This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Denise Warner. It has been edited for length and clarity.
For the last 39 years, I’ve had the same photo either emailed or texted to me on every single February 18th, the date my dad died.
It’s a photo of an old, unopened can of Miller Lite sitting in the fridge, from my dad’s best friend, Tommy. It’s from the last pack of beers they shared together.
My dad would watch us play on the street
When I was a young teenager, Tommy, who worked with him at a factory in Niagara, New York, and my dad would sit on lawn chairs in our open, single-car garage with a couple of beers, watching me and all the neighborhood kids play sports.
We had a huge yard, and all the kids — several of whom were family members of mine — gathered at my place to play softball, football, baseball, hockey, and basketball. Dad and Tommy would provide a running commentary, always super funny.
I adored my dad as a teenager, but we hadn’t always been close.
As a young child, I don’t remember seeing my dad a lot — he was always working at the factory or at sporting events after dinner. I often wondered where he was.
But when my mom moved to Florida when I was 14 to open a restaurant, traveling back and forth between the two locations, it forced my dad and me into a closer relationship.
I remember watching football with him, ordering pizza on repeat for dinner, and him learning to cook. He perfected his Fettuccini Alfredo recipe — it’s still the best I’ve ever had.
Once, I skipped school with friends, hoping we wouldn’t get caught by anyone in the street. The doorbell rang while we were watching daytime soap operas, and when I looked out the window, I saw my dad’s friend Joey, who owned a pizzeria, outside holding a pizza. He told me my dad had ordered it for us. How he knew we had skipped school — I still will never know.
During these years, my love for my dad grew exponentially.
He was diagnosed with esophageal cancer
So when he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer when I was 18, I was devastated. He was only 43. He’d had a lot of stomach problems for years, but wouldn’t go to the doctor. When he finally did, they said he had a tumor at the base of his stomach, where it meets the esophagus. When they opened him up to operate, they decided it was too big to operate on. They started him on chemo and radiation, but months later, he died.
Tommy was the one who drove my family home from the hospital after Dad breathed his last breath.
Soon after, Tommy sent me a photo of the beer can. It was part of the last pack of beers he’d bought to drink with my dad in the garage. He now sends me the same photo every year on the day my dad died.
I have great memories with my dad
February 18 could be a sad day for me every year, a reminder of my dad’s death. But instead, it’s a reminder of the endless happy memories I had in our front yard with my dad. I honestly can’t recall one bad memory from those years when it was just my dad and me.
As an adult, I appreciate that it was my dad out there on the streets playing with us kids. Other parents have been doing very responsible things in the house — working, cleaning, or sorting — but dad was where the fun was at.
Everyone knew him, and everyone loved him. And that beer can is a yearly reminder of just how special my dad was. Such a simple gesture — sending that photo — but it has kept my dad’s memory alive for nearly 40 years.
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