Yesterday was my father's birthday. My dad grew up in Queens and was quite the adventurous kid. He moved to Colorado in his early twenties, which is where he met my mother.
He knows how to do more things than any other ten people I know. He has been a photographer, he has built bicycles, he has driven and dispatched buses and police. He can ride and fix motorcycles and make seriously delicious pasta. He makes friends just by existing, he can put a name to a face from twenty years ago, and women just love him.
He and I haven't always gotten along, but he reads my blog every single day (even when it embarrasses him, like the vagina full of dirt post).
I call him Daddy, even thought I'm 29 years old, because that's what he is. He's my Daddy, and yesterday he turned 61. I am lucky to have him.
Happy Birthday Daddy.