If you read my post Built By Hand, Heart, And One Hell Of A Loss, you know that this business — Mr. Countertops — is powered by purpose, grief, and the legacy of my dad.
Losing him last Christmas left a hole that no amount of work can fill, but the work itself gives the grief a place to land.
This month, however, the grief isn’t landing gently. It’s hitting harder because it marks a more specific anniversary: the last time I saw him.
It was a chilly afternoon in mid-October 2024🍂🍁
He had given me my great-grandfather’s hunting rifle for Mother’s Day—a gift that had been sitting in its case, patiently waiting.
I kept putting off taking it out, always too busy, always finding a reason to say, “Next weekend, Dad.” I didn’t realize I was putting off my final memory with him.
The Backyard Range — October 2024 🎯
That day, he wasn’t asking. He just showed up. He gave me that look — the one that said, we are doing this now. I tried to resist, but something deep inside me said yes. I told David later that day that I felt strange, like I had to do it.
We set up targets in the backyard: large cardboard targets, tiny spinning ceramic discs, the kind that make you focus on every detail.
He patiently walked me through stance, grip, breath, sight picture.
It wasn’t about the gun. It was about discipline. About precision. About trusting my own capability.
And just like always, he reminded me of one of his core lessons: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
He fired, reloaded, fired, then handed me the riffle and said, “OK, load it, don’t shoot your eye out”.
I took my time. I focused. I fired.
Bullseye. After one shot, then another. The spinning discs, the cardboard bulls-eyes — all hit, one after the other. He watched, slightly stunned, and then broke into that wide, proud smile.
One of the last phrases he ever said to me — the ones I carry with me every single day — wasn’t a grand farewell. It was a simple, honest observation about my skill:
“Damn, Hun — look at that. You’re a natural.”
“You should have been a boy,” he joked, just to make me laugh.
The Christmas Story Touch
He knew I loved collecting little figures — goofy, nerdy, collectible ones I’ve amassed over the years.
About four years ago, he searched high and low to get me a Christmas Story advent calendar — tiny Ralphie, the “Major Award”, even the Bumpases’ dogs 🐾 — all the little characters I only take out at Christmas.
That’s classic Dad: thoughtful, knowing me, celebrating the small things that mattered most. And yes, we always laughed about it together, repeating the line:
“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” — because that was our movie, our tradition.
Those tiny characters are now a Christmas staple. Every year on December 1st, I put the “house” out and pull them out one day at a time. 🥺 Only this December, I won’t be taking a daily picture and sending it to him. They are a reminder of him, his humor, and the love that filled every corner of our home.
Precision: The Legacy of a Final Lesson
I didn’t know then that he was giving me the final instruction I’d need for the year ahead. He was telling me that I was capable of hitting the hardest targets — whether a spinning ceramic disc or the overwhelming challenges of loss.
Every time I feel the weight of this business, every 8 AM quote or 2 AM website tweak, I hear his words. They drive the relentless pursuit of quality and clarity at Mr.Countertops.
When I’m in the shop, sandpaper in hand, or helping a client visualize their dream kitchen, I remember that October chill, that rifle in my hands, the focus required to hit the bullseye.
One year later, that memory isn’t just about grief or goodbye. It’s about guidance, pride, and the final lesson he gave me:
show up fully, trust yourself, and build with heart.
—👾 Shannon
Owner. Builder. Daughter. The Natural.
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