My father was a real one. He was the kind of guy that skied in jeans. A bourbon drinker. His love for archery hunting was second only to his love for my mom. He took me to see Neil Young at the age of eight and gave me my first electric guitar shortly after.

Dad always had great life advice at the ready, but he never pushed it on me and allowed me to make my own mistakes. And when I inevitably made mistakes, he was right there to help me course-correct. He taught me how to learn from the experience of making mistakes. I didn’t understand this at the time, but looking back I’m thankful for this approach.

We lost him too soon. I think often about how he would have absolutely loved watching his grandkids grow up. He would have relished in being a part of their lives. His memory now lives for them in the stories I tell and the mannerisms I’ve inherited.

Today is his birthday. He would have been 74 years old. Happy birthday, dad. Miss you.