Going the Distance: What Grace Left Behind

Lauren Nixon-Matney • January 13, 2026
Going the Distance: What Grace Left Behind

Cake: The Distance

A black and white, pixelated reproduction of a historical photograph of William Wayne Brown, known as Cockeye Brown, smiling from inside his race car. Stars appear in the background incorporating it into the Searching for Stars universe: emphasizing legacy, endurance and remembrance.

I. The Light That Lingers


Before I knew her name, I knew her story.


They called her Aunt Grace. She wasn’t my aunt not by blood, anyway. But in the way that matters, she was something deeper. A woman who chose my family. A woman who lit the path for us long before I ever took my first breath.


She left behind a house in Hilltop Lakes, Texas. Fancy furniture. Antiques. Jewelry. A car. Stories. Maybe even secrets. She left behind a stockpile of wealth literal and legendary, but what I remember most about her legacy is the light she left behind.


Her name was Grace Brown. She was once married to a man named William Wayne “Cockeyed” Brown, a real deal American racecar driver who once hurled a Buick up Pike’s Peak like he had something to prove to the sky. He drove in the 1919 Indianapolis 500 and later opened a machine shop in Kansas City. There are still people out there-mechanics, historians, auto buffs who know his name and search for scraps of his legacy. This one’s for them, too.


They weren’t married long. But long enough to fall in deep. When William died, Grace didn’t just grieve she carried his name like a crown. And then she went on living. Boldly. Loudly. Generously. With dogs and furs and fast cars and good stories and light.


I never met her. But I’ve spent a lifetime walking the trail she left glowing behind her. 


History echoes. Especially when you’re listening.


Grace didn’t have children, but during the war she took in kids and teenagers and looked after them like Jo March from Jo’s Boys. That’s who she reminds me of, really. Fierce. Independent. Nurturing. She had poodles, not professors. Pearls, not pens. But she was a March girl in spirit. My daughter Maggie Jo’s middle name is Josephine, partly because of that.


When I was a child, Aunt Grace was a mythical figure. A glamorous, generous woman who helped my grandparents when they needed it most. She helped raise my mom, in a way. She gave us Hilltop Lakes. She gave us a second chance.


And then, years later when I was grown, folding laundry in an Arkansas living room with my mom… she gave me a mystery.



II. The Man at Full Speed


William Wayne Brown wasn’t just a racecar driver... he was the kind of man who treated the wheel like a compass and the open road like scripture.


Born in Dodge City, Kansas in 1886, William lived at a time when cars were still a curiosity. But he saw more than metal and rubber he saw possibility. He built, he raced, he invented. People called him “Cockeyed” because of the way he held his head while driving; tilted, unbothered, as if he was looking anywhere but straight ahead. But make no mistake: the man never took his eyes off the line.


In 1912, he won the Buick Trophy at Elm Ridge, driving a scorched up Model 10 he claimed to have bought for $150 after it had survived a garage fire. By the end of the race, he’d lapped the defending champion. That’s the kind of driver he was: raw, inventive, and just a little wild. The kind that made people sit forward in their seats.


Then came 1913. Pikes Peak. No roads. No rules. Just William, a 1910 “Bear Cat” Buick, and a mountain daring him to try. It took him five hours and twenty eight minutes to summit no GPS, no pit crew, no safety net. At the top, he drove his car right up the stairs of the Summit House, parked it at the highest point, and looked out like he owned the sky.


In 1919, he entered the Indianapolis 500, driving the No. 5 Richards Special. He qualified 17th with a Hudson Brett 6-cylinder engine, clocking just under 100 mph. He made it 14 laps before a mechanical failure took him out but by then, he’d already cemented himself in the ranks of American motor legends.


Later in life, William ran the W.W. Brown Machine Works in Kansas City—a hub of metal, motion, and mind. A place where he turned blueprints into power. He served on AAA’s racing technical committee and remained a fixture in the world of speed and innovation. Quietly, he stayed ahead of the curve until the very end.


He died in 1958. Buried in Mount Moriah Cemetery, Kansas City. But for those who know the roar of an engine or the smell of old oil and glory he never really stopped running.


