I can remember driving through Kansas in the pitch black with tornado sirens going off in the distance. The wind was blowing my Toyota 4-Runner back and forth across the road, and the 5×8 U-Haul I was towing felt like it was going to roll at any minute. I couldn’t see anything either, on account of the rain.

It was just me alone in the car. Screaming. AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH!

“I’m here, son,” my dad’s voice calmly said. It was about 1 a.m. when I called him.

I was terrified. Bad weather in the middle of nowhere with no one around. I don’t think I saw another car for an hour, and the view of the landscape only was visible when cracks of lightning illuminated the sky.

“There’s a tornado somewhere, and I can’t see it. I am going to die. I can’t see a thing. This trailer is about to flip. Fuck!”

That might seem a little dramatic, but inclement weather has been a fear of mine since I can remember. This was my nightmare. To be fair, I was going straight through Tornado Alley in May.

My dad didn’t get flustered or freak out. He remained calm and stayed on the phone. “I’m looking at the weather now. It looks like you should be through it in about 20 miles. And it’s moving west, so you’ll be in the clear after that,” he said with a hopeful tone in his voice.

He was right. About 45 minutes later, the sky was clear. I found a rest stop near Big Springs and pulled in to take a moment and calm down. It was about 2 a.m.

What was supposed to be an easy 10-hour first leg of my trek from Vail, Colorado, back to Fairhope had turned into 14 hours, with the last three being stressful as hell.

I dozed off.

“Son? You there? You OK?” I was startled a bit and looked at the clock on my dashboard. It was 3:30 a.m.

I had been asleep for a while. I looked at my phone and saw that the timestamp on the screen read 3:30 (give or take a few minutes). It was still counting. Dad never hung up.

We had been on the phone for almost four hours, and I’d been asleep for the last hour and a half. 

“I’m OK. I’m OK,” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes and yawning. “I’m gonna stop in Kansas City and crash with a friend.” 

“Want me to stay on the phone?” Pops asked. “No. I think I’m good. It’s only about 45 minutes from here.”

“OK. Text me when you get there. I’m here if you need me, son. Love you,” he said. Then we hung up. 

That was something my dad said to us our whole lives. “I’ll be here if you need me.” As we got older and life got more complicated, he incorporated a second part to it: “I’ll be here even if you don’t.”

I know a lot of people say things like that. But he meant it. I would call my dad at 3 a.m. during grad school when I was writing a paper and needed a break. “What’s this one about?” he’d ask as soon as he answered.

“This is about the over saturation of sports coverage in the media and how that has impacted long-form narratives,” I replied. 

“Sounds like something too complicated for an old man like me,” he’d jokingly replied. 

I’d FaceTime him randomly when I caught a signal on a hike. “Check it out,” I said, panning the camera around so he could see the view of the Waipi’o Valley in Hawaii. I was hiking into the valley around 7 p.m. Island Time, which meant it was 12 a.m. back in Alabama.

“Too cool!” he said, his screen still black because he had answered in the middle of the night while asleep. 

“Doing some astrophotography,” I said. “I’m waiting until it gets dark to take some sick photos.” 

“That sounds cool, dude! Call me when you’re done so I know you’re safe,” he said. 

On days when I’d be slammed with work, or maybe sick and hadn’t talked to him in a few days, he would text me: Just checking in, dude. Here if you need me! Here if you don’t.

My pops was always there.

When I started my new job in July 2022 I was listening to a lot of Billy and the boys. I was really digging the 3-night set from Saint Augustine 2022 at the time, which I had the pleasure of attending. There’s also the show at Koka Booth Amphitheatre from 2022 that has a killer cover of “Willin’” that I couldn’t get enough of.

While I was working the jam portion of songs (i.e., no lyrics) would suck me in like a tractor beam. WOOOOHHHMMM. So I wasn’t paying attention to the lyrics like I normally do. I was in the zone analyzing data, mannnnnnnn! 

After my dad passed, I found this little playlist I had made on Nugs called Billy Beats. Not sure why I named it that, but I like it. Makes me think it’s some hip-hop crossover of Billy Strings.

Among the songs on the playlist are: “Willin’,” “Show Me the Door,” “Know it All,” “Watch it Fall,” and “Love Like Me.” Without fail, I listened to that playlist every night when I went to sleep…or I would turn on one of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies and listen to it like an audio book.

Anyway, while moving through all of the grief bullshit, I had one of those moments people sometimes talk about where they feel as if their loved one is speaking to them. An echo, if you will.

For me, that was finally ‘hearing’  the lyrics to “Show Me the Door.”

” I’ll be here if you need me. I’ll be here, even if you don’t.” Those are the first two lines of the chorus.

I would listen to the song OVER and OVER. I knew every part of it, all the way to the end where there’s stage banter among the band about looking for a guy named Joe (not your average Joe) in the crowd.

I’d cry listening to it because it was the mantra that my dad had recited to me my whole life. I have vivid memories of him saying this, like during that drive across Kansas or when I was writing a stupid paper for graduate school.

When I spoke at my his service I recited that mantra. Everyone in attendance felt it. Even if he never said it to them directly, they knew that was the energy he gave the people he loved. If someone there that day didn’t feel it, then didn’t know my dad for shit.

In December that same year, my wife and I took my mom to see Billy in New Orleans. It was night one of his two-night New Year’s Eve run. It was my mom’s first time seeing him, and she was SO excited. We stood in line and got her a poster from the show and other merch.

She proudly wears her merch and talks about that show. She always asks, “What’s the name of that last song he played? The one about the Cadillac?”

Of course, buried in his first set was “Show Me the Door.” I cried as soon as I heard the guitar start up and Billy sang the first few lyrics: “She ebbs and flows like water/And she feels just like wine…”

I cried. I’m crying thinking about it now.

I could feel my pops there with the three of us. I could hear him say:

“I’m glad to finally get to hear Billy Guitar. It seems like that’s all you listen to now. Maybe he’ll play that cool cowboy song! That fucker can play the guitar, Trippy! Look at him go.”

The song was written by Jarrod Walker and Christian Ward, and sung by Billy.

I’d like to thank you, Mr. Ward and Mr. Walker, for unknowingly creating a piece of music that brings my dad’s mantra to life in a new way. Thank you, Mr. Strings, for breathing life in to the lyrics with your voice and guitar pickin’. I always look forward to hearing it live.

I play it when I’m happy. I play it when I’m sad. No matter what I’m feeling, I can hear my dad:

I’ll be here if you need me, son. I’ll be here even if you don’t.

I was asleep when the text came. It was in our sibling group chat.

