Twenty five years ago today, we lost my dad. The man who taught me how to live, how to learn, how to shoot. Gone at 42.

He never made a living as a photographer, but his camera was a ubiquitous part of my youth. It was always there, capturing the moments of our lives. I have looked through thousands of his images and it is rare he ever moved past being a documentary shooter. With one image, shot into the mirrors we attached to the station wagon, he put himself in a frame, trying to show the inside of our camper.

It’s an odd image, one I’m surprised he made. But it’s one of my favorites.

That camera in his hand, a Pentax Spotmatic, bought while serving in Vietnam, was the only camera I ever saw him shoot with. It’s the one he taught me with – turn this until everything is clear, turn this until the needle is balanced.

I got better.

I still have that camera.

I’m never giving it up, even though I haven’t run a roll of film through it in the 25 years since he passed. But I carry a camera with me everywhere. It’s taken me all over the country and the world. It’s brought me places no kid from a small town should have ever gone to, opened doors into worlds I couldn’t imagine.

And it captures the moments of my life, my family, my kids.

I wish he was here, to see what became of us kids and the successes we’ve achieved, to meet the wonderful people we married, to play with his grandkids. My brother sent a text out this morning:

All of us went to college and none of us went to jail. I really don’t think he could have been any more proud.

As the oldest, I guess I knew him the best. If I had to choose two phrases to describe him, they’d be loyal friend and problem solver. As I look at my three siblings, I see those traits in them every day – and I know dad is looking down on us and pointing out the things we’re doing, bragging to any who will listen.

He couldn’t be any more proud.