I’m lucky. I really am. I had it made as a child as I was surrounded by a family that loved and took great care of me. The cornerstone of what made my childhood so exceptional was my Mom and my Dad, two of the most incredibly kind and generous people you could ever meet.

Throughout my life I’ve come to the realization that my folks were the exception, not the rule. Most everyone else I know grew up with parents that had been divorced or, if still together, were not happy with one another. The thought of anyone not having this dynamic growing up was unfathomable to me. Like I said at the beginning of this post, I was very lucky.

But as the old saying goes, “all good things must come to an end.” Unfortunately the end of my folks’ incredible marriage came five years ago today on a quiet Sunday afternoon. They had been together as husband and wife for fifty-one years. To this day my mother still maintains her eternally happy persona and I attribute that to her having lived a life surrounded by family and friends that adored her…but mainly anchored by an unwavering love and friendship provided by the greatest man I’ve ever known, my Dad.

I’m currently sitting in my living room listening to music that reminds me of the man – tunes from the era of big band and swing. My father’s wedding ring, easily my most prized possession, adorns the ring finger on my right hand. I got ready for the day this morning with some of his shaving equipment, the same pieces I watched him use time and time again as a child looking up to his father with the anticipation and excitement of one day growing up to be a man. A quick glance up to the entertainment center finds a family picture of all of us circa 1972. I’m poised on Dad’s lap as he beams. Another picture I spy shows my parents in their early 20s sitting on the porch on what appears to be a hot summer day eating watermelon together. Dad’s ability to ham it up in a split second shines through while my Mom, an absolute beauty, shines while sitting next to the man that she would stay with “until death do us part.”

His influence on my life was immense. My love of movies, music and comedy was borne out of the time I spent with him on Sunday afternoons as a child growing up as well as during the countless hours I engaged him in lengthy conversations as an adult. A lifelong devotion to chivalry was instilled in me from the very beginning compliments of Mr. Smooth himself. And although it took me far longer than it should have for me to fully embrace the blueprints he spoon fed me, the life lessons he both taught and showed me in the realm of relationships FINALLY clicked and culminated in why I am so happy with Melissa today. Even in death he’s continued to guide his youngest son’s life…which is far more than most fathers alive today do for their own children.

When Dad passed away I remember picking up my cell phone and sending a text to my best friend Scoot. Rather than just sending “Dad has died” or anything along those lines I searched for the words that summed up not only what had transpired but how I felt.

“It’s the end of an era.”

I’d like to retract those words…partially. While his passing was truly an end of an era in one regard it was the beginning of a new one for me, personally. I was forced, at the “tender age” of 33, to finally grow up. Since that fateful day I’ve embraced a different, more encompassing world view. My career took off, my goals changed, and the way I felt inside shored itself up in a more positive manner culminating in me finally being able to find true love. I look forward to making Melissa smile for years to come just like he made – and continues to make – Mom smile.

Here in a few minutes I am going to head out of my home with Melissa to pick up my daughter Gwen to take them to lunch. Gwen’s celebrating today as she won another dog show (her sixth in a row at the time of this writing) so I’ll be basking in her happiness. Yet later today I will be taking a trip up to Excelsior Springs with Melissa by my side to visit Dad’s gravesite. There, I’ll take one knee and place my hand on his tombstone. Bowing my head I will thank him for everything he did for me – and for everyone else that knew him – throughout the seventy-three years he was in our collective presence.

Thanks for the guidance, Dad. Thanks for everything.