Happy birthday, Dad.

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Back in Australia this past December, doing the dance between families we haven’t seen since the pre-pandemic days, and we had the chance to drive the eight or nine hours down the coast to visit Mel’s family. 

I jumped at the opportunity.

Why? Because I love road trips.

There’s something about driving long distances, tapping the steering wheel to bangin’ tunes, sharing stories and ideas, debating topics, and reminiscing on memories old and new that makes the whole experience therapeutic. 

Plus, having lived car-less for the last 10 years, the long and enduring, butt-numbing journeys have been non-existent, so this would be a special 

I stocked up the car with supplies—Allen’s Snakes, Strawberries and Creams, some choccies, and a few other classic Australian confectionary choices. Mel rode shotgun as chief navigator and DJ, Maala was strapped in the backseat, eyes wide at the sky. 

The Stormons hit the road. 

I’ve made this drive twice before. Once with an ex-girlfriend when I left Brisbane for Sydney in 2012—a fine trip but nothing overly memorable about it.

The other time was with my Dad over 20 years ago when my Nan passed away. 

I was maybe ten or twelve years old and didn’t really know what was going on at the time but I remember Mum suggesting I join Dad on the fourteen or fifteen-hour drive south from Brisbane to his hometown Moruya.

I don’t necessarily remember what we talked about on that trip. But I remember laughing a lot. Singing, too.

In fact, it’s the music I remember most of all.

We’d each take turns playing from our collection of CDs.

I think I played some Red Hot Chilli Peppers, probably Creed (lol), and of course a burnt CD mix or two with Blink 182 and The Offspring. But mostly it was Dad’s collection of classic rock, folk, and Australian country music that featured. 

We bobbed heads and swapped lyrics to the likes of John Williamson, Slim Dusty, John Denver, Tom Petty, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, and more.

But one album stuck out above all: Roy Orbison’s Black and White Night. The grooving live band and Orbison’s vibrato voice paired so elegantly with our open-road journey south. 

We listened to the album back-to-back, over and over again. Air-guitaring the twangy riffs, tapping our feet and hands to the beat, screeching our voices to hit the high notes, and fumbling over Orbison’s slow and delightful grooowwwl in Pretty Woman (I still don’t know how he did that). 

To this day, when I hear the album, I’m transported back inside that car and can sing along to every track. 

Dad turns 70 today. 

A milestone birthday in many ways.

Naturally, I’ve been reflecting on our relationship. Thinking about everything he’s taught me, both directly and indirectly, about life, fatherhood, money, family, living well, and, of course, appreciating a well-aged scotch (served in a heavy glass). 

Here’s a man who’s provided so much for me and set me up for success in more ways than I could imagine.

I’ve also been wracking my brain about a gift. What do you get someone who’s turning 70?

It just so happens that Dad's celebrating with Mum and a few close friends in the luxury of a Thai resort, so I can’t exactly send him anything. And maybe that’s not the point, anyway. 

Because if the memory of that road trip has taught me anything it’s that stuff and things don’t matter so much in life as time spent with the people you love.

And while it’s a shame I can’t be there today, indulging in a scotch (or six), you better believe I’m raising a glass to the man who’s made me the man I am today.

There’s a legacy there that’s undeniable.

The road trip in December last year is a perfect example.

I vividly remember looking back at Maala asleep in the backseat and thinking about how I could make similar memories with her, that I made with Dad on our road trip all those years ago. And all it took was something as simple as sharing the same music together.

“I miss listening to CDs,” I remember saying to Mel at that moment.

“Ugh, me too,” she said. 

“Let’s listen to whole albums instead of playlists on these long drives,” I said. “It could be cool for Maala. Like a tradition.”

“Good idea,” Mel said. 

I handed her the phone. “I’ve got the perfect album to start us off.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, ever heard of Roy Orbison?’” 

***

Happy Birthday, Dad. And thanks for everything. 

Especially the music.