William Wayne Brown didn’t just go the distance… he was the distance.



III. The Oil Stock That Went Missing


It started like so many family stories do, quietly.


I was in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Grown, folding laundry, living a regular Tuesday with my mom when she let it slip.


“You know,” she said, like she was mentioning the weather, “your uncle might’ve stolen Grace’s oil stock.”


I stopped folding. “What do you mean might’ve?”


And just like that, the legend cracked open.


The story, as it spilled out, went something like this:

After Grace passed in 1977, she left behind a lot. Not just money or stocks—though there were those. She left a house in Hilltop Lakes. Expensive jewelry. Antique furniture. Stories that could outshine diamonds. She left it all to my grandparents Robert and Helen in a Legacy Will. She chose them. She chose us.


At first, everything seemed in place. But then came the shift.


One of my uncles, who was an accountant, stepped in. Took on the role of executor. Said he could “handle it.” Things got quiet. Then odd. Then quiet again.


The oil stock supposedly a physical paper certificate was never filed with the rest of her assets. It was just… gone.


“Misplaced,” they said.


Which is one of those words that sounds innocent until you repeat it a few times.

Misplaced. Misplaced? Like how do you misplace oil stock…Really?


And somehow, not long after that supposedly, my aunt and uncle’s life took a turn toward the glossy. New job. Big house in Sugar Land, Texas. A pool. Business trips. Rome. The Vatican. A rumor that his boss paid for him to go see the Pope. The kind of perks not often handed out to just any accountant or controller for an oil and gas company. Or maybe they were, I have no clue!


My mom said my grandfather had written a letter she and my Nanny found once while snooping. It said he knew something wasn’t right. That he had plans to take legal action. Said the money was missing. One day, he went to the bank to pick up a prescription or something and the account was empty or drastically low on funds. That letter was supposedly found tucked away in a drawer at my aunt’s house. Apparently, it wasn’t meant to be seen again. 


I never saw it. But the story found me. And it never let go.


It stuck to me like dust on an old road. One of those family mysteries that never quite gets resolved. Like someone turned the page too early and the rest of the chapter blew away.


I don’t know if the oil stock was stolen or if it really existed. I don’t know what actually happened in those months after Grace passed. I don’t know if anyone truly does anymore.


But I know this:


My grandfather was a kind, honorable man. A World War II veteran. A helper. A light. Well loved and respected by all who knew him. And, while I didn’t have the honor of getting to know him myself he remains one of my greatest heroes. He loved my dad like the son he never had, and my dad loved him right back. My Dad said my grandfather never trusted my uncle thought he was a crook, and I can’t help but trust my Dad.


When someone hurts people like that, even quietly, you remember. You carry it.


Not as a grudge. But as a warning. A note-to-self.


Don’t let the truth go missing.

Don’t let light slip through the cracks.

And don’t let “misplaced” be the last word on anything that mattered.



IV. The Battle for Grace


Before there was a missing oil stock, there was a courtroom.

And before there was a courtroom, there was a decision.


At one point in her life, Grace was affiliated with Christian Science. It’s not something many people in my family talked about, but it’s part of her story. That chapter of her life shows up in the early paperwork tied to her estate, in receipts, filings, quiet traces of where her loyalties once were.


But by the time she met my grandparents, Robert and Helen, something shifted.


She chose them. With her time, her love, her light and eventually, with her will.


And somewhere along the way, that choice became contested.


What followed was not just paperwork or quiet processing behind a desk. It moved into something more formal. A legal dispute. Depositions. Attorneys. Questions asked and answered under oath.


I’ve seen the documents. We paid for copies of the public court records years ago. I’ve held the deposition of my grandfather in my hands. This part isn’t rumor or secondhand memory. This part is real.


They questioned him. Pressed him. Looked for cracks in the story. Tried to understand how a woman with no biological children could choose to leave so much to people who were not, by blood, her own.


And he answered.


Robert Kowalewski, a veteran, a husband, a father and a quiet man of faith, stood in that space and spoke plainly. He didn’t posture. He didn’t perform. He didn’t try to outmaneuver anyone in the room.


He told the truth.


He said she changed her mind.

