Happy Birthday to the man I used to call Daddy Quinlan.
Now, I call him dad. And he is a dad in that sense.
Checking to make sure I've got gas money to get back and forth, making sure I know where I'm going, and if not happy to give me directions, offers dating advice like, "Plumbers need love too.
And he bought me a corsage because my prom date was a dead-beat.
Took me on excursions. Like the time we went fishing. We had to get up super early. Our first fishing trip, I hooked my pole into my dad's back and he coached me on the fine art of removal using his large fishing knife. In my defense, I was only eight.
Worried about my taking a sick day when I'm sick. He's not quite familiar with the corporate environment I roam around in during the week.
Helped me fix or purchase various cars. We finally got it right on the last one. A.It still runs great and B. It's all paid off.
Paid lots of his own money to send me to school in Atlanta so I could get paid to sit in my cubicle and write a birthday blog to him that I know he won't read.
The computer is a skill he's learning. And getting better. We used to have tech support phone calls to ease the confusion for him.
Rumor has it, my dad used to carry me every where when I was a child.
I'm to big to be carried in the literal sense of the word but I still am grateful every day that my dad is here.
Present and accounted for. He's been sick for almost 5 years now.
But he presses on. And so do I.
And really, on a birthday you can't ask for more than a life that keeps bringing you surprises, kids that love you, trips to Las Vegas Casions, and an baseball game, can you?
I love you dad.