September 13, 2022. 3:27 a.m., Text from Mal: Hi guys. We are at the ER with Dad. Dad’s speech was slurred, and we called 911 around 11:30 p.m. He was fighting EMT and undergoing imaging at the hospital. They had to sedate and restrain him. A neurologist said Dad has a brain bleed but isn’t convinced this is the only problem. They are moving him to the ICU shortly, and Ann (my mom) is staying with him. I will keep y’all updated. Feel free to call me at any time.

Still dead asleep. Phone on silent. One hour had passed since the first text.

4:48 a.m., Text from Mal: They think the blood from the brain bleed is causing seizures and have put him on anti-seizure medication. He is awaiting a test that will determine if he is having seizures or not. We are still waiting for an ICU room. I have no cell service back there, so text me if you have any questions.

Crickets. Still asleep. Four hours had now passed.

7:12 a.m., Text from Ann (my mom): We are in Neuro ICU waiting. They took him back to imaging to do a test that will show blood flow in the brain. I hope he is calmer when they do this one. They want to make sure all parts of the brain have good flow. They have two machines that determine if he is having seizures or not. Presently, both are in use, but they are working on getting one as soon as possible. He will go from imaging to an ICU room.

It had been raining the night before, so Manhattan was hidden by the fog that had settled over the East River when I looked out of the window of our 15th-floor apartment around 7:30 a.m.

I slid my shorts on and pulled an old Billy Strings shirt over my head. Muddy was licking me and wagging his tail. He was extra excited about his morning walk since I had overslept by an hour. My feet slid into my Jordan, and I attached Muddy’s leash to his collar. We made my way to the elevator.

I hadn’t looked at my phone yet. I have a rule that in the morning I try not to have any screen time for at least one hour after I am awake. Although, I will turn on some low-fi tunes for Muddy and I’s walks to drown out some the city noise.

We made our way to the West side of Roosevelt Island, which faces Manhattan. I put in my earbuds and grabbed my phone from my pocket, tapping on the screen to navigate to the music app and start my low-fi playlist.

That is when when I noticed the 16 text messages stacked on my home screen. They were from our sibling group chat.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. My mind could not comprehend the texts. I still remember the fog rolling over me and Muddy as he took the world’s longest piss.

I texted my brother immediately.

7:58 a.m., Text between Justin and me

Tripp: What’s up?
Justin: Fuck, you tell me. Got that text at 2:30 a.m. and have been wrecked.
Tripp: I just woke up and saw it. Should we go to NOLA? I was thinking about changing my flight there. I don’t know what the fuck to do. * I had already booked a flight to Pensacola, FL, for the 15th to fly down and surprise dad for his birthday. *
Justin: Yeah, I was thinking you’d change flights there. I’m assuming Shai, Lauren, and I will go today. I don’t know anything about brain bleeds. I’m just shook.

Muddy and I made a hard pivot back to the apartment. I pulled out my phone and immediately started looking for a flight that was non-stop and could get me to New Orleans as fast as possible.

Boom. Delta had a non-stop leaving NYC in two hours.

8:24 a.m., Text to Bub: Got a flight. Departing at 10:58 a.m. and landing in NOLA at 1:30 p.m.

“I’ll get you,” he responded immediately.

I took the elevator back up to our apartment. The ride was so slow. I hate elevators, too.

I walked into the apartment and my wife was having her coffee on the couch. I didn’t say anything as I unhooked Muddy from his leash and made my way to the bedroom. I immediately grabbed the suitcase from under our bed and started packing.

8:25 a.m., Text from Mal: Dad in room 0986 in ICU. They will let us back in 30 minutes.

Amanda came in and knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what to say and was so pressed for time that I felt speaking words would take away valuable seconds. I handed her my phone where she read the text thread.

“The fucking traffic is going to be insane. I have to make this fucking flight,” I said to her. “I HAVE to make it.” 

I had to complete one of the most important tasks of my life—get to LaGuardia Airport in heavy traffic in time to make that flight. The one that started boarding in less than 2 hours.

“What can I do for you?” Amanda asked. She is the best.

“Nothing right now. I just have to get to the airport.”

I don’t remember what I packed. It could have been Halloween costumes or 78 tubes of toothpaste. I just remember zipping up the suitcase and calling an Uber. The app said the estimated time of arrival was 9:45 a.m.

I started doing calculations in my head.

“Okay. 9:45 a.m. is really like 10:00 a.m. Security is another 15-20 minutes max. Walk to the gate…let’s say 10 minutes for cushion.” 

That meant I’d get there at 10:30 a.m. It would be tight, but doable. I don’t think I texted anyone during that ride to the airport. Not that I can remember.

I know I was stressed going through security because it meant I would be without my phone for a few minutes. I had been checking it non-stop. I put it in its own separate bin and told the agent that I was waiting on an important call from my family.

When it slid out on the other side of the conveyor belt, there was a new text.

10:01 a.m., Text from Mal: They are putting the EEG on Dad now. This will tell them if he is having seizures. He will have this on his head for 24 hours.

“Okay. Progress. The medical staff is taking it seriously,” I thought.

The next thing I knew, I was walking toward a gate. Boarding had started, and the current zone was high, but at least they were still boarding! 

There would be no last-minute desperate plea with the gate agent to let me board.

10:27 a.m., Text to Bub: Boarding now. Hit you up when I land.

I got in line. I was probably second to last passenger as the folks in front of me made their way down the jet bridge. I was the person the rest of the seated passengers silently applauded since it meant the cabin door could now close.

I walked down the aisle but had to pass my seat to find an empty overhead compartment. About 10 rows back, I found one and jammed my suitcase filled with who-knows-what inside. I got back to my seat next to the window and slid my backpack under the one in front of me. My phone vibrated.

10:37 a.m., Text from Bub: Love you, lil bro. Can’t wait to see you.

I sent a text that I was about to take off. Unfortunately, the plane didn’t have Wi-Fi, or so I thought. The text didn’t go through. It also meant no updates or communication.

I pulled my headphones from their case that was clipped to the top of my backpack, which jutted out slightly from underneath the seat. My palms started to sweat, and I could feel the tears starting to build at the bottom and corner of my eyes.

I slipped on my headphones, connected the Bluetooth to my phone, and started looking for my go-to “plane song.” In 2017, I adopted “Thank You” by Alanis Morissette.

The song was one that my mentor, Berta, played during our Mindfulness course in grad school. She passed suddenly from an aortic aneurysm in 2017 while the class was still ongoing. 

But Berta had this energy about her. She was so calming and present. That song was one of the last things she played in class before her departure from earth.

