Decker Family

When my first book was being published, I had an important name to include in the acknowledgements—Peter Decker. In my thanks I called him “Colorado’s most literate and literary rancher.” I think that still fits. This was about forty years ago. Peter was then not far removed from his stint teaching history at Duke University, […]

Peter was a historian. He wrote about history, taught history and created his story. I loved his stories and was not shy about embellishing them. Not that they needed embellishment. There was his experience as a teenager finding an intact pilot and plane that went missing in WW11 in a high alpine lake while leading

A number of years ago at a party in New York celebrating the release of his newly published book, THE UTES MUST GO, Peter Decker, who is married to my dear friend and cousin, Deedee, presented me with a copy. I had long been interested in the plight of the American Indian, but was not

Gun-toting, irrigation fixer, great story-teller and my friend and support for my own writing — memories all these years. With love from Cactus Pete.

Graduation day 1957, some 64 years ago, our ROTC unit was lining up forthe Commencement ceremony. After Decker, Peter was called it wasclear that he was conspicuous by his absence. I ran to his dorm, foundhim soundly asleep, and shook him repeatedly. I finally got him up, helpedhim get dressed in his uniform with his

Not sure where or when I noticed it but it was an attention-getter. Sittingon the “throne” in the loo at one of Peter’s domiciles, I noticed thecollection of articles that covered the bathroom door. The closed doorwas located a few feet in front of the seat so the occupant could easily bediverted. After looking at

Helping to doctor cows. Giving them a variety of shots. To make sure thevaccinated cows were identified, the hair at the end of the tail of each cowwas cut to square it off so you could easily recognize that the cow hadbeen vaccinated. Peter was cutting the tails with a knife. At a certain point,

Winter exams were over. It was midnight and Peter said “Let’s go seePhyllis.” Peter had a Plymouth station wagon. He said he would drive.Approximately one hour into the four hour trip, he said he was too tired todrive. He stretched out in the back and fell sound asleep. I drove. Despite the snow, the hour

When I think of Peter, I remember all the wonderful places we have been together all over theworld. I start with his wedding to Deedee in Squam Lake, New Hampshire walking to the musicfrom ‘Hair’ echoing through the woods, then their paddling off in a canoe, then their place onGeorgica Pond on Long Island, then