What I’ve learned from you isn’t just a love of music- it’s a love of listening.
Since I was either 4 or 5 years old, I have memorized the songs These Eyes and Lady in Red.
I have this memory that is clear as day, and I have to share it.
Before I went to elementary school, you would often take me to work with you. On this particularly average day, we drove somewhere kind of far away, maybe an hour each way. But this day was not an average day to me, it changed the trajectory of my life.
It was early Spring/Summer in your old black convertible BMW. Even traveling back to this memory in my mind, I can still smell the green dewy morning air. The sun was already out, and I was bundled in my jacket, with your jacket zipped up overtop. I had a blanket over my legs, and you let me wear your sunglasses. I don’t remember where we were going, or what we were doing, but I remember so vividly listening loudly to your music on your Sirius XM radio that you mounted in your car.
There was one song in particular that came on, and you kept asking me, Guess Who wrote this song? I would answer, “I don’t know, who?” You’d say “Guess Who”, and we repeated this numerous times until you gave up the gig. You thought it was hilarious how frustrated I was not understanding the joke. We listened to These Eyes over and over again, to the point I had memorized the song. I can see in my mind driving up this hill, roof off, beach below, big trees above, you to my side, rocking out to music. I kept looking in the passenger side mirror at myself, admiring how cool I looked.
I still have that song memorized because of that one day. I think I remember that day so vividly because it cemented my adoration for music, thanks to you!
There are a lot of things I want to say about you, and about what you’ve taught me. Like the steady, quiet way you’ve shaped my life. But when I try to put it into words… I keep coming back to one image: your radio.
The radio, the one that was always on in the car, always humming in the background like a second voice, the radio that connected us to each other through songs and sounds.
For a long time, I didn’t even realize how much it was teaching me. How much you were teaching me through it. It wasn’t just a collection of songs. Much like music, my childhood was a soundtrack- curated with intention, with rhythm, with heart. It was produced with care, love, protection, and fun. It created the atmosphere we lived in. That radio, metaphorical or not, was like a thread that ran through my entire childhood, and you were the one holding the spool.
You never treated music like noise. You treated it like a story. Like a friend. Like something that could carry meaning when words weren’t enough. I didn’t know it then, but you were handing me more than entertainment, you were building a world for me. A world filled with lyrics that meant something, artists who told the truth, and melodies that became memories. You gave me artists like The Guess Who, Bill Withers, Phil Collins, Stevie Wonder, (and much much more) and when you played their songs, I didn’t just hear them, I felt like I was being invited into something that mattered. As a kid, that means so much. To be invited into a deeper understanding of how to be alive.
I look back through this with a 26 year old lens, I almost want to laugh. Not because its funny, but because of course it’s all connected. You are the same as the music. You invite people in, you give to people and build worlds for others. You are a truth teller, and you speak words that mean something.
Sometimes I watch you, and I wonder how you are able to give so much of yourself to others, I often wonder how you have anything left. But I’ve come to learn that giving to others is your rhythm that keeps you going. You heart gives to the beat it operates on. It follows the beat so steadily, but quietly, without ever asking for anything in return. It’s something I’ve always noticed, but lately, I’ve been seeing it differently. Your soul music gives to the beat!
As a kid, I’m sure if i had to describe you as an instrument, it would be a bass drum. As a young adult, it would still be the same. My dad is a bass drum.
I see you as strong- physically, yes, but also in a way that felt unshakable, like you had the answers even when no one else did. You were the one who fixed things, who knew what to do, who didn’t flinch under pressure. I looked up to you for that, and I still do. But now, as I grow older and start to understand more of what life actually asks of us, like what it takes to carry the emotional weight of others, to lead with compassion, to show up again and again even when you’re tired- I see that your strength isn’t just in the things you do. It’s in how you do them. It’s the bass drum. It’s constant, it’s reliable, it’s what every other instrument in the family needs to hear so they can be successful and stay on beat. The bassdrum can be heard underneath, but it keeps the steady beat. It makes room for everyone else in the band to have their moment. That’s just like you. It’s love, over and over again. You’re the person who holds the whole thing together. And the truth is, just like songs, I don’t think any of us could do it without the bass drum. The strength of your bass drum is the kind that doesn’t need to be announced. It shows up in early mornings and long drives to volleyball tournaments or coming to save me when my Jeep breaks down, in remembering the details, in choosing kindness over ease, in staying calm when it would be so much easier to get mad. You make hard things look manageable. You do the kind of work a bass drum does behind the song. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real. And it’s so important.