Since I hate flying, I always try to find songs that I feel will “chill me out.” This song makes me feel like I can hear Berta talking to me. “You’ve got this. It’s just a flight. Feel what’s making you anxious and then remind yourself it will pass. What a great day today is,” I’d imagine her calming voice saying.

I put it on. But I wasn’t calm. I couldn’t hear Berta. My brain was just full of scenarios.

“What if something happens, and I don’t make it in time?” “What if he wakes up and sees everyone and asks where I am?” “What if he dies, and I am not there?”

The plane started to vibrate as it was gaining speed down the runway. I was scrolling through my phone when I came to one of my most-played songs, “A Few Words for the Firing Squad (Radiation)” by Run the Jewels (RTJ).

I hit play. The beat started.

BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. DAH. DAH. DAH. DAH.

Then EL-P’s verse started. The levees holding back my tears were growing weaker. Then Killer Mike’s voice hit.

“When my mother transitioned to another plane, I was sitting on a plane/ Tellin’ her to hold on and she tried hard but she just couldn’t hang/Been two years, truth is I’ll probably never be the same/Dead serious, it’s a chore not to let myself go insane/It’s crippling, make you want lean on a cup of promethazine…”

The levees gave way. Tears started streaming down my face.

“Dad, hold on. Listen to me, motherfucker. Fight. You are a fighter, goddammit. I’m coming to you. We are all coming to you. You are not going out like this!”

I said this over and over in my head. I don’t remember when the liquid from my eyes stopped, but I remember thinking the only reason was that my tear ducts had nothing left to secrete.

There are some people who take pride in not crying. Or, they think it’s a sign of strength to hold back tears. Others simply don’t cry because it’s not how they are wired. And that is OK.

I know people throw shad at those that cry openly, especially dudes that cry. Aside from the scientific research that shows this action “releases oxytocin and endogenous opioids, also known as endorphins,” this is not an act of weakness.

So, to those that think this, or judge guys like me for crying, I I’d like to pause my story to offer you two words that I bet you can guess without finishing this sentence: FUCK YOU!

I hope you catch me crying and give me a side eye. As my boy Jimmy would say, “That’s that Bama in you.”

I played the RTJ song again. And again. And again. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know what it was. That song still rocks me to my core to this day. And truth be told, it did even before that plane ride.

Both El-P and Killer Mike are really special in that song.

It was about 12:30 p.m. CST when I heard the DING and the crackling of the intercom wake the sleepy cabin. I could hear it over the sound of my RTJ repeat symphony.

“This is your flight attendant speaking. Wi-Fi is now available. Please keep all phones switched to Airplane Mode and follow the instructions in your Delta mobile app to connect to the network onboard.”

I was connected before the voice that was projecting throughout the cabin finished.

No messages popped up when I connected, but I felt my phone start to vibrate in my hands. It felt like a bunch of information was about to pop up.

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

Then a few texts came through.

12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Taking him now to get another CT scan.
12:10 p.m., Text from Shai: Any results from the first ones?
12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Yes, they are doing another to make sure the area is not continuing to bleed.

“These must have come through at 11:30 p.m. EST, so this was happening at 10:30 a.m. CST,” I thought. I couldn’t do the math on how much time had passed between the first CT scan and me taking off, and the most recent CT scan (second)..

If Shai was asking this question at 10:30 a.m. CST, that meant that she, Justin, and Lauren were on their way to the hospital.

“They should be there by now,” I thought. I tried responding, but not texts went through.

Suddenly, I felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the New Orleans airport tarmac. It was only 12:59 p.m. Had we really arrived that early?

I thought pops had pulled the plane closer with his brain.

He used to always ask me for my flight itinerary when I traveled. He’d text a bunch of short sentences with question marks. “Flight number? Airline? What time do you leave? Have a layover? Weather OK? 3-hour flight…Not bad dude!”

When I’d arrive at my destination, he’d always say, “Made great time! Strong tailwind!”

So when I landed early in New Orleans, I could hear him saying, “Great time! Strong tailwind. Now get your butt over here!”

I knew he wanted all five of us there when he woke up.

My brother-in-law, Josh, picked me up. Justin was already at the hospital with my siblings and my mom.

I’m ending the story here. I don’t know if I am ready to go in to everything that happened after I arrived. Maybe someday, but not today.

You might be asking what was the point of this story.

The answer: I just wanted to share with you what it was like to be in a suspended space in time saturated with uncertainty. In a state of pure helplessness. I don’t mean for it invoke fear, but more or less to serve as a voice to let you know I know how you feel.

Some of you might already know this feeling. I am sorry for that. Some might be experiencing it at this moment. I am sorry for that as well. Some will face it in the future. 

To be honest, I just wanted to say, “FUCK THE 13TH!”

Today will actually be the last time I say this. That is because I have a niece entering the world today.

Excited to meet her.

I like to think that pop’s had a hand in replacing this shitty day with one that we can celebrate moving forward. 

Pay-per-view wrestling prices were no joke back in the ’90s, especially for a 9-year-old.

“Dad, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “Thirty-five dollars to watch wrestling? Are you kidding me!?”

That was a hard no from Pops. So, I called my Mamaw (my grandmother).

“Mamaw, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “What is that, darlin’?” she replied. I told her it was this awesome wrestling event being shown on TV, but I had to pay to watch it.

“I can’t give you $35, darlin’,” she said. “But I have some chores around here that need to be done, and I’d be happy to pay someone to do them.”

There was a tone in her voice that let me know I was the one who could do those chores. My guess was that they pay for the labor would be $35.

I put the phone down and ran into the living room where my pops was lounging and watching TV. “Dad! I need you to take me to Mamaws. NOW!” I sprinted back to the phone, “Mamaw? Dad is bringing me over to your house now. I’ll see you soon.”

My dad laughed and said something to the effect of, “Anything for that, Trippy.”

Dad and I got in the car and started making our way from Fairhope to Lake Forest. The familiar sound of sports radio immediately filled the car, and I rolled my eyes. I never fully appreciated, or understood, listening to sports on the radio until I was older — but that’s a story for another time.

As the car wound through the neighborhood of dense trees and winding hills, I knew we were almost there when I saw the hole in the side of the red-dirt hill. 

The hole is right by the stop sign on the street where Mamaw lived. It wasn’t a special hole by any means. The Alabama weather had almost eroded the entire hill it was on on. 

But I knew that was where some kids died.

Growing up, Mamaw told me a group of kids had been digging a tunnel on the hill when it collapsed on them. The ones inside didn’t make it. They died, she said. Of course, this wasn’t true. But she knew I wanted to explore it, and a story about kids dying was a pretty strong deterrent.

I wonder why I never wanted to go spelunking?

