My father’s birthday was last week. He has been gone for 25 years—from Earth, that is, but not from my mind or my heart. He is as clear to me as the last time I spoke to him, the night before he passed away in his sleep.

He lives on in the teachings I carry with me. They’ve helped me through life and in my work world.

• “Everyone is the same.” Way before D&I was a thing, my father taught how important it was to remember that every person was the same. He didn’t mean that an individual’s experiences or concerns weren’t important. He meant that we as people should all get along because we’re all human, and we shouldn’t judge each other.

• “Gaining on it.”  This was his motivational line in the middle of a difficult project, as much muttered to himself as to whomever was assisting. I remember him saying it to me as we re-wired an old cellar that only had one light bulb in the middle of the room on a pull chain.

• “Good enough.”  Probably also on the same project if he changed his mind on how many sockets to install. However, it is said that those who accomplish the most, do not wait until something is perfect; they do the best they can, and then they let it go. On to the next victory.

• “If you can help, you must.” If he saw a need, he would step in. If someone needed help, he was there. If something needed to be done, he would do it. He was always available to help, from fixing a car in the pouring rain for nuns who were stuck on the side of the road, to driving neighbors to chemotherapy, to offering to do my laundry when I still lived home. As my brother-in-law said in my father’s eulogy, “Ernie was a helper.”

Most of his life teachings didn’t come from a quote, however, but from the way he lived his life. 

He was a World War II veteran, although he wouldn’t speak of the details. He had served my hometown as volunteer fire chief. He whistled all the time and walked around with hard candy in his pockets (root beer or butterscotch) to help his own dry throat, yet always was handing them out, calling them ‘rations,’ to anyone who wanted one, or two, or three.

It didn’t matter how tired or how pained he was, if you needed him, he would help. With a smile. I never heard an excuse cross his lips.

He loved people—his family, his neighbors, his friends, and anyone he happened to meet.

I’m grateful to have had him as my father.

When he passed, that year, I had to travel for work. I happened to sit next to someone who had famous parents—you’d probably know them or her sister—and she told me I was fortunate to have had a parent I could miss. She shared that her parents were not nice people, and she didn’t miss them.

It is an odd paradox, to be so lucky to have had such a great father that he is now worthy of missing. 

It’s a paradox I will take.  Happy 102nd birthday, Pop.  You are missed by me and all who knew you.