I carry so many versions of you in my heart, and as I get older, I get to remix all these versions of you. The version that taught me how to tie my shoes, taught me how to drive, the version that showed up at games or concerts, the version that helps me with my car, that helps me with my taxes, supports my love of photography. The version that is there for the hard moments without ever needing to be asked, the version that lets me figure things out, but never lets me fall too hard. And now, the version I see more clearly as an adult: a man who has held an entire family together with a steady beat of patience and grit, who still wakes up each day with the intention of giving to someone else, and a dad who has the whole world inside him and still finds ways to share it.
What I’ve learned from you isn’t just a love of music- it’s a love of listening. You showed me that music is a language for the things we can’t quite say out loud. That a good song can be a map, a mirror, or a moment of clarity. You showed me that paying attention matters, that emotion isn’t something to be afraid of, and that sometimes the best way to say “I’m here” is just to turn the volume up and let the lyrics speak for you. That kind of listening, that kind of presence, is rare. And it’s something I carry into every corner of my life. One of the things I value most as we both continue to grow is the space we’ve created for real conversation. What I’ve come to realize is that the radio wasn’t just yours, it was something we shared, even if we didn’t say so. The radio became how you and I talked without talking, how we connected to each other, shared feelings, or just simply put the world away and had some fun. Thank you for the times we’ve sat in silence listening before speaking. The music made us wait for the thoughtful pauses, it made us ask questions that mattered and wait for real answers. Thank you for not rushing me when I’m still figuring something out. Thank you for sharing the lyrics to your own stories- not to steer me, but to meet me where I am and offer insight of your experiences. Our conversations have changed me. They’ve shaped how I see the world, how I relate to others, and how I find my place. I am so incredibly grateful to have a father I can tell anything to, say anything to, or sit and listen with. I know wholeheartedly that you are a safe person I can always go to.
Some of my clearest memories of you are tied to music. I can still picture that day you took me into Seattle to an old music shop to buy my first record player. We drove to multiple different stores all over the place, listening to good music along the way. We stopped at one store for the speakers, one for the record stand, and we ended our music adventure at a vinyl shop where you let me pick a couple records you bought for me. I hold that day so closely in my heart. I felt so seen by you, heard by you, and supported by you. At the time, it felt ordinary, like ‘of course you would dedicate a day to me and do that for me’. But looking back, I see how much those moments meant. You showed me how much it meant just by being present, sharing what you loved, letting me into your rhythm and letting me create my own rhythm, just how much you love me.
So much of who I am now is shaped by that early immersion in the music you loved. You shaped me that mundane day you took me out in your BMW with the roof off listening to These Eyes. It’s strange and beautiful how I can go years without hearing a certain song, and then it starts playing somewhere on the radio, in a store, drifting through an open car window, and I immediately know every word. Not because I studied it, but because it became part of me. Because of you. That’s what music does when it’s shared with love, it burrows in so far into your brain. It stays rooted so deeply in the body that it becomes impossible to untangle memory from melody. And now, as I move through my own life, sometimes overwhelmed by the weight of the world, or unsure of where I’m headed, I find myself returning to those songs. Sometimes literally, sometimes just in spirit. They bring me back to something steady. Something safe. Something that feels like home. And in that way, you’re always with me, no matter where i’m headed, and no matter what i’m doing. I’ll never forget when I was away at college and These Eyes came on. I was immediately back in your black BMW.
Thank you Dad, for filling my life with music. For building a life for me with a soundtrack. For giving me songs that still guide me. For letting the radio do the talking when the words felt too big, and for teaching me how to listen. Your bass drum presence is grounding. Your love is generous. And your impact, whether you realize it or not, is lasting. You have shaped so much of who I am, simply by being exactly who you are. There’s something sacred about feeling seen, but there’s something even more sacred about feeling heard, and that’s what you’ve given me my whole life. Thank you for sharing the lyrics to your own life with me through it. Thank you for being the one behind the dial, the one choosing the track, the one giving so much of yourself without asking for anything back. The older I get, the more I understand how much of a gift that was. You didn’t just raise me, you scored my life.
Everyday, but especially on Father’s Day, I want you to know how deeply loved you are. Not only for what you’ve done, and for what you’ve given, but for who you are. For the sound of your laughter. For the songs you hum under your breath. For the way you see the world, and for the way you have invited me into it through music, through conversation, through your steady and generous love.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You are the steady bass drum in the chaos, the soft place to land, and the quiet, consistent proof that the song of love doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful. I’m so grateful and lucky to call you my dad.
You are the radio, and I am still listening. I am always listening!
With all my love,
Ellie
ELLIE B 