by Dr. Lance Gibbon
With the 2026 Winter Olympics now underway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom, Myra, whom we lost this past year, and one of the most remarkable — and very “her” — stories from her life.
In 1960, she was 18 years old and traveling home to Modesto with my grandparents and her younger sister Linda after visiting the Winter Olympics at Squaw Valley. They stopped at a snowy turnout near Norden to take a few pictures — the kind of quick roadside stop every family makes on a long trip.
As teenagers do, Mom and Linda started playing in the snow and piling it onto the car. That turned into digging into a large drift nearby. First they uncovered a camera, then another. And finally, buried in the snow, they found an Olympic torch.
Not long before that, pranksters had broken into a car connected with the Olympic relay and stolen several spare torches and filming equipment. The FBI had been searching for the missing items. By pure chance — and a willingness to jump into the moment and have a little fun — two girls from Modesto ended up solving the mystery.
The car the equipment was taken from belonged to a Walt Disney Productions employee, part of the team helping bring the Games to life. That detail has always made the story feel even more connected to Olympic history.
Mom was given an official Olympic torchbearer pin as a thank-you. She kept it for the rest of her life. I still have that pin today, along with the newspaper clippings and the photo of the family standing in the snow holding the recovered torch together — everyone looking proud and excited, and my mom looking slightly surprised and maybe a little confused about how she had suddenly become part of an FBI investigation.
As I’ve reflected on this story over the years, I’ve realized it captures something essential about who my mom was. She was curious. She was joyful. She was always ready to step into whatever moment was in front of her.
And there’s a leadership lesson in that.
So much of our work — in schools and in life — is focused on the destination, the timeline, and the next major event. But some of the most meaningful discoveries happen in the unscripted stops along the way: when we take time to connect, when we are present enough to engage, and when we are willing to dig in instead of just passing by.
In my role, I see this when a quick classroom visit turns into a breakthrough conversation, when a community partnership grows out of an informal meeting, or when a small idea becomes something that changes opportunities for kids. None of those moments show up on the original agenda — but they often become the most important work we do.
My mom wasn’t trying to make history that day. She was simply enjoying the moment and leaning into it with curiosity and energy. That’s what led to the discovery.
Every time I see the Olympic flame now, I think of her — and I’m reminded that the people who make the greatest impact are often the ones who stay open to the unexpected, who bring joy to the journey, and who are willing to dig a little deeper when something catches their attention.
Miss you, Mom. And thank you for the reminder that the most meaningful moments are sometimes found in a snowdrift on the side of the road.