In memory of Daddy

When I was seven years old, the nation was embroiled in the Iran Hostage Crisis. And for the first time, I was interested in world news. I wrote letters and spoke out in class and became a tad obsessed.
My father, bless his heart, urged me to be the controversial little person that he saw emerging. "Challenge everything," he told me. And he bought me a 'Khomeini is Crazy' tee shirt. I wore it to school, and they sent me home, of course.
Daddy had crust and sass, and an offbeat sense of humor that offended some, but made me laugh. I inherited all these things from him, and no price can ever be put on them.
He was also the ultimate independent shopper (I think I learned this from him, too) ... he boycotted Walmart and the like, and preferred to trade at little places where they knew him by his first name. He worked at a small lumber company in Providence, RI that right up until his death fought Home Depot and Lowe's to stay afloat. The names he called those two giants I can't even put in print.
Six years ago today, I got the worst phone call anyone could receive. They had found my father dead in his apartment at 56. He'd never been sick a day in his life. I never got to say goodbye. I flew home, and had the awful task of going through Daddy's things to square away his affairs.
Through that, I got to re-learn the man that he was. He wasn't a sinner, and he wasn't a saint, but he was everything in between. Everything that I am today at 36. I see more of my father in me as each year passes, and I am grateful for that.
So good night, Daddy. And thank you for everything.