Mamaw was standing on her porch waiting for us when we pulled up. Against the carport wall was an assortment of items, including a leaf blower, a rake, a blue mop bucket with rags and dish detergent inside, and a little cooler with a bottle of white grape juice, some sliced apples, and sharp cheddar cheese.

I got out of the car and ran to give her a big hug. My dad was still sitting in the car, listening to whatever sporting event was on. Mamaw motioned for him to come in before hollering, “Get your butt inside, G.B.!”

While Dad slowly made his way to the porch, Mamaw gave a speech on the chores that needed to be done.

“I haven’t been able to get my car washed in almost two weeks,” she said, hands on her hips with an expression of disbelief that it had been that long. The car didn’t seem dirty to me. It was parked in her exposed driveway, surrounded by tall pine trees, so the only dirty things were a few pine needles.

It’s important to know that my Mamaw was the most moving-around-can’t-stay-still woman I ever knew.

She woke up every morning at 5 a.m. and walked around her hilly neighborhood with a little baseball bat in case a dog ran up on her. Then she would go to the gym by her house. Then she would come home and clean, even if she had cleaned the day before.

Vacuuming, ironing clothes, washing sheets, cooking — she’d take a break to watch her soaps, but even then she’d wind up doing something.

I mention all this to let you know that the car most definitely had been washed in the past two weeks. If I’m honest, she probably washed it the day before. There’s no way in hell she was just sitting in her house looking at a “dirty” car.

“Now, you see all these leaves and pine,” she said, pointing to the pine needles and leaves that covered her driveway. “Scottie (my uncle) can’t make it until later this week to blow the driveway off. And Tripp, all this garbage is driving me crazy!”

Keeping her driveway clean was pointless. 

This was because anytime the wind blew, the damn thing was covered in pine needles and leaves. She could have blown it off herself before pops and I got there and it would have been covered up 15  minutes later if a light wind rustled the pine trees above.

But she made it sound like this was something that needed to be done, and I was the only one who could do it.

By the time she finished explaining everything, my dad had finally made his way to the porch. She eyed him over. “Son, come here,” she said, pulling his face close so she could inspect it. “When was the last time you got your haircut and beard trimmed? Go on in the kitchen, and I’ll be in there after I finish telling Trippy what I need done.”

My dad smiled and headed inside.

You see, my Mamaw was a retired beautician/stylist. She cut my dad’s hair, my brother’s hair, my nephew’s hair, my hair — you get the picture. I swear I didn’t let anyone cut my hair until I moved away for college. Even then, whenever I’d come home from school, I’d tell her I needed a trim — even if I didn’t — so I’d get to spend some time with her.

So, my dad knew when we were headed to Mamaws that he was going to get freshened up without even having to ask.

“Okay. I am going to cut your dad’s hair in the house. You have all the stuff you need out here. I even packed you a little cooler for snacks,” she said with a big smile. “And if you get tired, come on in and take a break.”

I could see my dad through the window already seated in her kitchen. He was facing the TV, which he had already adjusted so he could seamlessly move from the radio version of the sporting event to the televised version.

Once she was inside, I got to work. I knew I had to do a good job because Mamaw had a standard. She was a perfectionist. A neat freak. She was the G.O.A.T of keeping shit clean.

When you came to her house, your shoes came off and you placed them either right next to the door or in a corner where they were out of the way so that someone wouldn’t “trip and break their neck.” When you finished your plate, you better be sure to wash it off and leave it in the sink — but don’t you DARE think about putting it in the dishwasher because Mamaw had a system. 

Only she knew the intricate techniques for loading her dishwasher the right way.

I will skip all the boring details about how I washed a car that I wasn’t even tall enough to reach above the windows, or I almost flew backward when I hit the leaf blower on full power to clear the carport. 

Just know that I tried really hard because I wanted that $35. But, also because I wanted Mamaw to have a clean car and clear carport.

I walked inside to get her so that she could come inspect my work. My dad was now on the couch in her den, watching sports and eating a cut-up apple and some slices of sharp cheddar cheese. 

My Mamaw was just sweeping up my dad’s hair in her kitchen.

When I close my eyes, I can see her sweeping hair. I watched her do it in the salon she worked in when I was really young, then at her house in Mobile, and at the house in Lake Forest. She held the broom with her hands stacked on top of one another and leaned over as she swept. Sometimes she would hum a song.

Her hands were worn from raising kids and grandkids, hard work, yard work, and everything in between.

She was so amazing.

When she finished sweeping, I took her by the hand and led her outside. I was so proud of the work I had done and was so excited to show her. 

As she made her from the porch to the carport she put both of her hands over her mouth like she was shocked. Her eyes got real big. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed with excitement. 

“The car looks so beautiful, and all those nasty pine needles are off the driveway. You did such a wonderful job, Trippy.”

She even made a point of walking up to her car and gawking at how clean it was (she would have had it a thousand times cleaner). Mamaw spared no expense to show you how much she appreciated something, and more importantly, how much she appreciated spending time with family. 

“Let’s go inside where my wallet is.”

As a 9-year-old, I felt so good about myself. It felt awesome to have helped my Mamaw. I’m sure my parents wish I had the same sentiment about doing chores around our house. Sorry, mom.

Mamaw grabbed her purse and pulled out her tan billfold wallet. It was worn and loved.

“I only have $40,” she said, rubbing two twenty-dollar bills together. I started to go ask dad if he had change, but she stopped me. “That was $40 worth of hard work, don’t you think?,” she asked me, shooting me a wink and smile. 

When it was time to go, the three of us walked to the car. “Where are you going to watch the wrastlin’ match, Trippy?” she asked. “I think I am going to have some friends over and watch it in the downstairs room on Dad’s TV.”

“Hot dog, that sounds like a good time,” she said, clapping her hands, laughing, and smiling all at once.

She gave dad and I each a big hug for our send off back to Fairhope. Every time she hugged you it has so much power and love in it. Whether we were going 2,000 miles or the short 15-minute drive home, the hugs were always the same.

“I love you,” she said to each of us after receiving our hugs.

As we drove off, she stood on the porch and watched. She waved, and I waved back. I rolled down the window and screamed, “Love you, Mamaw.” She screamed back, “I love you too, Trippy!” 

I kept waving as the card moved further away, and she kept waving back. I always used to watch her when we’d drive off.

I’d look back to see if she ever stopped waving or turned around to go inside when our car faded out of her sight. But she never did. As long as I was waving and our car was in her view, she watched us until we disappeared.

She never turned her back on the opportunity to see her family, even if it was an image of them driving away. She never turned her back on the people she loved.

