In the ticket line at Universal Studios long ago, my wife, Nancy, argued with her big brother about why he insisted on paying admission for her whole family.

Terry Gust lived in Los Angeles then — summer of 1986, I think. We visited from South Dakota. Already, he had paid for Disneyland and Magic Mountain. It was our turn, Nancy said.

“But you’re my little sister,’’ Terry told her softly. “I see you so seldom. This is one small thing I can do for you.’’ Whether it was the words or the gentle voice, Nancy got tears in her eyes.

I recalled that moment one recent morning when Nancy answered the phone and learned her big brother was gone. He died overnight in a long-term care place in New Mexico. I haven’t seen the official cause of death, but it was a complication of Alzheimer’s. It had been taking him so painfully slowly for three or four years. The end came more quickly than expected. A blessing, perhaps, but it hurt. To have him gone is sad. To think of him continuing to slip away is unbearable.

He was Nancy’s hero, the big brother — in her world from first consciousness until the day of the phone call. He teased her, taught her and protected her.

He was a hero of mine, too. He and my big brother were high-school pals. Whenever Terry stopped to pick up my brother to go drag Main, he made a point of noticing me — a small gesture but unforgettable to a shy younger kid.

He was taking business classes at Creighton University when I enrolled there as a freshman. When we rode home together on breaks, he treated me as an equal. I felt like one of the gods had reached down and touched a mere mortal.

He offered to loan his car to my friend that year for a spring dance. We walked down California Street to get it. Terry’s roommate said he and the car were gone, headed for Hawaii. I was awestruck. What guy just up and hits the highway for the Coast? Was he James Dean?

He reached Los Angeles, saw the Pacific Ocean and stayed for 30 years or so. Eventually, he tired of the Coast and moved to Longmont, Colorado, where he griped about the “Californians moving in and ruining the place.’’ He also found Joyce there. From then on, they were together. Together they biked and hiked and camped. Together, they escaped the cold for a small town in New Mexico.

It fell to Joyce to care for him as his disease progressed. I can’t find the words to tell her how grateful we were and are to her for all she did. We got occasional reports of the disease’s progression. She saw it day after day, night after night. She lived it all and kept loving him.

That Universal Studios memory, I realize, was a snapshot of who Terry Gust was. Deeply devoted to his family, he nevertheless lived far from the home place in the middle of South Dakota. He would never live here, but he couldn’t keep from coming back just often enough to remember his roots and his kin. He could be a curmudgeon now and then, but he could also fight playfully with a child over a box of Cheez-Its.

Nancy always says he was the kindest, gentlest person she ever knew. In return, when Nancy received a thick, hand-made quilt after she finished treatment for breast cancer 20 years ago, Terry wrote on it, “You are my anchor to my past, and I would be adrift without your joy and love to call me back here.’’

We have been fortunate that for the last two years, weddings in the Rockies have allowed us to share a cabin or house with Terry and Joyce for a few days. The wedding festivities were noisy, but Nancy and Terry found quiet moments to talk, laugh and remember. She could tell he was slipping, but at the center, she still found her big brother.

Since that morning call, we have been feeling adrift ourselves. We will miss his joy and love.