Happy Birthday Daddy — Jillian Ilana

80 years ago today the first edition of Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls was published. 61 years ago The Guggenheim Museum opened to the public. 47 years ago, Fred Dryer of the Los Angeles Rams became the first player in NFL history to score two safeties in the same game. But, perhaps most importantly, 65 years ago today my father was born.

My dad had a knack for remembering dates. A walking Wikipedia, he could tell you what happened on this day in history however many years ago and no one ever questioned him because 99% of the time he was right. His family and friends meant the world to him. He would set alarms in his phone for every birthday so that at midnight on the dot, in whatever time zone YOU were in, he could send you a “Happy Birthday” text.

My dad was my best friend, loudest cheerleader, biggest inspiration and the closest thing I had to a superhero. I went to him with every question, every problem because I knew he would have the answer. He was my human calculator and editor-in-chief, even at 3:00 A.M. with a term paper due five hours later. He is the reason why I love to learn, constantly reading about new subjects and watching fascinating documentaries, always wondering “What would daddy think?”.

He is the reason why, after many years of resisting, I am a proud Red Sox fan. One of my favorite memories I have with him is waking up around 2:00 AM on October 28, 2004 (I had to look up the date) to him celebrating the Red Sox winning the World Series for the first time in 86 years. I ran downstairs to celebrate with him, not fully grasping what had happened but wanting to share in his excitement. He grabbed his camera and champagne and we went outside so I could take his picture as he popped the bottle and gave the biggest, goofiest grin.

He cultivated my love of movies and musicals. He was constantly recommending movies, insisting I give everything, from Hitchcock thrillers to Gene Kelly musicals (and everything in between), a fair chance. When introducing me to one of his favorites, he and I would have an agreement: I had to actively watch the first 20 minutes. After that, if I didn’t like it, then I could go. I think I could count on one hand how many times that happened. Same rule applied to musicals. Starting with Les Misérables, he would regularly play Broadway cast albums, each of us taking turns recommending to each other new and classic shows. We saw The Producers on Broadway with Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane along with many productions at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia. When I was a baby he would sing me a song I thought he wrote called “Hello, Jilly!”; I was completely shocked upon realizing that he was just singing the song “Hello, Dolly!” and just inserting my name.

When describing my dad, one of his brothers used the word “sweet” and I think that is perfect. He really was the sweetest, smartest, dorkiest man I ever got to know. Not a day goes by where I don’t miss the sound of his voice telling me “I love you” or the warmth of his hugs as they enveloped me. My favorite dance partner, he was the only person I allowed to pick me up as I grew older to twirl me around on the dance floor. He never treated me like I was disabled and insisted I demand to be treated like “one of the guys” in all aspects of life.

Five years ago, we celebrated my dad’s 60th birthday. There, in a small restaurant in Philadelphia, surrounded on all sides by family, he was the happiest. Every year, every time he blew out the candles he wished for the same thing: another year of health and happiness for those closest to him. That night was no different.