September 15, 2025
Holy crap! My dad just turned 80. Where did the time go? He’s probably the one asking that question more than anyone, but I can’t help but ask it myself. Einstein had a whole theory about time, relativity, space, and all that genius stuff—maybe I should have paid more attention in school, because right now all I want is for time to slow down. Or better yet, give me Doc Brown from Back to the Future—fire up the DeLorean, hit 88 miles per hour, and let me go back to the moments that mattered most. Just don’t let me run into my younger self, that might break the space-time continuum, and then I’d never get to see Dad turn 80.
Most of us — not all, but most — would love the chance to revisit the simpler times in life. To see grandparents again, to have friends closer, to be surrounded by the kind of health and wholeness we didn’t realize was a gift back then. Selfishly, for me, I’d take it just to spend more time with my dad. I’m lucky that both of my parents are still here, and I’m grateful that my siblings and I get to share these moments with them. Thankfully this isn’t an obituary — it’s just a reflection on a good man hitting a milestone he’s not exactly thrilled about.
He’s independent and strong, enjoys sitting on his back porch with the lake view, still drives out to pick up his favorite takeout, cooks at home, and smokes because, well, he can. That’s him in a nutshell. No nonsense, tough as nails, living life on his own terms. I can only hope I’m cut from the same cloth when I turn 80 — but for now, there’s no rush. Because when he ages, I age, and my kids age. It’s all connected.
And then there’s the part of his life that shaped him long before I ever came along. He was drafted into the Army at just 20 years old. One day he was home, the next he was packing for boot camp, and then he was ordered overseas. By November 1965, he was in Saigon, a stranger in a strange place, serving until June 1967, with his honorable discharge in 1971. I can only imagine the fear he must have felt when his number was called — kids then didn’t dream of adventure, they feared the draft lottery.
I remember seeing Platoon in the theater when I was just a kid. Sitting there next to him, watching that chaos on the screen, the mood and atmosphere seemed to pull something out of him. He mentioned that the sense, the feeling, the weight of it all — it was like that. Being dropped into a place you’d never been, never even imagined, and realizing it wasn’t some dream. It was real. You were there. And every soldier was just trying to survive each day.
He told me how tough it was being away, how the guys would spend quiet moments dreaming of home. They’d talk about the life they wanted to return to. And he once told me how strange it was, coming back and realizing those dreams never really left him. Some memories you want to hold onto, others you wish you could let go of — but they all stick.
That’s the kind of man my dad is. A Vietnam veteran, drafted before he had the chance to choose, sent across the world to do the unthinkable, and somehow he came home and built a life. He’s been a Dolphins fan through all the heartbreak, a handyman who can fix anything, a tough guy who doesn’t sugarcoat a thing, and a father who gave me an example of strength and independence.
Eighty years is a milestone, no doubt. But if you ask him, he’s just living — his way, on his terms. And if I’m lucky, when I hit that age, my kids will look at me the way I look at him: grateful, proud, and maybe still laughing at the thought of me going out for my favorite takeout. Doc Brown might not be able to take me back, but I don’t need the DeLorean — my dad’s still here at 80, and that’s more than enough.
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