He was the dirtiest son of a bitch anyone ever loved.

That is my dad. That’s Dave. Yes I am describing my dad with this title. He has been gone for 11 years, and I actively miss him every day. Maybe this sounds odd, but I still talk to him daily, only now the conversation is one sided. And anyone who knew Dave will tell you, no conversation with him was ever one sided. The problem is, talking to him was never a big deal to me… its his side of the conversation that was SO important to me. Its his words that I miss.

I wont lie about who Dave was. I do not speak for my brothers and sisters, or my mom, or my aunts. Dave was the god of mischief. He was too smart for his own good. But I am not one who finds value in counting a dead mans demons. 

Dave had an interesting way about him. He was the most conflicted man I ever knew. Wildly intelligent, while lacking any ability to apply it to his own best interest. He once told me that he was most proud of the fact that while he was in prison he could speak to any group, any gang, any clique.. and walk freely among the inmates without fear of being able to adapt. They called him doc… and he was so proud. It wasn’t odd to me to hear him speak so cavalier about such a personal and dark period. He spoke often about the importance of being able to relate to anyone. That was Dave. Describing him has always been hard for me. How do you summarize a man like Dave. He was a WW2 vet who was a control tower operator on the Burma hump at 18. He was a Doctor. He survived the great depression. He was an alcoholic. He was a prisoner. He was a migrant worker, with a medical degree. But for me, he was just dad.

I feel like as the youngest of his 7 children, from two marriages, I have a view of him that most don’t. Ours was the only relationship he never set on fire. He was no angel, but more of a loveable cautionary tale. By the time he got to me, he had burned through a lot of his mischievous energy. I got to see the best side of him. Sure I picked him up from jail after a DUI at 16, but even that was funny. Seeing him walk out of the holding facility with one shoe on, convinced the police “lost” the other one. As he opened the door to my car he said “keep your mouth shut and  your eyes to the lord, you insolent little shit”. I could barely speak through the laughter in my heart, as I tried to muster a straight faced response of “Well, I am not proud, Dave”.

Sure, he once grounded me for telling my youth leader a that my dad kept me home from church because we couldn’t figure out why Buffalo was laying points to Houston AT Buffalo! But he also split the winnings with me when Buffalo came back to win (it was an 80-20 split though, dick). On the other hand, I also watched this man cook breakfast for me, my brother Jef and two of our best friends every Friday from ages 18-20. Dave’s famous biscuits and gravy. We sat around and talked about life, and joked, and laughed and horked down the most delicious breakfast in town.

The things he was proud of were not things typical kids heard. While my friends were telling tales of touchdowns their dads threw back in high school, I was hearing how Dave was expelled from BYU for showing up to a campus event in nothing but six shooters. By the way, he would be red faced as he smirked his way through that story. Whether it was the first time you heard it, or the 4000^th time, he would cackle and grin the entire time. He was as proud of this story, as he was his degree.

I don’t know if I ever met anyone as polarizing as my dad. Not “polarizing” in the traditional way, where some people loved him and some people hated him.. he was universally loved, but he left many people hating themselves for loving him. This is a man who once got tired of hearing my brother David complain while they were helping someone move buckets of river rocks, in the pouring rain in January… knee deep in water, rain pounding off their hats and my dad looked up at the belly aching son of his and told him “David, you need to take some of the faith you have in Jesus, and put into moving those rocks”… to which David responded by walking off the job and telling the homeowner, “My dad is the  dirtiest son of a bitch, anyone ever tried to work for”, before proceeding to walk 15 miles home. When my dad told me this, he could barely compose himself long enough to choke the story out. He was in tears, and so pleased with himself. Most men wouldn’t take so much joy in telling this story. But this is what was so endearing about him. And my brother David tells this story with just as much glee as my dad tells it.  

Dave was and still is a topic of conversation among my friends. We still tell stories of things he said to us, and interactions we had. Dave was shockingly quick witted in a way that I dream of being. I sometimes get depressed knowing I will never be as smart or have as sharp a whit as him. When he told a story, the audience of friends would jocky for the best position to hear him from. He had piercing blue eyes, and a devilish grin. Very handsome. Intensely intelligent. Terribly troubled. Undeniably lovable.

Having a dad who was 53 when I was born, and didn’t live.. well, a well calculated life, meant that I always knew that my kids may never get to meet my dad. I remember being in 7^th or 8^th grade and knowing that my dad may very well be dead before I have kids. Jesus, what junior high kid thinks about this?!? Regardless of any of his demons, I loved him so intensely. He had this big chair in the living room that he sat in every evening. I kissed his head good night every night I lived there, and after I moved out, I did the same when I would leave. And I kissed his head as they closed his casket. I read so many peoples social media posts about how their dads made them who they are. I read story after story of what great men they were. I am not interested in pretending my dad was anything other than what he was. He was my best friend. He was my hero.

I want this for my kids. I want to be a man they can be proud of. I want to be open and honest with them. I want them to celebrate my victories and laugh hysterically at my defeats. Last month Abe came home from school and asked me “dad, someone on the bus called another kid a dildo… what’s a dildo?”. I asked him “what do you think it is”, to which he responded “I think it’s a kind of bird”.  I easily could have said “yup, a bird.. also known as a Vagina Eagle”. But its 2018, and he isn’t a total dipshit. He absolutely would have found a way to search what a “dildo” is. So I just told him “a dildo is something a woman uses when she is craving something she would usually get from a committed partner.. do you understand where I am going with this?”.. .his wide dead eyed stare made his nodding acknowledgment unnecessary. I continued “dang, it sounds like being called a dildo is almost a good thing.. a mindless pleasurer… a pleasure bird of sorts”… I can still see that little 11 year old fucker laughing.

That’s what this is all about. This is why I am on this journey to regain my health. Not to be a pleasure bird, but to be here long enough to create a legacy for my kids. Just because I wasn’t 53 when they were born, doesn’t mean I don’t run a real risk of not living long enough to meet my grandkids. I will never be as smart, or funny, or witty, or fun as Dave, but I will live forever trying to be. I want to be my kids antihero. I need to live long enough to make this happen. I want to be open, and honest, with them. Abe and I lay in bed and discuss girls, and he asks me about stories of my life. I do not hide. I DO NOT LIE. I tell them about my insecurities. I tell them “always ask me whatever you want to know, do not google it”. I do not want google formulating their knowledge base. I am open about the role my insecurities played in formulating who I am.

On July 17, 2017, JD Taylor, Jerred Hermann and I snuck through my moms house, and stole the urn of my dads ashes. We drove them into the woods, to my dads favorite spot at Kingsley Reservoir, and sat him in the rocks with his fishing pole. It was the same place he drunkenly told a forest ranger, who had asked why Dave was illegally fishing with two poles, “well sir, I don’t think I could handle a third one”. The three of us drank ourselves stupid on gin, and listened to Jerred explain how Gordon Lightfoot effects his dogs demeanor. They retired to the tent and I sat alone and cried for a minute. This is what I want. I want my kids to smuggle my ashes somewhere for a weekend of fun. I just don’t want it to be next weekend.