’s his tradition and it’s something that his children, grandchildren, and friends cherish and have had the joy to share with him over many years.

So on the drive down to Chuy’s today to snap a photo of Elvis (the one above), explaining to my kids why we're making a special trip to take a picture of an ofrenda of Elvis, it made me realize that traditions like Día de los Muertos aren’t just about remembering the dead; they’re about making sure we cherish the time we have together, either making memories or keeping the spirit and legacy of those who are important to us alive through song, story, action, and laughter.

It reminded me that maybe the best way to build a legacy is to spend more of my time making it, while I still can.

That’s part of what inspired me to get more involved this year, to help make a difference here in Texas. I want to leave a legacy for my kids that sets them up for a brighter future: a community, a state, and a country they can be proud of. What really matters: family, community, and connection can’t be easily passed down through a will. It’s passed down through action, love, time, and the examples we set.

So as we head into Día de los Muertos this weekend, I’ll be thinking about legacy not as something written on paper, but as something lived in the hearts and minds of others. I'll also be watching the Disney movie Coco, like we do each year around Halloween. A beautiful story centered around Día de los Muertos and how music and tradition connect families. If you haven’t seen it, make sure to check it out.

For my sister, maybe the memories from our family farm were always more about the family (the how) than the farm (the where). As long as we have a place and a reason to gather, and we make the most of that time together, there will always be a legacy of memories to pass along.

And finally, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t have 18 number-one billboard hits, thousands of acres of land, or a billion dollars to pass down. And that’s okay. Maybe my place on my descendants’ ofrenda will be earned not through wealth or fame, but through love, laughter, impact, and the stories left behind.

Family first. Humanity first. 

Inspired by Bill Perkins’ “Die With Zero,” Día de los Muertos, and two little Texans.

Moving on from the Family Farm

What I learned on the farm — and what I’m still trying to pass along.

Last week, I had an amazing conversation with someone from Brownsville who’s been working to make a difference in her community. At one point, she shared a bit about her family’s multi-generational homestead, a place that had been in her family for a very long time. Listening to her talk about her family's land took me back to our family farm in Wisconsin.

Our farm had spanned the family for +five generations. My grandfather lived there all his life, and my mom lived there up until she got married. When I was a kid, we’d be there most weekends. There were maybe four or five other farms spread out along that mile stretch of Rockfield Road, but somehow, it never felt lonely.

People stopped by to visit almost every day. A neighbor checking in, sharing the latest news, dropping off something they borrowed (or hoping to borrow something from “the shed”), or showing up with something tasty from their own kitchen/garden. My grandparents would sit on the porch, and before long, the sound of tires on gravel meant company arrived.

Some of my fondest memories are Sunday afternoons after church, sitting on the unnaturally-green astroturf covered porch, eating peas picked from the garden (at the end of summer), and waiting to see who might swing by. We’d wait for my grandfather to come back with the hot ham and rolls (after taking the “scenic route”), then gather around the farmhouse table, debating which was the better mayo to use and the appropriate application of horseradish.

Hoelz Barn - Painted Memories by Delores Bruss (Aunt Dee)

At some point, my grandfather made what I assume was a tough decision to stop milking cows. He began renting out parts of the land to other farmers while taking a steady job at the local paper cup factory in town. To this day, I still remember the stacks of slightly off-center and misprinted paper cups he’d bring home. Every family gathering featured a random assortment of them; and my mom is still trying to get the last few boxes out of her attic.

By the time I was running around the farm, it had become a poultry operation. Each spring, my grandfather would bring home hundreds of chicks to raise through the summer, eventually processing them in the fall. I remember late nights helping round up the chickens, the glow of the barn light, the excitement of staying up past bedtime, then sitting in the bench seat of the pickup truck between my dad and grandfather, the cab filled with heavy cigar smoke. Those moments are forever etched in my memory. My brief but vivid taste of “farm life”.

My grandparents, Willie and Marion, were known for having the biggest, best chickens around. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work when they retired (and for everyone in the family that chipped in). It taught me that even when circumstances change, the values stay the same: pride in what you do, care for what you raise, and gratitude for the people who share it with you.

