Pop, There are so many things I appreciate about you, but one of the biggest lessons you taught us was the importance of taking care of yourself—to look good, carry yourself with pride, and always be ready for whatever life brought your way. Cutting hair was in the family genes. Grandad did it. You did it. And today, my cousins and relatives are carrying that tradition forward and have built successful careers doing it. That was you, Dad. You took pride in things. You took pride in yourself, in your possessions, and in the things you worked hard for. You always kept Plug’s—Mom’s—Rivera and Lexus looking so fresh and clean. You made sure things were taken care of. But what makes me proudest is the way you always took care of your children. Even when I was a shorty coming home from school, it didn’t matter where I was coming from or what I needed. I knew your telephone number at the Desert Inn Hotel, in the butcher’s office. I would call and say, “Is Mr. Williams there? Is J.C. Williams there?” The person on the phone would ask, “Is this an emergency?” “Yes, it is.” And they would call you from the butcher’s office. Then you’d get on the phone and say, “What do you want, Jason?” And I’d say, “Daddy, I want some nacho cheese.” And somehow, when you came home, you would either stop at Smart & Final or Smith’s, and you would come back with exactly what I asked for. And sometimes, Dad, it wasn’t just a little bit either. You’d come home with a gallon of nacho cheese—or one of those big cans of it. Fast forward 40 years, and my three boys still love nachos to this day. And lo and behold, they ask for the very same things—chips and cheese. That’s who you were. No matter what we asked for, somehow, Dad, you always found a way to get it. You had a way of making your children feel like what we wanted mattered to you. Looking back now, I realize it was never really about the nacho cheese. It was about love. It was about a father hearing his son say, “Daddy, I want this,” and responding, “Okay, son. I’ll take care of it.” I know wanting nachos wasn’t really an emergency. But maybe, in a way, it was. Because sometimes I just wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to be around my dad. You were my ride or die. You were my best man at my wedding. You were my road dog. We drove to Texas, Mississippi, and Virginia, vibing to the blues mixtapes we picked up from Port Gibson or the Swap Meet. Those are some of the moments I’ll carry with me forever. You also taught me how to cook and BBQ. I picked up those skills from you and Mom, learning how to do things your way and eventually perfecting the art of smoking tender beef ribs. And Dad, you were pretty resourceful. You could take what you had—a barrel, a shopping cart—and somehow turn it into a well-seasoned BBQ smoker. Looking back, that was pretty damn impressive. You were a builder, too. You built an extension onto the old house and added another room for my two older brothers. You were always finding ways to make things better for your family. And you were a protector. When someone tried to come through a window late at night, you took care of it. That’s what you did. You took care of us. Dad, you were the epitome of what I want to be as a father. You showed me what it means to provide. What it means to care. What it means to take pride in yourself and in the people and things you love. But most importantly, you showed me how to love your children in the little ways—the little things that, years later, become the biggest memories. Derrick, Eric and Cassandra are going to miss you, Pop. And, I’m going to miss you, too. I’m going to miss your voice when you asked about the kids, about Jessica, and about my military career. I’m going to miss your presence. Thank you for taking care of us. And thank you for showing me what it means to be a father. I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my life.