Last night, as he has done many times, my dad sat outside in his yard, smoking his one cigar of the year, drinking Couvoisier and listening to jazz as he ushered in his birthday. This alone shows what a brave man my dad is. It's hot, muggy and buggy in East Tennessee right now, three things he loathes, but he faces them down with valor to see his birthday in right.

Poet, painter, sculptor and painter again, he pulses with the need to work, to create. Whether researching a new TV, watching the NFL Draft or re-crafting himself as an artist, he approaches projects with intensity and passion. He wants to go to Egypt, he wants to play the sax, he wants to play professional football. He taught me and he teaches me how to dream.

I've never met anyone, young or old, with his capacity for play. All of my stuffed animals had names and voices and personalities, and if he tired of playing with me (which, you know he had to!), I never saw it. He was ready to help me dig deep into any project, whether it was building a tent in my room out of blankets or a playhouse in our back yard. Once, when I was a little girl, a family friend warned him to be careful, that if he didn't watch, I wouldn't know the difference between real and pretend. My dad thought about this for a second, and responded, "I'm not sure I do." Now that I'm an adult, we shop together, cook together and watch TV together, generating an almost criminal amount of fun. That gift for play has transcended to grandfatherhood. Together they learn how to crash their XBOX Tony Hawk into innocent bystanders and boogie board bigger than expected waves. Callum has some of the best granddads a kid could hope for.

He bought himself a red sports car as a present for my graduation from college.

One of the greatest compliments he ever received came at a wedding he attended when I was a teenager. "Is that Mary Jane's husband? He looks like Ringo Starr."

He's reluctant to move from PC to Mac, no matter how much we push, because he doesn't want to give up Free Cell.

He's taught me about so much, like malts and Miles Davis and all-day baked beans and peanut butter and jelly potato chip sandwiches.

He has a model train running along the ceiling of his kitchen and he's painted Egyptian Tomb paintings on his stairwell.

He loves blueberries and for years my mom would make him a blueberry pie we called "Blueberry Delight" for his birthday cake.

When my September babe was born, he traded out his current earring for a sapphire, and I haven't seen him without it since.

Even though he hasn't smoked one for years and years, I can't smell pipe smoke without thinking of him. We wish he were here.

Happy Birthday Dad. I love you. Neel loves you, and Callum loves you too.