Michael Finley

My memories of dad and why I wanted to dedicate his last building to him.

“It has been 20 years since you left, and I am still learning things you tried to teach me more than 30 years ago. Then things come up that still make me mad at you—like the board you told me to hammer up on the wall at the maintenance building in the trailer park to get it out of my way back around 1996. I had completely forgotten about that board until May 17, 2025, when I found the board you were so persistent about me hammering up on that wall through the wall of one of my rental buildings about 1/4 mile away from that maintenance building, thanks to a tornado. After I drove away, clearing my mind about everything that had happened that weekend, I realized that board really had nothing to do with you. It was just bad chance. But it was also around that time that I started thinking about the best way I could honor you, and that is when I came up with dedicating the building to you. It may have been the last physical thing you built on this earth, but it wasn't the last thing you built. Your sons and your daughter have built families of their own, and they work hard to teach their kids the things you taught us. Sometimes I hear you when I'm lecturing my own child, and it makes me sad and happy all at the same time. My child is learning to drive now, and you were such a big part of that time in my life. Paying attention is a lost art, and I know you taught so many people that lesson when they came through the doors at the rink. Unfortunately, you died because people did not pay attention. I often tell people that if the air traffic controller had worked as a DJ for you, they would have noticed something wasn't right and stopped the accident from happening. Because even the DJs, while loading new music, were expected to pay attention to the floor—to see crashes, speed skaters, or anything else that wasn't right. If the pilots had worked in concessions for you, they would have noticed a light wasn't on a game and stopped to check it out instead of continuing down the wrong runway that morning. But that's okay. You taught all of us. We learned. And most of the time, we remember. And I know for myself, when I don't remember, I can still hear the lecture and those words: "Do it right the first time, and you won't have to do it again." Thanks, Dad. Thanks for everything you taught me. Sorry I proved you right about so many of the things you tried to warn me about. But I continue pushing through. I continue trying to do things right. And I continue trying to teach my child—or anyone else I can help—the same way you did. And that lets me know you would be proud of me, because I am being the best David I can be. I miss you, Dad. But 20 years later, you're still teaching me.”