Dad, Denver, and the Dead

Three notes from the universe

I’ve never been a spiritual person. Not really. My mom always has been—lit candles, whispered prayers, signs and symbols from the universe type of thing. My dad, not so much. He grew up Catholic, sure, but as a scientist he wrestled with the structure of religion. He believed in facts. In things you could see, test, hold.

Me? I’ve always lived somewhere between them. Pragmatic, skeptical, but curious. And as I get older, I’ve softened toward the idea that there’s something out there. Call it the universe, call it God, call it chaos wearing a nice tie—it doesn’t really matter. All I know is that some moments feel heavier than coincidence.

This past week, I took a trip to Denver with John—my oldest son. College visit season is officially here, and he’s meeting with coaches, touring campuses, starting to sketch out what his life might look like after high school. It’s a surreal thing to witness: your kid on the brink of their next chapter, while you silently spiral about how time is a lie and your knees suddenly hurt for no reason.

Anyway—Denver. Mountains, sunshine, thin air, overpriced lattes. And three things happened. Three very specific things. They say things happen in threes. I used to roll my eyes at that. This time? I didn’t.

One.

We decided to check out Red Rocks. Not for a show, just to see the place. I’d always wanted to experience it in person—the way the earth folds into a natural amphitheater, the mythology around its acoustics. When we got there, the seating area was blocked off. They were setting up for a concert that night. The show?

Jerry Garcia Symphonic Celebration.

Of all things.

Jerry Garcia was his guy. The Dead were his band. He passed that love on to me not in a pushy way, but in the way that good dads do—by just letting it play in the background until one day it sounded like home.

Two.

A few hours later, I get a news alert: Paul McCartney announced a new U.S. tour. My dad and I bonded hard over the Beatles. They were our shared religion. Not the cute Beatlemania stuff—everything. Rubber Soul to the White Album to Let It Be.

How deep does that love go? John is John Paul—Lennon and McCartney. Ellis is Ellis Sky—Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Even our pug is named Ringo. This family is basically a walking Sgt. Pepper tribute.

The Beatles were the bridge between us. And now here I am, getting a sign from Paul himself (ok, or Ticketmaster).

Three.

Later that afternoon, while wandering around a neighborhood near downtown, I stepped into a high-end audio store called Aural HiFi. You know me—I can’t resist a good stereo setup. I start browsing, taking in the McIntosh amps, the floor speakers the size of smart cars, the cables that cost more than my first apartment. And then, in the back, I see it:

A fully restored Transcriptor Skeleton turntable.

The same exact model my dad passed down to me when he died.

I froze. I’ve never seen one in the wild before—not outside of my own home, not like this. Not perfect. I just stood there, kind of stunned. It felt like spotting a ghost, or a relic from a former life. The craftsmanship, the chrome, the delicate tonearm—it was like staring into a memory made tangible. And I got emotional. More than I expected.

That turntable was never just a piece of audio gear. It was something he loved. Something I inherited in pieces—literally—and took the time to bring back to life. And now here was another version of it, fully restored, gleaming under showroom lights, with a price tag of $4,999.99.

But mine? Mine is priceless.

Because mine has fingerprints. His and mine. It’s layered with the kind of weight that stores don’t sell.

All of this happened in about eight hours. And maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe it’s a string of coincidences that happened to hit me when I was feeling reflective, nostalgic, maybe a little sunburned.

But maybe…

Maybe he’s still out there in the cosmos. Drifting through music and memory, showing up in little ways to remind me that he’s still part of the story. That even now, especially now, he’s still with me.

Things happen in threes.

Maybe this was just my dad’s way of saying hi.