Two weeks later, when the title screen for WrestleMania XII flashed across the screen, I was lying on the couch eating apple slices and sharp-cheddar cheese. “Anything else before the show starts, Trippy?” she asked. “No ma’am,” I said. “OK. I’ll just be in the living room if you need anything.”

There was no one like my Mamaw. My brain is packed full of all the amazing memories I have of her. 

Spending time with her. Laughing with her on a road trip to Arizona, or talking to her in a hotel room in Montgomery when we were running from a hurricane. Crying in her kitchen when I thought my brain was broken. “Don’t cry darlin’,” she’d say, “Or else I’m going to start crying.”

She was loyal and strong, unwavering in her faith and her belief that family was the most important thing on the planet. I loved her so much.

She was the best. I mean, when I met my best friend, Ron, in the sixth grade, one of the first things I wanted to do was let him hang out at Mamaw’s. And we did! We went over there and spent the night. She made us the world’s best scrambled egg and cheese sandwiches while we played PlayStation in the den. She loved Ron.

Anytime I went over there, without fail, she’d ask. “How’s Ron? How’s his momma and daddy? I love that Ron.”

Her cooking was LEGENDARY, too. Dirt cake, crunchy potato casserole — I could go on and on. Literally, I could take this story in 1,000 different directions because I have a thousand memories of her. 

For that, I am extremely grateful to the Universe for giving me the best Mamaw.

July 21, 2017, Text from Dad: Aunt Kay and Mamaw just got their postcards! You wouldn’t believe how excited they are! Aunt Kay at office! Mom (Mamaw) at house! She called me. Sure she has called her brothers and sisters.

I sent her a postcard from Scotland when I visited in 2017. The card had a bunch of sheep on the front and said, “Scottish Traffic Jam.” Dad said she laughed and laughed. I sent her another one when I was in Ireland of a picture I took of the Northern Irish landscape. She kept them both.

No surprise, though. She had an entire wall of her grandkids and great-grandkids accomplishments. Whether it was art someone had drawn for her, a clipping from a newspaper article with one of us in it, or any other things we gave her went on that wall. 

I bet it spanned 10-feet tall. It got to the point where she had to use a ladder, and eventually she tapped some things along the baseboards. When you have 7 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren I suppose space does fill up pretty quick.

My postcards got prime location on the fridge, though. No big deal.

August 28, 2024, Text from LaLa: Mamaw got her card. I just read it to her and just laughed.

I wrote another postcard this July when I was in Northern Ireland. We were visiting the Giant’s Causeway and I saw a card that had a little map on the front with cool markers of famous places in the area. 

I wrote the card while sitting in the cafe that was located in the visitors center.

On the card, I told her how it was tradition to send her a card when I was traveling aboard since I did seven years ago. 

I wrote how much I loved her laugh. Man, that laugh could cure the shittiest of days and make the best days even better. I wrote about how she was the best Mamaw. I told her how much I loved her.

When I finished, I put the card in the mail drop located in the parking lot of the Giant’s Causeway. I wanted it to be super authentic with a postage mark from the area. 

I mailed in on July 20th. It arrived at Mamaw’s on August 25th. I’m glad she got to read it. Thank you, LaLa.

I love you so much, Mamaw. Give Dad and Papaw the biggest hugs for me. Check in from time to time, ya hear?

I’ll be sure to eat some apples and cheese for WrestleMania XLI in April.

I tapped the green felt twice. It was Friday night in Vegas and I was feeling lucky. My fingers aren’t as chubby as my dad’s, but memories of us playing Blackjack flooded my brain.

“Hit me low,” he’d say to the dealer, tapping his two fingers on the table.

I started to cry. I’d say it was weird, but it’s Vegas. People probably thought I was on a losing streak. But also, I could give a flying fuck. 

I left the table, making my way through cocktail waitresses and a cacophony made up of slot machines, players’ cheers and sighs, and people singing Grateful Dead lyrics. 

I got back to my hotel room and turned on Game 4 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs were massacring my Celtics. I was already sad thinking about Blackjack, but then I had one of those moments where I expected my pops to text me.

“Luka is kicking our ass! We will get them in Game 5! Having a good time? Win any money player? Concert good? Looks cool dude!”

That’s the text I was expecting. But I knew deep down my phone wasn’t going to deliver that text.

I knew Father’s Day would suck. And it does. This is the second Father’s Day without my pops. Last year it was the heels of his death that I was sad, but the weight I feel this year wasn’t present. I suppose the reality of it has just become more solidified as time moves on.

The weeks leading up to today are just primers for making it worse. There are fucking advertisements everywhere, basically inescapable reminders that I won’t be celebrating. I tried to think back on past Father’s Day for some good memories.

Of course, I beat myself up for the last one we got to celebrate with dad. Or should I say the one where everyone else but me celebrated with him.

It was 2022 and I had a headache. My sister Shai was having the celebration at her house, where my other four siblings and their families would be. We had planned a little cookout with one dad’s favorite desserts to cap the day: homemade ice cream.

But I wasn’t there. I had a migraine and stayed home. I play it back frequently. My sister Mal leaving the house with dad. “Not feeling good dude,” she said, peeking her head in my room. “No,” I replied in a sickly voice. “Ok. If you start feeling better you can come over whenever.”

I heard her start to leave and my dad said, “Trippy still not feeling good? He’s not going to be able to come?”

What an absolute piece of shit.

That’s what I say to myself when I think about that Father’s Day. I could have pushed through that migraine. It wasn’t bad enough to stay home. What a selfish decision I made. There’s a photo with my four siblings and pops and I’m not in it.

My siblings and family all tell me not to think like that. They say it’s OK, reassuring me of family events they missed because they were sick, or maybe one of their kids wasn’t feeling well.

I know it’s not a kind thing to say to myself, but it’s the reality that comes when someone you love is no longer here. A common pitfall to focus on all of the things you did wrong or didn’t say, losing sight of the good memories.

After the text didn’t come Friday night during the Celtic massacre, I searched my phone for the phrase “Father’s Day.” I found a string of texts dating back to 2016 where I wished pops a good day. They were so lovely.

I usually was working the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival on Father’s Day, so a lot of the texts were, “Happy Father’s Day from the Roo!” In fact, the festival is happening right now. Dad would respond saying he loved me. I would call him later in the day to chop it up with him, and then the next day I’d ask how his day was.

The texts made me smile. They made the shitty feeling that engulfed me earlier when I was beating myself up about a migraine slowly disappear. And that’s a large part of who my dad was.

He always tried to make people, especially his family, feel better.  I know he saw me beating myself up and said, “Don’t do that, son. Please don’t do that to yourself.”

He was witty, and kind. He gave WAY more than he received. He would move mountains to help the people he loved, or a total stranger. He was more interested in making people smile than himself. He cooked the best seafood ever.

