A handful of years ago my Dad’s friends down the Eagles made a funny t-shirt for him and his crew. I honestly can’t remember the occasion and I meant to ask someone but here I am and I haven’t… Anyway, the T-shirt said “Ozzie did it,” and the gist of it was that if there was something going on down here, some prank or a running joke, my dad was likely behind it. In other words, blame Oz because it was probably him. Ozzie did it.

But as is true with so many things, today especially it seems, there can be more than one meaning to something. And as I reflected on my dad and his life, I kept thinking of this t-shirt for some reason. But it’s not the Ozzie did it, in the sense of a prank, that’s striking a chord for me. It’s more like “Ozzie did it” as in he did it in life. He did all the things that make up a full, happy, and exceptionally cool ride. And he did it in the pure character of Oz being Oz - with class, by being a man of his word, being good at literally everything he did, and being unapologetically himself. Ozzie did it.

He did it and he did it well - when he played as a star hockey player at Hingham High School as a kid, alongside his brother, my uncle Dick, who was known as Big Oz, making my dad by default Little Oz. I imagine he didn’t mind dropping the “little” portion of his nickname a bit later in life. As we looked through photos of my dad this past week I stumbled upon a scrap book he made that I’d never seen. There were dozens of newspaper clippings about the Osborn brothers and their adventures in hockey. The pictures of him struck me more than the fine print or impressive stats did. He was SO handsome, so young.  I teased my sisters that I totally would have had a crush on him back in the day if we went to high school together (and ya know, if he wasn’t my dad 'cause that's weird). But I mention that because there was just something about this man, that even manages to shine through the dull, grainy newspaper prints from his teenage days, something that made you want to know him, to be around him. An effortless cool that only grew in time.

Ozzie did it when he asked out that cute waitress from the Ol’ Mille Grille. Nice going, dad. With that easy vibe about you, you probably didn’t have to do much convincing for mom. Still, she always made sure we knew she played hard to get. When my dad asked if he could call her to take her out she famously told him that her number was in the book and that he could look it up. And thankfully he did. As cool as they both played it, our mom let us know what had caught her eye about him and that was the gentle way he was with his daughter. Kim, who would have been about 3 at the time, would always sit on the same side of the booth as my dad, just the 2 of them dining, and would be too shy to order her own food or even look at the waitress who would later become her step mom. They’d share his meal as she snuggled and hid under his arm. My mother had her own daughter, Chrissie at home, the same age, so that pulled on her heartstrings for sure.  I mean, plus, the guy had a Harley.

Dad was always a picture of cool on his motorcycle. First in his party days with his friends and lady on the back, looking all like James Dean in a pair of aviators, and, later with us kids usually sitting on the front gas tank, our matching white helmets in style. I learned young that I had to lean into the turn on a bike and was never scared because I was with my dad, our protector. I also learned to distinguish the loud rumble of a Harley versus any other type, the only acceptable motorcycle worth driving.  Beth remembers my Dad waking her up early on Sunday mornings without an explanation and saying “Wanna go?” which meant they’d head out early on the bike, first for breakfast and then for a destination to be determined by the winding roads.

In addition to the bike, Chrissie and Kim remember my dad in his pickup truck too, driving on the sand of the beach down the cape, and riding on the wheel wells to the Hingham 4th of July Parade. This parade was a tradition in our family; first as spectators and then when Dad would drive his ’29 in it and we’d throw candy out the windows from the back. There’s a theme emerging here - it’s often about vehicles with my dad! Bikes, pickups, and antiques, this guy was in his element with anything with wheels.

His passion for restoring and maintaining his antique cars was unmatchable and I’d be remiss not to mention them by year and type, as Dad would want me to (thank you Donnie for making sure I got these exactly right). There’s the 1929 Ford Model A sedan, 1930 Ford Model A coup, 1932 Ford panel truck, and 1952 Chevy pick-up truck.  He’s won literally countless local and national awards for these cars, and is even being buried with the 3 large plaques that have probably close to 100 medals attached. That doesn’t even scratch the surface of the trophies, plaques and plates that are still hanging at home. He traveled the country, giant trailer in tow, showing these cars and always coming home with a win. While his original baby, the ’29, was reserved for shows, the ’52 was for driving. He would toot around in that one, most notably on his Sunday drives, to the gut in Hull, the cape cod canal, or wherever it was the day took him, with a partner while my mom was around and more recently, solo.

