I miss him every day, friend.
When my father (full name: John Hickenlooper Sr.) married my mother, she was a widow with two children. Rather than claim the name “Dad,” he invited them to call him by his nickname, “Hick.” Then my sister Deborah and I came along—his two biological children—but he was Hick to us, too. He wanted us to feel like one family. And we did.
Hick, who had lost his own father young, loved being a father—maybe more than anything.
He called us his “tadpoles” and his “jewels.” He loved introducing us to things he loved, like summer storms, fire engines, and The Wizard of Oz. He loved piling all of us in the car and just taking off, letting us navigate for him, embracing the adventure of getting lost together.
An engineer by trade, he loved taking things apart—often on the living room rug, to my mom’s consternation—and putting them back together. He loved challenges, especially mental ones, and loved asking us to rise to them.
He fostered curiosity and boldness in his children, taking one child out for dinner when she opened her eyes underwater, celebrating another for beating him in chess. He took endless joy in watching us grow.
Hick with the whole family (I’m the baby he’s holding).
He loved fatherhood, family, and life so much that what life had in store for him—and us—was unusually cruel. By the time I was seven years old, cancer had hollowed out his body. Ten days after my eighth birthday, he died.
I’ve lived with Hick’s ghost my whole life: as a young man fumbling his way to adulthood, as a grown man transitioning careers and learning to navigate relationships, and—for the last seventeen years—as a father myself. And there are times along the way when I’m sure having Hick by my side, a phone call or (nowadays) a FaceTime away, would have helped me do things better.
But as my Mom told me after Hick passed: “You can’t control what life throws at you, but you can control how you respond.”
Even in his last days of illness, Hick showed so much strength and patience. Decades later, when as a Governor I guided our state through challenges horrifying and humbling—wildfires, flooding, shootings—I thought of my father, and rallied.
Father’s Day means many things to many people. For some, it celebrates a relationship that continues to nourish and sustain. For others, it may be a day of pain or anger, perhaps at a father figure who has disappointed. For me, it’s a mix: yearning for the years unspent with Hick, even as I eagerly watch my own son grow into the man he’s meant to be.
I don’t think it’s an understatement to say our country needs a new model of masculinity—one that is open, secure, unafraid to be emotional, to nurture, to love. The opposite surrounds us these days, everywhere from news headlines to the White House itself.
But by keeping alive the spirit of Hick—and men like him who fearlessly commit to love, support and empower others—I think we can turn this around.
I think we can do it.
With love,
John
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