Celebrating a Life Well Lived: A Tribute to My Hero, My Dad

This past weekend, we gathered as family and friends to celebrate the life of an incredible man—our dad. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming, and we are humbled by how many people came to honor his memory. It’s clear that he touched so many lives in so many ways. Thank you all for being a part of that.

Dad was adamant that he didn’t want a formal funeral. He didn’t want us to mourn his passing, but rather to gather, tell stories, laugh, and celebrate the life he lived to the fullest. If you knew him, you know he would’ve wanted it no other way. He loved life, and he wanted everyone around him to love it too.

My dad was—and always will be—my hero. He was a man of action. His word was his bond. When he said he was going to do something, he did it. No excuses. He taught me how to be a man—the old-school way: through hard work, integrity, grit, and respect. He lived with a deep sense of fairness, treated people right, and expected the same in return.

But he also knew how to play. Oh, did he know how to play. He had a mischievous sense of humor that made you belly laugh until your sides hurt. He never took himself too seriously, and he reminded us—by example—to stay playful and find joy in the everyday.

He was adventurous to the core. Always learning, always exploring. He could navigate anywhere without a map—he was our human GPS. He loved the outdoors and taught me skills that feel like a lost art today: hunting, fishing, gardening, and living off the land.

One of my earliest memories? Standing inside the chest cavity of a steer at five years old while Dad butchered it on our back patio. A neighbor had dropped it off in the middle of the night after it was hit by a truck, and without hesitation, Dad went to work. That was my first lesson in self-sufficiency—and probably where I got my strong stomach too.

Fishing trips in his old jon boat, trolling under the south bridge—I must’ve been ten when a snook nearly yanked me out of the boat. He caught me mid-air, one hand on me and one on the rod, and together we landed the fish. That’s who he was: steady, strong, always there when you needed him most.

As I got older, we hunted together—rabbits, squirrels, hogs, deer, you name it. We’d squirrel hunt near where I-95 runs now, back when there was a beautiful patch of oaks. Mom hated it because she knew squirrel gravy and biscuits were coming.

After the Army, I went to FSU (Go Noles!). While I was in college, Dad went out west to Wyoming and got his antelope. He sent the meat up to our house in Tallahassee—me and my roommates were broke and excited for a feast. But something had gone wrong in transit. We cooked it up, and it tasted like muddy laundry water. Even the dog wouldn’t eat it. We’ve steered clear of antelope ever since.

Dad also taught me how to make an Alabama Slammer when I was 15 (don’t tell Mom). He taught my friends and me how to play quarters, and yes, we got very good at it. When he visited me in college, he came to a fraternity party and ended up doing keg stands with the best of them. He never stopped living out loud.

He was also a family man, through and through. No matter how hard he worked, he always made time for us. Every game, every graduation, every milestone—he showed up. Not just physically, but fully present.

One of our last adventures together was just last fall. I took him on a helicopter ride as an early birthday present—my way of sharing the thrill I’d experienced during my five years in the Army. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

There are so many stories I could share—many of you already know them—but what I really want to say is this: Dad, thank you for the life you lived, the lessons you taught, and the love you gave. I’m going to miss our wild adventures. You will always be my hero.

I love you, Dad.