He said she changed her heart.

He said she chose us.


And in the end, that choice held.


Her final wishes stood. Her belongings, her home, her legacy passed into the hands she trusted to carry them forward. Not because of pressure. Not because of influence. But because that is what she wanted.


That courtroom battle is rarely talked about now. But to me, it’s one of the most sacred parts of the story.


Because it wasn’t just about wealth or ownership. It was about something quieter. Something harder to prove and easier to overlook.


It was about choice. About loyalty. About a voice that could have been rewritten but wasn’t.


Grace had no biological children, but she knew how to leave a mark on the world.


She left it in stories and rooms filled with presence.

She left it in my mother’s childhood.

She left it in the way she changed the course of our lives.


And my grandfather made sure that what she chose did not disappear in the noise.


If there’s a quieter kind of heroism, I don’t know it.



V. What Grace Really Left Behind


The oil stock may have vanished, but Grace left behind something you couldn’t lose even if you tried.


She left behind light.


Not the kind you can measure in wattage or worth. The kind that spills into a family quietly, in stories, in laughter, in the places she made possible. She left it in the rooms she filled with joy, in the friendships she formed with people who weren’t hers by blood but became hers by heart.


And that’s what Grace really left us. Not oil. Not bank accounts. Not property, though there was plenty of that. What she gave us was the kind of wealth you don’t measure in dollars. She gave us the freedom to grow into our own version of family. To rise out of hardship with our dignity intact. She gave us proof that chosen family is real. That light doesn’t ask for a blood test. That generosity, once given, never really dies.


She chose us. And we’ve spent every generation since trying to live up to that.



VI. Going the Distance 


Maybe the stock is still out there somewhere.

Tucked into a drawer. Folded inside a file.

Forgotten or hidden by hands that never quite knew what they were holding.


Or maybe they knew exactly what they were holding.

Maybe that stock didn’t vanish.

Maybe it became a company. A salary. A job title.

A new future someone always wanted but never earned.

A quiet fortune built on someone else’s legacy.

Maybe the oil wasn’t just underground—it was underhanded. Or maybe it wasn’t?


But maybe, just maybe it was never really about the stock.


Maybe it was always about the light.


Maybe Grace knew.

Maybe William did too.

Maybe they left just enough of a trail for the rest of us to find them.


Not with court records or receipts.

But with stories. Legends. Mysteries.


Somewhere, William’s still racing.

Somewhere, Grace is laughing in fur and pearls.

Somewhere, my grandfather’s standing in a courtroom, speaking softly but with the weight of something true behind him.


And somewhere in that same light, we’re still going the distance.

Not for glory. Not for gold.

But because they went first.

Because they left a map.

Because love, once chosen, doesn’t disappear.


It just keeps running….



VII. Legacy in Motion: A Soundtrack for Cockeyed Brown


There’s a song that plays in my head every time I think about William Wayne Brown. It’s not old. It’s not vintage. It’s not something from his era at all. It’s from mine.


CAKE.

The 90s.

“Going the Distance.”


It hits with that deep, grinding bassline like rubber chewing pavement and never lets up. You hear it once, and you feel like you’re behind the wheel of something that might fall apart at 120 mph but will look damn good doing it.


He’s going the distance.

He’s going for speed.


It’s the kind of song that doesn’t just describe a race it is one. Breathless, relentless, filled with a kind of dry, smart, understated swagger that only a band like CAKE could pull off. Monotone vocals over adrenaline. Desperation under cool. It’s the kind of track that played in the background of a hundred chaotic afternoons in my teenage years—on burned CDs, late-night drives, folding laundry with angst and purpose.


And somehow, even now, all these years later, it still makes me think of Cockeyed Brown.


Not because he knew the song. But because the song knows him.


It’s in the rhythm. The power. The single-minded obsession of it all. The way the song never slows down. The way it pushes forward, track after track, refusing to pull over even when the engine’s smoking.


That was William Wayne “Cockeyed” Brown.

The original. The blueprint. The driver before drivers knew what was possible.

When I hear CAKE, I don’t just hear music. I hear legacy in motion.


And I can’t help but think:

He was going the distance.


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