“There are many things my father taught me. He taught me: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

I would bet just about anything that there isn’t anyone, including scholars who have studied for most of their lives, who knows more about World War II than my father. There has actually come a point just recently when he held up his hand and pleaded to me, “Please, for the love of God no more books on World War II. I already know everything.”

From him I’ve learned:

To expertly wield a wiffle ball (during those intense backyard games of baseball).

How to throw a fastball, a curve ball, a knuckleball.

The best way to make pancakes.

How to enjoy good scotch.

How to mow the lawn.

How to use a power drill.

How to appreciate madras plaid.

The importance of having a political point of view.

The importance of music (his extensive record collection consists of: Zepplin, the Stones, The Who, The Beatles, The Doors, some Dylan, early Elton John, Hendrix, Fleetwood Mac, etc.).

About how great Thurman Munson was.

About how bad the 1961 Yankees were.

To stand up for myself.

To stand up for what I believe in.

That it’s important to love without conditions.

That it’s possible to love beyond ‘til death do you part.

If I were ever to see him and he wasn’t dressed sharply and tan and didn’t call me his buddy ole pal and then immediately tell me how disenchanted he was with the Yankees, local government and his golf game while still caring desperately about them all, I’d think there was something wrong.

I love that the baristas at the Loudonville Starbucks have to brew a fresh pot every time he goes in there because he’s the only person in the tri state area who drinks decaf. I love that I got him to go to Starbucks at all because he believes so strongly in small business. I love that when he gets up to the counter to say his order it’s with authority and conviction like just about everything else he does: Tall! Decaf! Misto! I love that he orders a misto even though after telling him several hundreds of times I’m still not entirely sure he really knows what a misto is.

I love that he always rents movies that my sister and I have never heard of before, “I don’t know it could be good. It’s got that guy from Gladiator in it.” I love how much he appreciates it when I bring him really good sfogliatelle from the city. I love that he doesn’t understand why men aren’t lining up outside my apartment to take me out on dates. I love that he respects that I want to be a writer yet sometimes says things like, “well you know dentists make a lot of money, have you ever thought about doing something like that?”

I love that he consistently quotes Scarface “meet my little friend” and The Godfather, “leave the gun, take the cannoli,” and always tries but gets confused quoting Churchill, “this isn’t the end, but it’s the end of the beginning. Wait, no, it’s the beginning of the end. Wait, no…”

I love that he yells at the television when he watches the Sunday morning shows. I love that the license plate on his Jaguar XKR convertible says "40thPrez."  I love that he has an XKR because he's worked hard his entire life and deserves it more than anyone I know. I love that he can fix or build anything. I love that he's addicted to YouTube.

What I love more than anything is sitting with him on the deck in the backyard as the sun goes down while we both smoke a cigar and nurse a glass of Macallan in the soft summer breeze.

“Did I tell you about that book you gave me, The Third Reich at War?” he says looking over at me. “I was reading it and it was all things I already knew, but you know, there were a few bits that were new to me.”

I smile and look at him and think that we never know everything even when we think we do. I’ve learned most of everything that matters from him and I forget, more often than not, to tell him that I’m grateful.

So Dad: Thanks! For! Everything!

I love you, but I’ll never be a dentist.

Me age 2, with Dad. His t-shirt reads: #1 Dad.