Dad

My dad would be 87 today. It’s hard to even imagine that number attached to him. He died so young—and truthfully, dementia stole him long before he physically left.

I was well into adulthood before I truly began to understand and appreciate the man he was. By the time I finally got it, he was already gone.

He lived through a lot. His own father died of lung cancer when my dad was just 22—a casualty of too many years spent smoking unfiltered Camels. I have no doubt that loss left a permanent mark. The man I knew was shaped by that grief.

At times, he could be gruff, quick-tempered (a trait I seem to have inherited). But beneath that exterior was someone who cared deeply—for his family, his friends, and for doing what was right. He saw injustice even when others looked the other way. He stood up for the underdog, even when it wasn’t easy—or popular.

There’s a lyric from Dan Fogelberg’s Leader of the Band that always hits me hard:

He earned his love through discipline,

A thundering, velvet hand.

His gentle means of sculpting souls

Took me years to understand.

That’s it exactly. It took me years to understand.

Now, all this time later—he’s been gone since 2001—I find myself longing for one more conversation. One more chance to tell him what he meant to me. But life doesn’t give us those moments back.

As my own life winds down and I reflect on the road I’ve traveled, I find myself appreciating him more than ever. The man he was. The lessons he left behind. The quiet strength he carried.

Rest in peace, Dad. I get it now.

Dedicated to all the dads who did their best, even when we didn’t yet understand them. And to the sons and daughters who come to appreciate them in time.