Loud Music, Unspoken Words, and Living His Legacy
To the outside world–to our clients, our suppliers, and everyone I talk to every single day–I show up as “Shannon.” I manage projects, answer emails, refine designs, and keep the business moving forward. I put on the armor because the work has to be done, and I don’t want to carry my heavy heart into someone else’s day.
But Underneath the quiet routine of running a business, the truth is that grief doesn’t care about a two-year timeline. I thought time would make the missing feel smaller, but the reality is that the ground still feels different without my sounding board.
In the corner of my office, propped right up against the wall in its camo case, sits a hunting rifle with a box of bullets on a nearby shelf. It was my great-grandfather’s. When my dad gave it to me, I was honestly surprised–it felt like such a significant piece of our family history to hand over to me.
It sits in that exact corner because that’s where he left it the last time he was here. Some days I really want to take it out to the backyard range again, set up targets, and shoot just like we did on that chilly October afternoon. But every time I reach for it, I STOP.
His hands were practically the last ones to touch it.
Leaving it right there in its case feels like keeping a piece of that last afternoon alive in the room with me.
The Safe Harbor and “Rubber Duckie”
On the harder days, my mind brings him back in my dreams. They come out of nowhere–sometimes totally random and making no logical sense–but when I wake up, I just feel grateful. Even if it’s just in a dream, getting to see him, hear his voice, or sit near him for a few seconds is a gift I hold onto all day.
Losing him hasn’t just made me miss the man who was my adult sounding board–it made me miss my childhood buddy. Growing up wasn’t easy, and my home life was often chaotic, but my dad was my safe harbor. He was always just a big kid at heart who loved to color, draw, and make me laugh.
I still remember when I was about five years old, he brought home a Sesame Street record with “Rubber Duckie” on it. We would sit together for hours, playing that record, coloring, and just being happy in our own little world. He wasn’t just my dad; he was the one and only person who truly understood me, protected me, and made me feel safe.
The Radio, The Rage, and “Susie Pants”
My dad ruined music for me in the best way possible. Whenever I did something silly, he’d tease me and say, “You ruined it!”–and if he saw me getting overly emotional, he’d call me his little “Susie pants” just to crack a smile on my face.
Music was our language, but after he passed, the radio became an unpredictable minefield. I’d be driving down the road and suddenly AWOLNATION’s Sail, or Arctic Monkeys would come on, and I’d just start bawling right behind the wheel. A couple of weeks ago, Lewis Capaldi’s Someone You Loved came on, and hearing that line about getting used to being someone you loved, completely broke me. It might be a relationship song, but losing the dad who held me up my whole life, felt like losing my entire foundation.
When the sorrow turned into pure rage–at the circumstances, at a broken family that “ain’t like us”–I didn’t turn to quiet songs. I blasted Korn’s Take a Look in the Mirror album on repeat for over a year. I’d park in my driveway, crank Right Now, or my particular favorite part of Y’all wanna single (if you know you know..) as loud as the speakers could go, and scream the words just to get the head trips out of my chest.
People who see me running a professional business might not expect me to listen to everything–from Buddy Holly and Johnny Cash to Pantera, Korn, Kendrick Lamar, or trap music(I can still hear him saying “turn that crap off!”)–but that eclectic, loud sound is straight from my dad. He taught me to feel things deeply, to turn the volume all the way up, and to not be afraid to be who I am.
“IT’S NOT THE SAME”
Before I was born, Sesame Street dealt with loss years ago, there was a clip where Big Bird tried to understand why Mr. Hooper wasn’t coming back.
My dad used to repeat the line from that episode: “It’s not the same.”
He was right.
It isn’t the same.
IT IS DEFINITELY NOT THE SAME.
I am not the same.
At his funeral, the sheer physical weight of his loss choked the breath right out of me. I sobbed so hard with my daughters sitting behind me that the words just wouldn’t come out. I physically couldn’t speak. I’ve carried so much heartache over not being able to stand up and share his wild stories–about his million miles on the road, his survivor tales, his loud music, his Converse sneakers, and the fierce, unyielding love he had for us.
Lacing Up the Chucks
He loved his Converse sneakers, and that was one of the many things he passed straight down to me. I still think about a picture on my Facebook from years ago–just a photo of our feet side-by-side, both of us in our Chuck Taylors. A little while later another photo of my daughter’s bright pink hightop next to mine. It was a little thing, but looking at it now, it reminds me of how much of him lives on in me.
My dad’s legacy wasn’t about quiet perfection; it was about zest for life, generosity, deep loyalty, and standing tall through everything life threw at him. He survived motorcycle wrecks, getting run over by a tow truck, drowning and over a million miles on the road without a scratch. He raised me to be tough, precise, and capable.
I didn’t get to speak at his funeral but I get to speak now.
Every time I make backend website edits, make a meticulous design choice, every time I lace up my sneakers, and every time I look at that camo case in the corner of my office, I am honoring him. I still miss my buddy.
I still wish I could call him when the days get hard.
But I know he looked at me on that chilly October afternoon with a wide, proud smile and said, “Damn, Hun – look at that. You’re a natural”
……..”you should have been a boy”….to make me laugh.
I’m carrying that with me forever. Time doesn’t heal it, and things will never be “the same”–and it is what it is. I’m just going to keep making him proud, one day, one project, and one step at a time.
Two years later, my memory isn’t just about grief or goodbye.
It’s not the same, it never will be, but my Dad taught me–“If you want something done right, Do it YOURSELF, and more importantly:
“Show up fully, trust yourself, and build with heart.”
—👾 Shannon – Owner. Builder. Daughter. The Natural.
A Few Memories
🦉 About the Author
Shannon, “Mrs.Countertops”
