My dad died today. Well, not this particular day but this day, 41 years ago.

Forty-one years … I’ve spent more than 65% of my life without my father. My mother, who joined him eight years ago, was a widow longer than she was married. My youngest brother didn’t even get to finish his first year of college before he had to prematurely come back to help place our father in the ground.

Forty-one years later I still remember the telephone call, still remember my initial histrionics, still remember the emptiness that — no matter the time that’s passed — remains unfilled.

Every single day that I peruse our obituaries, a little piece of me feels heartbroken knowing that no matter the age or the circumstances of the deceased there will be something hollow in the hearts of every survivor listed.

I never really had a lot of memories. With four brothers and as many newspapers my dad was absent a large part of my childhood. Oh, he was dutiful in his responsibilities of parenthood. He attended every ball game and swim meet, every operetta or performance. He tried to make the quality of time make up for the quantity, but when you divide a rare Sunday afternoon between five sons and an equally busy wife, the slices aren’t very much.

I remember being so jealous of my older brothers who, when returning from their college semester, would stay up into the wee hours of the morning sparring political prose with one another — bonding, sharing and laughing at arguments that today would be considered ludicrous.

I remember his disappointment when I opted to drop out of college. I was confused as to why I needed a degree to do the job I was already doing under the instruction of the best teacher a future newspaperman could have: my dad.

I remember him angrily telling me that, upon my college departure, I would not be working with him, demanding that I get out in the world and handing me a check for $500 — the only money I ever received — to find a job and move on with my life.

I remember my mother crying as I packed my Triumph convertible with my meager belongings and heading west to Montana in search of his approval.

And I remember the 7:30 a.m. pounding on my basement efficiency apartment with the ominous message to phone home.

I have a lot of memories of my dad, the newspaper publisher. He, wearing white gloves, inspecting his boys’ Saturday cleaning of an ink and smoke-filled newspaper office that, no matter the amount of scrubbing, could never be really clean.

I remember him trying to make a game out of tearing apart our weekly pages from their metal chaise, blindfolding us while we tossed headline type into California cases, rushing to see who could finish first and with the most accuracy.

I remember the pride I felt when people adopted the name of the newspaper as their moniker, calling themselves Twiners in honor of my father’s efforts.

I remember him treating heroes and the homeless the same, holding court with senators and governors while greeting a local transient with a $5 bill.

I remember how hard he worked just to ensure we wouldn’t have to while teaching us success comes not from ideas, but from effort.

I remember how fervently he tried to talk me out of this profession, well aware of its limited financial offerings and wanting more for his sons than he was able to attain himself.

My dad never got to see me run a newspaper or share a story. He never read my byline or witnessed the winning of awards. We never got to work together as father and son, partners towards a common goal and I never got to pay him back his $500, a gift I know he could ill afford.

Today my dad died — 41 years ago. And for every child of every parent who finds themselves listed as survivors in the obituaries, I hope that the hollowness in your heart will heal.