My father would have turned 73 years old today. In July it will be 15 years since we lost him. Since then, I don’t think there has been a day that I haven’t thought about him.

Like many dads out there, he was one-of-a-kind. I can’t help but see parts of him reflected in the man I’ve become. Some things are obvious. The receding hairline and similar smile are easy to see. Other traits – the more important ones – I hope are evident to those people in my life that mean the most.

The term ’lifehacker’ gets used a lot these days, but I think my dad hacked life long before that term existed. Whether it was dabbing our Space Derby rocket with a bit of liquid silicon so it was the fastest on the track or being able to talk himself out of any tricky situation, he was able to figure out angles on things and exploit situations in creative, non-malicious ways.

From my earliest memories, my dad was always my biggest supporter. We didn’t have a lot of money, but he did what he could to foster creativity and encourage me to pursue my passions. Early on for me, that was music.

He gifted me a secondhand guitar at the age of 8, which set off a lifetime of interest. I played that first Alvarez acoustic until my fingers were raw. Day and night, shredding in my room. My dad would come in and he’d just want to listen to me practice. I remember my first guitar instructor giving me a lesson that included an intricate waltz designed to improve the technique of my picking hand. It was called Sailor Dance. My dad loved that song for some reason and would regularly ask me to play it for him, even into my twenties.

I started my first band at 14 and booked my first gig shortly after. Scarlett O’hara’s in Bethlehem, PA. One of those pay-to-play joints where you needed to sell a bunch of tickets in order to get on the bill. A real hell hole. We sold our quota and got a slot on a Saturday night. Being underage and without a driver’s license, my dad offered to serve as van driver and roadie that night. Anything to get me on stage. He helped carry amps and stood in the back as we played a fine selection of Sex Pistols and Pantera covers. I still remember the wide-eyed smile on his face, even as the skinheads in attendance heckled us.

On the way home, we talked about perseverance in the face of obstacles and holding strong to artistic integrity, even when it’s not the most popular thing to do. He had a great way of connecting life back to learning opportunities. I hope that part of him is in me and I can do that for my kids too.

His level of enthusiasm was not entirely fault-free. One Xmas shortly after that first gig, one of the gifts under the tree for me was a frilly pirate shirt. Like the one from the Seinfeld episode. My dad thought I’d look good wearing it on stage. It was a very Fleetwood Mac vibe. I smiled and thanked him, never letting on that by then I was trying to look more like Kurt Cobain than Lindsay Buckingham.

I never did wear that shirt on stage.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Is it an act of remembrance? A subconscious documenting of the fact that I still miss him? A public, fleeting hope that I’ve become a fraction of the father he was? Probably yes to all of that. Maybe though, it’s nothing more than a simple birthday card sent into the ether where memory meets reality. Happy Birthday, Dad.