He had an infectious laugh and sense of humor, but also a fierce loyalty that flipped a “don’t fuck with them” switch if he felt his crew was threatened or mistreated.

He was cut from a different cloth. 

Today sucks. But I know exactly what he would do on this day. Before receiving calls from his kids to wish him a happy Father’s Day, he’d send us a group text to my siblings and I, and it would sound something like this.

“Happy Father’s Day to Jeff, Chris, and Jack (those are my 3 sisters’ husbands), and to Justin! I’m so lucky to have four men that are great fathers to their children! I hope they have a great dad. I love you all so much. Dad.”

So, I will make an effort to remember how much I loved my dad today. To remember how much my brothers and sisters loved my dad. To remember how much everyone loved my dad. I’ll focus on my pops, and not that stupid migraine.

WAIT! I forgot to finish my story about Friday night! 

After I rode the intense reality wave of dad being gone, and the Celtics losing big, I got up to grab a shower. I needed to wash the smell of cigarettes (gross) out of my hair. I was reaching in my pockets to set out my wallet and whatever else was in there on the counter when I found a $25 chip.

I thought for a moment. I slid put the chip in my pocket, slid my shoes on, and made my way back to the casino. 

Wearing my tie dye Bill Walton Portland Trail Blazers t-shirt (rest easy, big dude), I found a Blackjack table that was empty. It has a different dealer, thank God. The one from earlier wasn’t very friendly. There was no banter or small talk, and when I started to cry simply they simply said, “Please don’t get water on the cards.”

I sat down at the table and the dealer smiled. I placed the $25 chip down and the dealer laid out the first card…a 2 of spades. Not great, but I was still in the game. Next came a face card, the Jack of diamonds. Ouch. 

I was sitting on 12 and the dealer was showing a face card, but didn’t have Blackjack. I tapped my two fingers on the green felt to signify I wanted another card.

This time, as the dealer was preparing to pull the card I said, “Hit me low.”

Boom. Face card. Bust.

I spent an entire month of the year with Wyatt for 4-years in the California desert. I have so many stories that I could fill up this whole blog and there would still be some left over. A lot like my pops, actually. 

For the other 11-months I didn’t get to see him, we’d talk on the phone or text. I was at graduate school at the University of Florida from 2013-2015.

When I first got there I asked him if he wanted to come visit for a football game. “Florida Football,” he said in a tone that suggested he was intrigued before finishing with, “I’d rather eat a bucket of fucking razors.” 

I laughed so hard.

I’d get texts from him asking if I was “taking my crazy pills.” Asshole. He walked me through the process of buying a used bike from the 1980s, fixing it up, and selling it to a “sucker.” When I told him I flipped it for $80, he responded, “I would have gotten $160..sucker.” Asshole. 

I got a job as a sports photographer. I hustled my way into the gig, which made my pops, brother, and Wyatt very proud. I would send the three of them photos from different events. 

My pops always fired up and would look for me on the sidelines, shooting me a text, “See you dude! Blue hat?!” I’d send him shots from the game and he would tell me how awesome the photos were and then send them to all his friends and my family. Wyatt would say, “Looks blurry.” Asshole. 

November 7, 2015. A shitty fucking day.

“Dave Wyatt just died please call me.” That’s the text I got from Shaynee on that day.

I was on the sidelines shooting the Florida vs Vanderbilt football game. There is no reception in the stadium, especially when it was at capacity with nearly 90,000 people.

I had felt my phone vibrate toward the end of the third quarter, but assumed it was sports updates that randomly pushed through in a moment of cell reception clarity. There was a timeout that occurred late in the fourth quarter after Florida’s Jordan Sherit laid a monster hit on the Vandy QB. 

I went to look at my camera, not my phone. I wanted to see the image I captured. “Did I get the shot!?” Oh yeah. I fucking nailed it. I knew my mentor would be so proud when I posted the gallery of the game later that night and he saw the hit that jarred the helmet loose and spit and mouth pieces flying as a result. 

I figured the phone wasn’t a big deal. I finished photographing the game and made my way back to the press room. I took apart all of my camera gear, ejecting the SD cards from the camera bodies before placing them and all of the glass back into my case. I hooked my laptop up, plugged in the SD card reader, and placed my phone next to it. 

There were 7 missed calls from Shaynee. She NEVER calls. Ever. I went to see if there was a voicemail, but checked my text first. I remember seeing the words “Dave Wyatt is dead.”

I didn’t freak out, or cry, or run to call Shaynee. Instead, I calmly placed my computer in my backpack, grabbed my camera case, and started walking toward Weimer Hall. My house was equal distance, but for some reason I made my way to this strange building on the university’s campus. 

It is three stories and has this crazy atrium in the center with a courtyard. There is weird art. Sounds are amplified and accompanied by echoes. I sat on a bench near some foliage. 

My chubby little fingers clicked Shaynee’s contact and the line started ringing. She was crying when she answered. She gave me the details – a heart attack at age 46. 

It didn’t compute. Not Wyatt. He rode a bike up the California coast. He didn’t drink soda. He didn’t smoke cigarettes. He was always moving around, never staying still. How could this happen?

We hung up and then I lost it. The sound of my disbelief mixed with ugly crying and screams were amplified by the atrium. It echoed for passersby. I reached for my phone and started going through all of our texts and the voicemails he had left. 

I missed a call from him earlier that week. I had planned to call him back on Sunday. Fuck.

The celebration of his life was going to be held in Los Angeles at the Fonda Theatre, an iconic music venue. I had no money, though. Literally, zero. I didn’t realize the significance of it at the moment. It didn’t feel real. 

I told Shaynee I couldn’t afford it. She said, “ You have to be here.” My lack of accepting Wyatt’s death was obvious to her. I think she saw me using my financial situation as a way to escape reality for a little longer.

She knew I would never be able to live with myself if I didn’t go. So she did the most Shaynee thing ever: Used her Southwest points to fly me from Florida to L.A. I told you, Shaynee is the best. 

I have been to funerals and “celebrations of life” but nothing compares to Wyatts. 

They were handing out Sharpies with his name on them, pins and stickers made out of his art were everywhere for the taking. The Fonda’s marquee said, “Godspeed ‘DMFW.’ So let it be written, so let it be done.” There were food trucks and beer. There were old friends and new friends. 

It was packed. Dave Mother Fucking Wyatt (DMFW) was a legend!

There was an open mic setup on stage. People got up and told stories. REAL STORIES. Not the bullshit you usually hear…”They were a person of high faith…blah blah blah.”

I got up and talked about how I thought he was an asshole at first, using those exact words. Then I talked about how I grew to idolize this guy. How I was mesmerized at how he squeezed so much out of life and loved so hard. 

