Eighty-three years is a long time; he lived a long life, a good life, and because of him a lot of people who are living great lives owe it all to him.

I'm not just talking about his contributions as a doctor, which were many. He developed and perfected techniques, which are still being used by cardiologists all over the world, techniques that prolong lives, and even save them. That would be enough, but there was so much more.

There was the way he could sit at the table during dinner, and after dinner, not saying a word while those who thought they had more to say talked long into the night. And then, out of the blue, with just a few words he could make you realize that he had more to say than anybody. Those few words were often all that everyone else remembered of those late-night conversations, sometimes because the words were deep, meaningful and life-changing, but usually because they were laugh-out-loud funny. And those were just the words that everybody heard; sitting beside him at the table was a treat, because you got to hear the under-his-breath, for-your-ears-only comments that were even funnier.

What was his was yours, and I know this generosity shaped who I am. I know I took advantage of his generosity, much more than I deserved. I tried to give back, but mostly what I did was take his generosity, and extend it to my friends. And so we used his cabin and drove his boat, spent his gas, ate his food and drank his beer. He wouldn't have had it any other way; that's just the way he was.

Most of those friends I'll have for the rest of my life. The value of keeping friends is something I got from him; I recently noticed how many of his friends he had kept for not just years but decades, so many decades that he had known them for longer than he knew me… and he knew me my entire life.

When I spoke at his funeral last month, I tried to say these things. I tried, but there was no hope, because there wasn't enough time. To properly explain his kindness, his generosity, his intelligence, his uniqueness… his greatness… would take a lifetime. I didn't have a lifetime to say all that needed to be said, so I took a few minutes and tried to let everyone know that I understood all he had done, that I appreciated it, that I would never forget.

It would take a lifetime to tell his story; it would take almost a lifetime just to hit the highlights. And maybe that's what I've been doing for the last twenty years-- telling the story of my dad. I lived the adventures, but all of them-- each and every last one-- were possible only because of him. I know that. My friends who shared those adventures with me know it, too.

No adventure story this month. There will be more, but this is the time for me to simply say, Thanks, Dad. For everything. There's a line from a song, and now I know exactly what it means:

"…and I'd give all I have

To hear what he said

When I wasn't listening."

William Bailey Jones

August 25, 1925- September 3, 2008

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