I called him Herschel in this column, but his name was Art.

Art was a good father-in-law. I knew it when he was alive. With each passing year I appreciate and feel it more deeply.

Which is why it was important to me to rebuild his memorial bench.

June, his widow, had it made after his death in 2001. It wasn’t her idea. Their church in Wintersville wanted benches for an outdoor pavilion and asked for sponsors. Each had a personal message carved into the backboard.

His was, “In Loving Memory of Arthur D. Ryan.”

Though they were made of pressure-treated lumber, after 20 years the benches began to rot and the church had them all removed. Art’s bench, still in one piece, was offered to the family but no one knew what to do with it. We didn’t either, but the Millers never turn down anything.

After it sat around for awhile, I decided to place it halfway along our 1,500-foot brick driveway. Down by the creek culvert there is on the east a slight recess cut into the mild slope, a reminder that a farm road once passed over the creek there. I know that only because of finding large chunks of clay tile pipe in the creek bed.

In this shady roadside niche (pronounce it “nich” not “neesh” – we aren’t French) I built a small platform for Art’s bench, making a place to rest, sit and enjoy nature. Art would have approved.

Art was always in trouble as a kid. He wasn’t bad; he was smart and had a mischievous sense of humor. That’s why he might take the side of grandkids when they were in dutch with their parents.

He served in the Navy in World War II and earned a forestry degree from WVU, but the natural world was destined to be his hobby. He knew his trees and knew his birds. After the war he managed a company store in a coal mining town. He met a girl named June Harn at a soda fountain in Uniontown, Pa. She found him impudent and told her friends she’d never go out with him. They married and had three daughters. I married the eldest.

Art moved his young family to Weirton after Weirton Steel closed the company store. He had an accountant’s mentality and rose to be a supervisor of stores for the steel mill.

He was the kind of dad who used his annual vacation time to lead nature hikes at Tomlinson Run State Park during Hancock County 4-H Camp. That was where I met his daughter. She was 14. I was 17. Johnny Mayhew and I threw her into the pool and that night I kissed her behind her cabin. I didn’t know until very recently that her mother was watching. June and Art could keep a close eye on their girls without putting a damper on their fun.

Art was a member of the Brooks Bird Club, an impressive credential for those who know. When I began dating his daughter I fell in with Art’s love of birding, and in hindsight, began to love him, too.

At WVU I found and indulged my passion for journalism at the student newspaper but neglected my girlfriend so much she threw me over and began dating a fellow named Mickey. To this day I hate anybody named Mickey, including Mickey Mantle and Mickey Mouse. (I don’t see how anyone past age 5 can stomach the Mouse.)

Fortunately for me, Art liked me and also hated Mickey. If he couldn’t overtly undermine their relationship, he surely discouraged it in subtle ways.

Art’s positive influence on me was both direct and through his daughter. He was always game, unafraid to try new things, like helping me paint my car. I loved that about him. He and June believed in giving money to their children when they were young and needed it instead of letting them inherit it when they didn’t. In our family, we do the same. The Bank of Honey is always open for our kids and grandkids for school, a car or the down payment on a house.

A man who has a good father is blessed. One who has a good father-in-law like Art Ryan is doubly blessed.

Rot finally caught up to Art’s memorial bench. As I tore into it only the backboard was salvageable. I built a new bench frame of heavy white oak cut on the farm, and found three good treated deck planks for the seat.

Honey, housebound with her broken leg when I did this project, had tears in her eyes when she saw the bench restored. She messaged the kids that she had never loved me more than at that moment.

I’m not much for visiting cemeteries. I have no desire to visit Art’s mausoleum crypt, but I see his bench every day, just as I see my dad in everything around the farm.

Mickey would never have saved Art’s bench.