I launched this blog on October 1st. The next day, the man who really started it all, my Dad, passed after a 12-year battle with Parkinsons. I say he started it all because, had it not been for him, I don’t know if I’d have ever found horses or developed my thirst for adventure. So, I’m going to take a minute to introduce Steven “Zoltan” Mora and thank him for an amazing childhood and for giving me the world’s best model for eating life in big, juicy bites.

My Dad was born in Hungary in 1933. His father was a prominent attorney and economist; his mother a Montessori school teacher. There is no doubt, they lived well in a place and time when many did not. Then, came the chaos and violence of WWII; and, worse yet, the dislocation and suffering of Russian occupation during the darkest days of Stalin. My father went from a prospective university student in Budapest to exile in a remote town where he worked at a cement plant. Never one to take a set-back as anything but an opportunity, he focused on developing his side hobby, art, and taking on leadership positions among the workers at the plant.

When, in the Fall of 1956 a student demonstration turned into an uprising that became the first revolution behind the Iron Curtain, my Dad joined it; his 5 foot tall, red-haired girlfriend (my Mom) at his side. And, when the Hungarian Revolution fell for lack of international support and the return of the Russian army, he and my mom fled to Austria where they were held in a refugee camp for four months before being welcomed to America.

In America, my parents worked, saved, bought a home, had a family. You know, like immigrants have for centuries and still hope to do today. My Dad adored this country. I don’t mean the Constitution, or the flag, or the institutions. I mean the dirt, the trees, the open skies, the people he saw working hard and playing harder. He joined it whole-heartedly — working two jobs but also hunting, skiing, riding horses, sailing. He and my mom built their own home — really hammer and nail built, not sat and talked to a builder. He filled that home with stained glass windows he made and he covered every bit of grass with stone patios because, “mowing grass is stupid and communism at least taught me how to work with cement.”

My Dad taught me to ride when I was four and dragged me around with him pheasant hunting and cross-country skiing, which we both did badly. He called me Ponda; I have no idea why. We shared a horse until I wouldn’t let him put my half of her into a junk trailer he wanted to tow behind his beat-up Isuzu Trooper. His accent made him sound like Count Dracula, but he still insisted on saying, “this is your father,” when he called me (in case I didn’t recognize his voice, I guess). He had a man-crush on my husband because… well, because he looks like a cowboy, has a great handshake, and plays decent chess.

I tried to tell him about this trip, but I’m not sure he understood given the battle he was fighting with his own body. Still, I know he’d have approved. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll be along for the ride.