Here’s To You, Dad!

Today is my father’s birthday, Modern Philosophers.

While Big Austin has been gone for some time now,  February 11 will always be his special day.

I think about Dear Old Dad, as he liked to refer to himself, quite often, but on his birthday, it is impossible to get him off my mind.

My Dad was the kindest, most easy going person I have ever met.  He was always in a good mood, I don’t ever recall a time that he raised his voice, and there was always a smile on his face.

Dad was the guy who called everyone “Chief”, could make a total stranger smile, and never spoke poorly of anyone.

Except for the cat.  Whenever Dad would break wind, he would immediately admonish the poor cat for it.

That was my Dad, the man who taught me a good fart joke.

My stepbrother used to call him “Horizontal Hodgens” because he liked to recline on the living room couch when watching TV.

One of the odder facts that sticks in my Deep Thoughts about my father was that he drank Schaefer Beer.

Schaefer had a plant in Brooklyn, down in the old neighbor, and I believe my Uncle Jimmy worked there.  Because of the family connection, there was always Schaefer in the house.

I am pretty sure the beer is still around, but I’ve never known anyone other than my Dad and my Uncles to drink the stuff.

Maybe it’s just a Brooklyn thing.

Dad died on the last day of my Sophomore year at NYU.  I was moving out of the dorm when I got the news.

That was the last day I lived in that dorm when I wasn’t the President of the Residence Hall Government.  I was Dorm President my Junior and Senior years, and I know Dad would’ve been proud of his shy, awkward son for finding the courage to step up to be a leader of his fellow students.

Dad was a driving force behind my majoring in Film at NYU.  While my stepmother tried to convince me to major in something more practical like Accounting, since I was good at Math, Dad encouraged me to chase my dreams.

He was always supportive of my writing, and he loved that his only son wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps and work at the bank.

I’ve always had this weird theory that I’ve written so many stories about bank heists because I’m mad at the bank for taking the best year’s of Dad’s life.

I definitely inherited his sense of humor, and while I might not be the outgoing people person that he was, I can use the written word to be almost as charming as the man after whom I am named.

My passion for the Yankees and The Fighting Irish of Notre Dame also come from Austin, Sr.  I still get a little crazy when either team is involved in a big game, and that is definitely a giveaway that I am my father’s son.

One huge regret I have is that I’ve never become a father.  I wanted so badly to honor my namesake by being the same kind of father to my children, and tell them about their amazing Grandfather, who I’d turn into an epic superhero in my stories.

Before I tear up too much, let me wrap up this post by raising an imaginary bottle of Schaefer and toasting the Birthday Boy.

I love you, Dad, and I miss you so much.

Happy Birthday in Heaven.

Love always,

Little Austin