This is what I need you to know about my dad: it all broke the most where Eric was.

Eric George Dahlberg was born on February 17, 1947, to Carl and Rita Dahlberg, both of Wellston, Ohio, their second child after his older sister Elizabeth. They were the prototypical, almost Norman Rockwellian postwar family, with a beautiful house and a dog and a two-room schoolhouse in the middle of small-town America.

Dad was born into an extended family that I can only describe as a conglomeration of chaotic joy. They were wild and funny, and it’s no wonder that Dad became the man he ultimately was – to be raised in such an environment would undoubtedly have made even the most cynical human a merry prankster when all was said and done. Family was everything – but a sense of humor was required to survive it.

One of the family’s best stories goes like this: when Dad was a boy, he and some of his cousins were playing in a bedroom at my great Aunt Ruth’s home while the adults mingled in the living room. Being young and boisterous, they started jumping on the bed. You can probably guess where this is going. Jumping children and wooden bed frames are not a good combination. When the inevitable crash happened and the adults looked around in surprise, Dad’s cousin Joe ran out from the bedroom. Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, he declared that “it broke the most where Eric was!”

Over time, that phrase became family shorthand for “stuff happens.” But I used to love hearing them tell that story, while Dad just grinned sheepishly. He didn’t deny it, didn’t qualify it. I think he knew there was some truth to it. It did break the most where he was—which to me always meant that he was the most exuberant, energetic participant.

Most things in Dad’s life were like that. He jumped on a lot of beds – figuratively, of course. He leaned deeply into life’s twists and turns. He worked hard, and he played hard. He traveled to Europe; he went to college. And, of course, he met Mom. It was a blind date, but as Mom likes to say, she got one look at his blue eyes and was smitten. He was too – which is good, because when he introduced Mom to the extended family, they badgered him about whether she was the one. (She was.) Before they were married, Dad had to hide the car that they were going to drive off in for their honeymoon because he was worried his cousins would mess with it for laughs (which they did).

My sister, Sarah, and I followed a few years later. Dad planned trips and vacations for the family; he loved camping, so he got a pop-up camper and we spent many, many trips hauling it behind us to campgrounds and state parks. He’d brag about how fast we could get it set up in the rain. (I assure you that it was not fast enough.) He followed his children and grandchildren to extracurricular activities, video camera in hand, cheering us on from the sidelines. In reality, he was the reason we were there in the first place, the result of his prodding and constant and unending encouragement.

He worked hard, moving up through the Department of Corrections until he became a warden, first in Lima and then later in Mansfield. I think this is the period that most people who knew Dad connect with him. I’d tell my friends that my dad was a prison warden and they’d look at me, wide-eyed. I can only imagine what Sarah’s high school boyfriends thought. He could be imposing when he wanted to be, but if you really knew him, you could tell that the “warden” was just a facade.

When he wasn’t working, and he wasn’t home with us, Dad was on the golf course. He breathed golf. It was a perpetual challenge for him, and there was always something to improve. He was a bit stubborn by nature, and the fact that it was a task never to be mastered was like a red cape to a charging bull. He could describe every shot of every round he’d played, in unbelievable detail. He shared that passion with Mom, and tried to share it with Sarah and me, though we never quite took to it in the way he’d have wanted. (He thankfully had a passel of grandchildren who would eagerly and happily demand to be taken to the golf course when visiting.)

He was an avid sports follower, and particularly loved Cincinnati Reds baseball and Ohio State football. He raised us on a steady diet of AM sports talk radio on WLW out of Cincinnati and whatever FM oldies station he could find. He could sing the opening bass line of Gene Chandler’s “Duke of Earl” better than the original song itself. He claimed to hate reading, but he loved history; if he found a particularly good book, he’d be more than happy to tell you all about it. He had no time for mindless entertainment, and if it insulted his intelligence, he wasn’t going to waste the effort.

Dad LOVED conversation. He loved getting to know people, to hear their stories and their perspectives. He had a particular passion for spirited banter, always hungry for an opportunity to play devil’s advocate. Debating Dad became a family rite of passage – but in our regular Sunday night calls (a tradition dating back 30 years), Dad would often complement his sparring partners (mostly his grandchildren) on the acumen of their arguments.

He retired after more than 30 years of public service at age 57, shortly after his oldest grandchild was born. When Mom retired from teaching a few years later, they were able to relocate full-time to Pinehurst, where they built a house overlooking the golf course and could play year-round. The house became both a waypoint and a vacation destination for friends and family, always stocked with their favorite sweets and treats.

When my son Carl was born, we asked Dad what he wanted his grandparent name to be. He thought about it and came up with Grandude. We’d never heard that one before, but it fit him to a tee. As with all things, he leaned into being a grandparent joyously. He wrapped his arms around each new grandchild, treasured them, asked after them, teased them, and most importantly loved them. Soon after Rosalie, his youngest grandchild, was born, an Amazon package arrived on Sarah’s doorstep – it was a towel warmer from Dad, purchased because Rosie had gotten used to warm towels after her baths in the NICU. He was happiest when he was with his family. We hadn’t even gotten to this summer and he was already planning out the next one – a family vacation in the hills of Tennessee where everyone could gather and spend time together.

I could tell you more stories. Everyone here could. He wanted us to do that, to remember him with laughter, to tell funny stories and remind ourselves that we’re here now, that we have each other, that life is a myriad of opportunities to be seized and enjoyed to the fullest, like the simple pleasure of jumping on a bed.