Even as a kid doing part-time stints on the farm, those experiences shaped what I thought the American Dream was going to be for me. I didn’t have the words for it then, but in my mind, owning a BIG piece of land; with woods, a pond, maybe a big yard, a place where you could spread out, do your own thing, and feel a little freedom was the way to go. Even though we lived a few miles away in Slinger, "a couple towns over", the farm always felt like our second home.

Later, when I went to college and got my first place in downtown Milwaukee, my view started to change. I realized I also loved being around people. The energy of the city, the sense of community, the constant movement and conversation. I could still get my fix of open space by heading out for a long run or driving back home, but I was beginning to understand that belonging also came from people just as much as from place. Still, I missed the farmstead, especially after my grandfather passed and we had to sell.

When I moved to Texas, most of our time was spent inside the Austin bubble: downtown life, work, city routines, bars, restaurants, social affairs...  But over the past couple of years, with family life, that’s changed. We’ve been getting out more, seeing more of Texas, and rediscovering a bit more on what it means to be outdoors and closer to the land.

A few years ago, we joined our local Cub Scout pack, and through those campouts, I’ve had the chance to experience some of the incredible terrain around Central Texas. This past weekend was especially meaningful;  the first time Miles (my six-year-old) came along with Teeny and me to camp with the Scouts. This was our first time visiting Enchanted Rock and exploring the area north of Fredericksburg (including a few photos below).

view from mid-summit of Enchanted Rock

back of Scout campsite at Enchanted Rock

On the drive out there, watching the Hill Country roll by,  the wide skies, the pastures stretching toward the horizon, the rows of fences ;I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. The landscape looked different, sure: drier, tougher, dotted with live oaks instead of evergreens. But there was something familiar in the rhythm of it, those quiet stretches of road, the sense of space, the way the light hit the land. For a moment, it reminded me of Wisconsin; of my grandfather’s fields and that same deep connection between land, family, and work.

The Hill Country is beautiful: rolling rock hills, scattered oaks, and for Texas, surprisingly lush. But it’s different from the soft green farmlands of Wisconsin, the thick fields and evergreens, the cool air, the quiet hum of summer. Texas feels tougher, more rugged, a little wilder and maybe a little more frontier.

As I’ve learned more about Texas history, its farms, ranches, and homesteads; I’ve started to see the connection. Generations working the land. Families adapting to change. The constant balance between progress and preservation. The work here might be harsher, the climate less forgiving, but the values run deep, hard work, resilience, and pride in what you build with your own hands.

And just like the farms I grew up around in Wisconsin, Texas homesteads and ranches are steeped in history, tradition, and pride; the kind that’s passed down from generation to generation. Whether it’s dairy barns or cattle pastures, cornfields or mesquite, that same spirit of stewardship ties both places together.

That spirit of showing up for your neighbors, of lending a hand before asking which side they’re on, is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It’s one of the core values that’s kept me inspired by some of the work and messaging at the Texas Forward Party. Having grace and tolerance. Starting with your community. Or what I affectionately now internalized as “Love Your Neighbor.”

I still believe, regardless of the type of plot you own or rent, that most people want the same thing: strong communities, honest leaders, and neighbors who look out for one another. Our future depends on how well we work together, even when we don’t agree. It’s not about left or right. It’s about fixing what’s broken by rebuilding trust, one community, one neighbor, one fence line at a time.

These days, I live about a mile from downtown Austin. It’s a far cry from the open fields around the family farm, but this past spring, I found myself trying to bring a little of that life back home. My daughter, who’s completely obsessed with birds,  inspired me to build a small backyard garden and what we affectionately call our “fargen” (part farm, part garden - named by an eight year old).

backyard "farm garden"

It’s our little backyard oasis, with plants, flowers, and room for about twenty quail. It's not the kind of farm that could hold hundreds of chickens and turkeys, but it’s enough to remind me of where I came from and to give my kids a taste of that same connection to "farm life", I find myself still cherishing.

And when I’m out there watering plants, checking the quail, or just watching my kids muck around, it's starting to feel a little more like my childhood days on the farm.