All of the people that spoke told the best stories, and they all carried a similar theme. 

People plastered DMFW NASA inspired stickers on the Hollywood Stars in front of the theater. They wrote messages with sharpies all over LA. His friends sent out merch, which was a black t-shirt with DMFW written in white letters in the ACDC font, one of Wyatt’s favorite bands. 

He literally was OOZING out of that place. It was an actual celebration of his life, and really quite magical. You connected with everyone in that room. The people talking about him were engaged with one-another, trading stories and enraptured by each other’s wild tales of our friend. 

There was none of that bullshit small-talk you might have engaged in at other funerals. 

I remember at my pop’s service people didn’t know what to say, and I get that. Death is not a comfortable thing. But I got questions like, “How is New York?” I would have much rather heard a story about my pops. Some adventure or memory a person had with him. 

When Shaynee called me to come work the show that next year I told her I couldn’t do golf carts. It would be too weird. She said I needed to be there and got me a job moving ice and water.

Wyatt would have clowned the shit out of me for taking the manual labor job over the Cush golf cart gig. He would have said I was being soft, but I know he wouldn’t have been able to go back out there at night without me. Not so fresh after.

Going out to the desert was awesome, though. Shaynee was right (of course). I wore my DMFW shirt and it was like having an all-access pass to meet the coolest people. I got to hang out with Derek, Jimmy  Reno, Aissa, Jason, and so many more. These were Wyatt’s PEOPLE. 

He always talked about getting me to come to KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas and drink beers. “My friend Aissa will hook us up. Drink beers. My buddy Jimmy Reno will be there. Derek, of course.” I now know all of these people, and Wyatt is the link that binds us. 

They all have the fucking best stories of him, and I love that they tell them so freely and often. They give off the same kind of cool vibe as he did, but of course there is only ONE Wyatt.

Living in New York I see Yankee’s hats everywhere now. At this moment I am thinking about Wyatt telling me about taking his Harley across the country and stopping along the way to see MLB stadiums and catch games. His goal was to go to all the stadiums. He loved baseball. My dad loved baseball.

This might come as a shocker, but the only things I know about baseball are that the games are fun as hell and they are the only place where a beer and hotdog truly live in harmony and make each other better. *

Miss you so hard, buddy. I hope they enjoy this book of fiction.

* A note to all of The Bo-Hawg’s baseball sponsorship partners – because we have A LOT who read this blog – don’t pull out on us because of that comment that I could easily change if I really wanted to.*

There is a lot of shit that goes through your mind when thinking about someone that is no longer physically present.

That shit is unique to each person and their experience. I am not going to speculate on all the possibilities for one’s mind, but will break down this video in hopes that you might better understand its’ purpose.

I decided to create this video because a big part of The Bo-Hawg is storytelling. I have mentioned the voicemail from my dad in the post “A Brand Born From Grief” as well as the Our Story section of the site. Words can only take you so far, though. Hearing his voice and seeing him throughout his life holds an entirely different weight.

I am not on the level of doing a video breakdown like Bo Burnham, but I wanted to take time to write about the video, and my thought process, and share some memory nuggets you won’t find in the short flick. 

First act, opening sequence

I am sitting on a bench in New York where I live. This is where I returned in October after leaving my family who all reside in lower Alabama or Louisiana. It was a bizarre feeling leaving them. My wife of course was/is an amazing support system, and has experienced this same loss earlier in her life; however, it is just the two of us in NYC for the most part. I don’t have any friends here, except Crusty (a ride-or-die), but we don’t get to see each other much.

I don’t mention not having friends to make you feel sorry for me. I had only lived in NYC for two months before my dad died, so when I returned I wasn’t looking to get out there and meet people.

The shot of me sitting alone is representative of what it felt like being in NYC in the immediate aftermath of his death. The aftermath is an isolating and exhausting time. My wife says over time things settle, but that waves always come. I believe her. It took me four months to make this video which is just over 1 minute.

With the loud sounds of wind rushing off the East River, people walking past, and car horns honking, it is a cacophony that is just background noise when you are in the headspace of thinking of someone. Missing them. Making a continued effort to hold on to them.

After sitting still on the bend for a second, I start putting in my earbuds. This is because I listened to a lot of music (and still do). I would play my dad’s favorites: “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers, “Don’t mess around with Jim” by Jim Croce, “Soulman” by the Blues Brothers version, and “Cheese Burger in Paradise” by Buffet.

I have some GREAT memories of my pops and those songs. Riding in his old Isuzu Trooper with the windows down, the sticky air of Alabama blowing in on the way home from the ballpark sipping an ice-cold fountain Coke we scooped from the Uncle Sam gas station.

“I LIKE MINE WITH LETTUCE AND TOMATO,” my pops would scream the lyrics to Buffet’s “Cheese Burger in Paradise” and then point to me. “HEINZ 57 AND FRENCH FRIED POTATOES,” I’d reply finishing that line of the lyric before moving us into the second-to-last line of the bridge. “BIG KOSHER PICKLE AND A COLD DRAFT BEER,” my pip-squeak voice belted. Pops would swerve the car like we were pulling into a fast food joint that sold burgers and finish it off, “WELL, GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY WHICH WAY DO I STEER!”

I’m telling you, music is something that roots me into memories. It’s like a time machine and time capsule rolled into one.

Littered among my pop’s favorite songs were some of my own that I selected. An assort me of great songs, but once that ripped my guts out. I would be balling as soon as the first second of a song played. Some notable singers were “Sweet” by the Dave Matthews Band, “In the Meantime” by Spacehog, “Red Bird” by The Bailiwicks, and “Here it is Christmas Time” by Old 97s feat. Kevin Bacon.

“We’re both headed in the same direction. We’re both fading in and out. My ears were ringing when I came into the astral, but my eyes were clear enough that I could take a look around. Yeah, every day has its afternoon, and everybody has to die to come unglued.”

Those are some of the lyrics from Redbird. I should note that those are not the actual lyrics, but they are what I heard during that time. I imagine me and pops headed in the same direction even though he isn’t on this earthly plane. I imagine memories fading in and out, just like those waves I mentioned earlier and you see in the video. And I thought that if I was able to get to an astral plane or my dream, it would be the closest I could get to see my pops.

There is this fantastic line in the Apple TV show “Shrinking” where Harrison Ford’s character suggests putting on a song that makes you “sad as hell” for 15 minutes and just cry. That’s what I would do. Listen to music and cry.

