What’s in the bag, dad?

December 7, 1941 – Pearl Harbor - was a day that will live in infamy.

My dad was born 366 days later – on December 8, 1942. If he was still alive today, he’d be 63 years old.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Since 2000, my life has gotten even crazier than it had been in the previous millenium. I feel that some of my biggest accomplishments and failures have occurred since then, and oftentimes, I wonder what my father would have said and done.

How proud would he have been when I rode across Alaska and Montana? How crushed would he have been with my Hodgkin’s diagnosis?

How disappointed would he have been when I was out of work for a year? How thrilled would he have been when I published my book?

My dad died of a heart attack on March 14, 1991. He was 48 years old.

My dad has been a source of a few of my life goals. The biggest: live life without regret. The second: live to be at least 49.

It’s a shame that most of the time I spent while my dad was alive was struggling to understand myself, struggling to understand my dad and struggling to understand our relationship.

As an adult, I see my friends and brothers relate to their kids, and I understand why parents do things. I failed to achieve that wisdom while my dad was alive.

I miss my dad. Sometimes moreso than others. I do know that he watches out over me – sometimes it’s unquestionable.

And if we simply cease to exist when we die, I don’t want to know. I want to believe that when I think of my dad, or talk to him still, that he’s there listening.

Smiling and nodding his head, happy to see how his son has grown up – and matured.