Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and Best Friends, Birthdays, and Blue Vans

My Dad

Yesterday, I was talking about BFFs, and it just hit me that I forgot to mention my very first bestie: my dad, Frank B. 

Today’s his birthday. He would’ve been 86. And let me tell you—this man did not age quietly. He arrived on this planet cool, stayed cool, and exited cool. 

Frank B. was smooth. Not “trying to be smooth.” He just was. He had all the ladies. Not because he chased them—because they noticed him standing there, existing. They were all looking at him. Even when I was in junior high, apparently. 

Case in point: one day, my dad came to pick me up from school. I was in 7th or 8th grade. A good friend—who happened to be the office monitor—ran the hall pass to my class. She walked in, handed me the pass, looked at my dad, and without missing a beat said, “I’m going to marry you, because I just found out what you're going to look like in 20 years.” 

Boom. Frank B., ladies and gentlemen. The man aged so well that he caused future-based marriage proposals. 

My Dad, my godfather, Paul, his dad, Paul, and your hero

My godfather, Paul, and I were reminiscing about him today and realized something wild: my dad has now been gone for almost as long as he was here. Still, I love that cat. He was a hell of a dude. A Marine. A Devil Dog. But he was never super strict, like every dad, he had that look—the one that made you instantly reconsider all your life choices if you crossed a line. 

Yet somehow, we had an awesome relationship. 

He went to all my baseball games. I was a middle infielder. I wore number 15 and stole bases like my hero Davey Lopes. One game my sophomore year, I was trying to steal third. Pro’lly showing off, because Pops was in the stands, and the ump had the nerve to ring me up! I was sure I was safe, so I stomped into the dugout, dusting myself off, hotter than fish grease. Dad grinned and yelled out to me from the stands, “Didn’t think he got you, did ya?”

 I answered back, “Hell no!”  

Dad calmly said to me, “Hey—watch your language.”  

And just like that, I snapped right back into line. He didn’t yell. There was no need to argue. Frank B. parenting: minimal words, maximum effect. 

Later that year, I changed course. Stopped baseball. Spent all my free time in a Sheriff's Explorer uniform at Carson Station. He never once told me I should’ve stuck with baseball. Never second-guessed me. He just went along with what I wanted to do. That kind of support sticks with you. 

Years later, when I applied to the Sheriff’s Department, every single hurdle I cleared—test, obstacle, background, physical agility—he celebrated as if I’d just won the World Series. And our celebration ritual? Sandwiches. At any new sandwich places he’d discovered. I’m convinced that’s why sandwiches are still one of my favorite foods. They taste like victory…and my dad. 

Then there was his van. 

Ah yes. The Scooby-Doo van. 

Light blue. A four-inch multicolored psychedelic stripe—purple, fuchsia, and every color that ever said “1970s.” The stripe wrapped all the way around the van, just above the headlights, just below the hood. It also had porthole windows near the back that you had to rotate to slide them open. There was no AC back there, because why would there be? The van was basically a rolling sauna with shag carpet. 

I’d sit on that carpeted bench—yes, that itchy, questionable carpet—just to get a whisper of air from the porthole window. You couldn’t stick your head out, but you could at least breathe. That van didn’t transport people—it tested them. 

One of my favorite memories, though, was a Boy Scout camping trip. My dad said he was coming. We met early—like 4 or 5 a.m. early. But somehow, Pops thought we were meeting at 4 in the afternoon. We pulled away without him. I was extremely disappointed. The Scoutmasters drove us up into the mountains in their station wagons, somewhere north of Idyllwild, set up about 20–30 tents, and went to sleep. 

That night, I dreamt my dad stuck his head into the tent. 

The next morning, I tell my tent buddy, “I had the weirdest dream. I dreamed my dad was here.”  

We unzipped the tent—and there it was. That blue van. Parked right there, with Dad and my uncle asleep inside. I have no clue how he knew where to find us in that vast forest, but he did.

“I told you I’d be here,” he said.  

Times mixed up or not—Frank B. showed up. 

That was my dad. Smooth. Supportive. Present. A man who made sandwich shops part of my success story, drove a psychedelic sauna on wheels, and never failed to show up—even if it took a detour. 

I miss you, Dad.  

Frank B.—You were the man.  

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Pops. 💙 

You know what to do: Drink 'em if ya got 'em!

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