In those moments when the music was blasting I would think about my family. I would catch glimpses of moments in times when pops was here. Some came fast, usually fast, and others slow. That is why you see those quick flashes of old photos while I put in the left earbuds and then the right. You’ll notice that the first set of photos are pictures of him with his family and every one is young. The second set is from milestone moments in his kid’s lives, mainly weddings.

He wasn’t here for my wedding, so I put the closest thing I could think to a milestone in my life — getting my Ph.D. I also did that as a f*** you to all the people who say, “He’s not a real doctor.” I think that pissed dad off more than it did me. If you are reading this and are one of those people, no shit I am not a medical doctor. But guess what? Medical school by itself does not provide training in how to do research, allowing professionals to focus on medicine and care. A Ph.D. — That is all about how to conduct research.

After I put in my earbuds, the outside environment is muted, a recognizable sound for those that have earbuds or noise-canceling headphones. I pull on the back of my beanie and then look directly into the camera, locking my eyes on you, the audience. This is intentional, as I wanted you to see my face, feel the power of eye contact, and have the chance to notice little details.

You might see the slight resemblance I have to pops, especially those eyebrows — always out here trying not to look like a barn owl. yikes. Then the lines of my face that have come over the years. And lastly, my eyes, which have a story of loss embedded in their brown hue.

My dad would tell you that my brown eyes because I am full of shit. He loved to say that, so I wanted to break up this serious breakdown with that tidbit.

Once I’m staring into the camera, there is another quick cut to videos of me and dad. If you think music triggers emotions and memories, the sounds of silence can put that shit into hyperdrive. The first is a fragment of a memory I have from a trip to a zoo. The second is a snowball fight we had…in ALABAMA. I don’t know why those stood out to me, but they did.

Before moving into the second sequence, there is a shot of me taking a deep breath in followed by a heavy exhale. I am preparing myself for what is to come. I close my eyes and everything goes black for a split second and the unexpected comes in.

 “Hey dude, this is your pops.”

This is one of a three-part series I will be releasing. The Voicemail, Part 2 will be published on March 21, 2024

Is that title a bummer?

I asked myself this after reading the “Our Story” section a thousand times. I kept coming to the conclusion that, yes, this version of The Bo-Hawg was conceived through grief.

I say conceived because I never thought of The Bo-Hawg as my own. It had always belonged to my pops. He brought it into existence in the mid-’80s and managed to keep it alive for over four decades.

That’s right, FOUR DECADES! He loved it!

“That logo and name are too damn tight,” pops would say. “What if we did The Bo-Hawg Seafood ? What if we made t-shirts? What if we created a little business that was Bo-Hawg Bagels?”

I kid you not, for 36 years of my life, I heard a “what if” related to The Bo-Hawg at least once a year—at a minimum. So when I say he loved this thing, I am not exaggerating.

When he died, I tried everything I could think of to hold on to him. I was so terrified that, since he was no longer on this plane, he would disappear. I scanned old family photos, converted family VHS tapes to digital, took screenshots of text messages, saved voicemails, and pulled t-shirts from his closet.

I wanted immediate access to anything tangible that was evidence of the life he had lived.

A year later, I still love all of those things and cherish them deeply. But I learned that his existence extends beyond the tangible. When I spoke at pop’s funeral, I said this:

“He was a person in our lives that you knew was always there. Nothing could alter his presence. My dad himself was a constant. When he transitioned to another plane last week, I thought my constant was gone. Then I remembered he would never leave me. He left pieces of himself in others and scattered throughout the universe.” — October, 2022

One night in October 2023, I was curled up with a t-shirt quilt that my friend Pat created for me. It’s a really beautiful piece of art made by a special person using t-shirts that have so much history embedded in them.

I was looking for a green Jimi Hendrix shirt that my sister gave me when I was 16, when I saw the red and blue “Pig Fish,” the logo for The Bo-Hawg! It was an original shirt from the ’80s! I don’t know why it jarred me so much, especially since I had the logo tattooed on me two months after dad passed away. Maybe it was the vibrance of the colors?

Right then, I sent my friend Chase, an incredibly talented designer, an email asking if she could digitally remaster the logo. Chase didn’t skip a beat—I had it within two days.

I immediately created a TON of stickers. The stickers had my pop’s name, the logo, and text that read either “Fishing Team” or “Hawg Wild Seafood.” Both existed and are pretty self-explanatory: one was his seafood catering company, and the other was for the failed charter boat endeavor (more on that later)

I sent stickers to my family first. They were met with surprise and would either call or text with a funny memory of pop’s love-hate relationship with The Bo-Hawg. Next, I started sending stickers to my friends—with zero context.

They were getting these stickers and would call me, saying, “Uhm. I got the sticker. It’s cool, but what does it mean? What is it?”

Rewind to earlier, when I said I never thought of The Bo-Hawg as my own. It wasn’t until I got that call from a friend asking about the sticker that I realized I was the one telling the story now. I was the one thinking, “That logo and name are too damn tight.”

When people opened those envelopes, they were either met with a wave of nostalgia or confusion and intrigue. Either way, they were holding a piece of my dad that I had shared with them.

On what would have been his 75th birthday, I launched The Bo-Hawg website. I cannot tell you how excited he is that people now have the chance to buy Bo-Hawg merchandise. I use the present tense because I can feel him when I talk about this. 

I have no clue if anyone will or won’t buy something, or if this thing will even catch on.

The best part of the whole thing is, even if we sell only three items for the entire year, he will be proud that I kept The Bo-Hawg alive. He’ll appreciate that it is another effort to keep him circulating throughout the cosmos.

I’m probably even more excited about the storytelling arm of the brand that we’re going to work hard to build out over the next few years. It is called The Pig Fish Tales— a section of the site with my dad’s stories, my stories, and hopefully in the future, stories about other people.

There was no greater storyteller than my dad— our family’s very own Big Fish.

In a way, grief served as a vehicle to help my dad accomplish something he was never able to do while he was here—share The Bo-Hawg on a massive stage. Like I said, he left pieces of himself scattered throughout the universe.

The Bo-Hawg is one of those pieces, and I’m molding and evolving it into something I want my dad to sit back and marvel at.

“This is on the internet where anyone can buy it? Now that is double-ball-busting-deluxe tight, Trippy!” I can hear him ask while his crystal blue eyes stare at the screen and a big shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

“Holy shit! You’re writing again? Maybe you can use some of those stories I told you back when I thought it was a good idea to write a book.”

I’m truly excited and proud of this.

I don’t want people to think of it as just another brand. When you see The Bo-Hawg, know that you’re buying into a community. My goal is for the Pig Fish to be bigger than merchandise. I want it to be something that people ascribe meaning to for themselves.

I’m so glad you’re here. So is pops. Stick around and get to know us.