It was a sunny summer morning in Virginia Beach. Pedaling quickly through the neighborhood, I bolted through stop signs, leaving in my wake a symphony of blaring car horns. After a sketchy unsignalized crossing through a four lane arterial, and a sprint through the strip mall parking lot, I soon arrived at the back-entrance of the pizza shop. Using the handlebar of my Mongoose, I carefully propped it against a brick wall in the alleyway and rushed to the back door. The worn hinges creaked, as I peered through the slit in the door. There was no sight of my dad. I let out a sigh of relief and ran stealthily to the dish-cleaning room.

Bubbles rose as water filled the bucket I had placed in the sink. I found two rags from the industrial shelf and tossed them in. I lifted the bucket and slowly waddled to the front of the store. While doing so, I briefly glanced into my father's office, and through the large stacks of documents on his desk I could see him intently gazing at his monitor. I always wondered what he did in there, but he told me it was nothing I needed to worry about. I continued along my penguin path, ensuring not to disturb him.

Methodically, I doused the rags, wrung them out, and wiped the tops of the tables. I had wiped all six of the countertops, and two pairs of booths, before my dad came out to check on me. When we made eye contact, a fear welled up inside. My dad had a short temper at times, and I was certain I was going to frustrate him for being late. However, that was not the person I received that day. He was either in a good mood, or too busy focusing on business finances to notice my tardiness. Either way, I was relieved when a smile formed on his face. He stepped a bit closer, and shouted from the main walkway of the restaurant:

"Austin! You've got five minutes to finish cleaning the tables. I need your help with something else. Hurry up!"

My father's exclamation lit me up. During my first couple of weeks working at his shop, I had mostly wiped down the counters or washed dishes in the back. He never made a statement so vague. Naturally, I couldn't help but wonder what my dad needed help with. I quickly wiped down the remaining booths and waddled back to the cleaning room.

Always wash your hands before dealing with food was my dad's number one rule. I squeezed the Dawn into my palms and scrubbed vigorously. Scalding hot water cascaded over my hands. I dried them with a paper towel and then joined my dad in the kitchen.

A collection of vegetables, cutting board, and chef's knife were the first things to catch my eye. I had always watched from afar and had been forbidden to touch a knife. A part of me felt that my ban on knives was being lifted. I inquired:

"Hey Dad! I'm done cleaning. What do you need help with?"

Enthusiastically, he chimed:

"Hey bud! Thanks for getting the storefront set up. I was thinking you could help me prepare the house salad for today's guests. You up for the task?"

And with my own genuine enthusiasm, I replied:

"Pshhh, yeah! It beats cleaning the dishes. Plus, making a salad can't be that hard. Let's do it!"

My dad grabbed a red onion and held it in his hand. Then, he started his instruction:

"Well, first things first, to make a salad, you need to cut up the vegetables into bite-sized pieces. And to do that, you need three things: a knife, a vegetable, and a cutting board. Each vegetable will require a slightly different chopping or slicing technique, but they all require the same philosophy and that is … what Austin?"

I was genuinely confused, so I uttered something incoherent. With confidence and assertiveness, my dad replied:

"The philosophy is simple. Never cut vegetables in a way that sends the knife towards your body. To avoid this, you must always cut down and away from your body. Never cut upwards or towards yourself. That is how you will slice your finger off. And we cannot be doing that, because, well … your mom would kill me. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head as we locked eyes for most of this lesson introduction. Something close to fear crossed his face when he brought up the threat of mom's reaction. This was the first summer I was able to work with him, and even with all its complications, I felt like I was getting closer to him, and I didn't want my mom to yank that away.

By the end of our lesson, we had a nice pile of chopped red onions, romaine hearts, artichoke hearts, halved cherry tomatoes, and cucumber slices. We added croutons, and our signature vinaigrette, before tossing it with a pair of metal tongs.

Those six weeks in Virginia Beach eventually came to a close. I had felt fairly disconnected from him for most of my childhood. This summer was the first time I really felt like I had been included in his world. I could see the joy on his face, as he talked with customers, and tossed pizzas in the air. I watched him from my spot in the cleaning room, with a bit of envy, but also with pride that he was my dad.

A few months after my stint in Virginia I was walking home from wrestling practice, on a cold January evening. I received a call from my mom, telling me to come home. I walked through the front door and after a few awkward silences and apprehensive looks, I was told that my dad had passed.In that moment, all my emotions were stripped away. As if a kill switch had been flipped in my brain. I didn’t cry. I didn’t want to console anyone in my family. I just wanted to be anywhere but that house, so I left.

I strolled back to school, in a robotic like trance. I wanted to go join my wrestling buddies and pretend like nothing had happened. Unfortunately, I wasn’t granted that luxury. My coach caught wind of the news and told me that it was best to go spend time with my family. I did, begrudgingly.

A week would pass, and soon time came for the funeral. Again, I felt empty. I looked down at the casket and saw no part of my dad there. He was as alive as a stuffed animal. Honestly, even less, at least stuffed animals have their eyes open.

Only after a good bit of time would I truly allow myself to feel the full range of emotions that I was supposed to. Anger came first. I was so mad at him. He made the decision to leave this earth, without consulting me, and I hated him for it. He would no longer be able to see me graduate. Buy my first lottery ticket. Get married. Welcome my first kind into the world. And so on. I knew none of these were guaranteed to me, but I knew one thing was certain, he wouldn’t be there to experience them with me. Knowing that, caused me a great deal of pain.

This anger of mine lingered into my college years, and it wasn’t until I was forced into therapy that I would work my way towards acceptance. The bargaining stage was particularly hard for me. I just couldn’t help but think about how I could have done things differently before he passed. I played over scenarios where I was a bit nicer to him during New Year’s Eve and bit my tongue about him missing child support payments. I felt like if I was a bit nicer, maybe I could have helped to save him from himself. Now that I’m older, I understand how naïve that stance is, but back then it’s all I could fixate on.

It wasn’t until some time after college that I started to feel whole again. I gained financial stability and was doing what I wanted in life. Reading, writing, going to the gym, seeing my friends, exploring new cities, and so on. I entered each of these actions with intensity, and I couldn’t help but see similar mannerisms to the ones my father had displayed when I was younger. Particularly when I went through my phase of posting to YouTube for a month straight roughly two years ago. My father had similarly posted videos to Facebook explaining his stances on green infrastructure as he ran for the state representative in his region of Pennsylvania.

More than ten years separated me and my father’s fascination with posting video content online, but one thing was the same, our passion for what we spoke about. It was when I first had this reflection, that I realized the larger lesson I had learned during my time at my dad’s pizza shop. It wasn’t about cleaning tables, making salads, or washing dishes. It was the smile on my dad’s face as he greeted regulars, remembered their orders, and walked the pizza to their booth personally. It felt so natural to him. Just like how reading philosophy and writing R code feels to me.

It’s from this innate interest and intensity that I’ve found the best piece of advice for myself that I also recommend to others.

Find the thing that draws you in for hours and hold on to it tightly. For my father it was tossing around pizzas, and for me it's been writing in a journal or typing on a keyboard. His pizza shop is my novel.

My dad was a complicated man, but at his core, he was a man of passion. For my dad, a restaurateur was considered ideal. For me, I've always been fascinated by the idea of blogging, and one day becoming a New York Times Best Seller. These larger-than-life ideas, and things to work towards, make life worth living and less daunting. That alone — the faith to pursue something bigger than yourself, regardless of its outcome — is probably the best lesson my dad has ever taught me.