Hard work. Shared purpose. Love your neighbor.

We Say Please and Thank You

In our house, we say please and thank you.

It might sound simple, but those six words are household rules even when we’re talking to Alexa. And since Alexa lives everywhere in our home: the kitchen, the bedrooms, the entry; that means she’s part of our daily rhythm.

Honestly, it’s kind of amazing, impressive, and frightening. My kids are highly verbal because they learned early on how to ask Alexa for what they need: music, stories, games, fart songs, you name it. They understand how to communicate with technology better than I was able to talk to most adults at the same age.

But in our house, there are two non-negotiables when it comes to technology: 1) People before tech and 2) Have good manners.

If you want something, even from Alexa, you ask nicely for it. You say please and thank you.

Because it doesn’t matter if you’re talking to family, a neighbor, a stranger, or a digital assistant, manners matter. I don’t want my kids growing up thinking that just because something isn’t human, basic decency doesn’t apply. Asking nicely is about more than being polite, it’s about remembering that how we interact with the world says something about who we are.

lil robots interfacing w/ Alexa - 2025

That idea of staying grounded as a human and being humanity first is what keeps me centered. And honestly, it’s what reconnected me to politics a few years back. In 2019, I found myself frustrated with how cold, transactional and hopeless everything felt, like people had become secondary to systems. That’s what drew me into the movement that gave us Humanity First (those who know, know). It wasn’t about labels or sides; it was about putting people, their well-being, health, and future back at the center of everything. Not blaming people who don’t look or speak like you, but instead assessing the impact that technology and automation are having on the hollowing out of America.

And from that first Humanity First movement, I rode the wave to the Texas Forward Party, which still embodies that same value, putting people first. It’s not about fighting against the left or right. It’s about building something better, together.  Putting people (and communities) first.

If we want a better world, we can’t forget our manners. Whether it’s online, at work, in our neighborhoods, or yes, even when talking to our AI assistants, showing a little grace and tolerance never hurts.

And who knows, maybe one day, when our future digital overlords are deciding who to keep around, they’ll remember the households that said please and thank you.

Humanity first. Manners included.

Family First, Humanity First

Just a guy from Wisconsin living in Texas.

If you’ve spent any real time in Texas, you know neighbors matter. There’s a reason folks here wave at you on country roads, it’s a quiet reminder that we’re all connected, even when life gets busy.

For me, that truth has always been personal. I grew up in a small Wisconsin town where neighbors were like extended family, and weekends meant time on our family farm surrounded by cousins, fresh air, and the kind of community where people showed up for each other without being asked.

These days, I live in Austin with my wife, our eight-year-old daughter, and our six-year-old son. Most of our extended family is still up in Wisconsin, and we’re blessed to travel back a couple times a year to recharge with grandparents, cousins, and lifelong friends. Every visit reminds me how much I value those ties, and how important it is to build the same kind of support network here at home.

But here’s the thing. Most of the time, we can’t hop on a plane to see our families. We have to rely on the people right here around us, our neighbors. And in today’s online world, where so much of our “connection” happens through screens, we’ve slowly lost that habit of leaning on one another.

I see it with my family, my friends, and in my kids’ lives too; where friendship and kindness risk happening mostly in group chats and posts instead of on sidewalks, front porches, and neighborhood parks.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Humanity first means family first, not just the family you’re born into, but the family you build around you. That starts with neighbors, classmates, coworkers, church groups, civic clubs; the people you share space with every day.

At the start of this year, I felt something shift. I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines anymore and complain about how disconnected we’ve all become. I had to do something. That’s what led me to get more involved with the Texas Forward Party. Not because I was looking for another political label, but because I wanted to be part of something focused on rebuilding trust, respect, and community from the ground up. I look forward to sharing more about this journey, here!

For now, I'll just close that when we look after each other, whether in Wisconsin, Texas, or anywhere in between, I'm reminded just how important it is to have a community of support to lean on. 

Family first. Humanity first. Neighbors first.

My new favorite generated image of Wisconsin & Texas together :)