Ozzie did it when it came to being a good dad, approaching fatherhood in his own way too. My dad was very loving but pretty strict with us at the same time. There was no pushback or arguing when Dad said No. That was your answer, “fourth width” as he’d say which basically meant “zip it” if you started to try and get him to change his mind. I often wish I could channel this part of my Dad when my kids try to convince me of something I’ve already stamped a “no” on. I think with the 4 girls being spread out in age the way we are, we all saw different strictness levels with my dad. As the youngest, I got the easiest version of him, so thanks for wearing him down a little sisters. And of course more recently with the grandkids, he’s a softie, strictness useless and gone all together from him. Instead it’s Yes to the M&Ms in his candy jar, no matter the time of day, no matter if the kids have even had a proper breakfast yet.

Some other noteworthy traits of his parenting - convincing us time after time to smell his feet after a long workday because “this time they’re actually NOT smelly” (they were and we fell for it every time). His joy at embarrassing us girls while out in public, breaking into his classic “strut” in the mall or pausing to do an impressive one-legged pose, one that his daughters can picture perfectly right now in their heads.

You know what else Ozzie always did? He told the same stories over and over again. And this is a trait he’s passed along to his children, which I often have to apologize to my husband or friends for when I tell them for the 50th time a classic that they already know. I’ve heard my sisters do the same. Sorry, it’s in our genes!

Some classics that we’ve heard more than once from Oz - the time he chased the guy who broke into his shed in the middle of his night away at gunpoint; the time Chrissie played softball and the random guy in the audience cheered for her, “Hey hamburgggerrr.” How Kim had cute names for things, like a “rella rella,” for umbrella, “zoo-ic” for music, and “fundering and rightning” for thunder and lightning. There was the time that Beth got a splinter and when my dad had to take it out, the neighbors thought something a little more tragic was going on by her screams. And the time I crawled over to a bucket of blue paint as a baby and stuck both of my arms in, armpit deep. Let’s not forget about the time mom came home from her last night at a restaurant, making my dad guess how she’d gone out in a blaze (you guys, she literally lit a dry palm tree on fire with a birthday candle). This is a mom turned-dad repeat story and there’s plenty of those too. There’s not necessarily anything exceptional about these tales, but still, they made up our lives and Ozzie did them justice by repeating them often.

Ozzie did it and he did it BIG when he built his epic garage, his absolute pride and joy. After his four girls were all out of the house and off on their own, it was his time to do something really big and really awesome for himself and that was to build this garage. He likes to tell us that it’s more square footage than the entire house and if you’ve seen it, you know. If you haven’t seen it, you’ve missed out. There are professional car-lifts people, so look up, because his cars are probably right off the ground and over your head. The walls are covered in street signs he’s acquired, probably some legally and some illegally, over the years. There are cases for his trophies and his collectibles, which my son would give any amount of money to get his seven-year-old hands on. But these stay in their cases in pristine condition and that’s that. That’s Ozzie’s way. There are always plenty of cold Bud Lights in the fridge out there, specifically knowns as “Garage Beers,” and they seem to never run out. There’s even an old racing uniform, from his days of drag racing, hanging at the garage’s peak. Yep, the man drag raced. Add that to the cool column. Ozzie did that too.

Ozzie did it and did it with love when he cared for my mom in the way only someone who loves hard can do. He was her ROCK, her ultimate support while she battled cancer for 3 years, ultimately ending in hospice. And having watched her death happen at home, he made a decision - that he wanted the same for himself. He wanted to die at home like Mom. Ask Kim, she’s got it in her “dad notebook” along with other important things he needed us to know. He also made that very clear to Beth and her family, who lived at my dad’s house for the past couple years. “I came into this house vertical,” he told Beth, “And I’m leaving this house horizontal.” Dad, you even did that as promised—why am I not surprised?

And because my dad loved a cold bud light a whole lot (something we have in common); this one is for you.  To Oz, the man who did it all and did it his way, with style and class. I love you, Dad. Ozzie did it. Cheers.