My dad, Brad Meyocks, would have been celebrating his birthday today.
He has been gone seven years now, and what still catches me off guard is how often people tell me they miss him. Not politely. Not casually. But in that pause-filled way that tells you he mattered to them.
That kind of impact does not come from a title. It comes from how you show up.
My dad, Brad Meyocks, started Four Corners Concrete when he was barely more than a kid himself in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He never finished college because he and his parents argued about his hair length. He had the best handlebar mustache in town. He laughed loudly. He carried quiet confidence. And he was generous in ways most people never knew about.
People remember him as a big man with the biggest heart and the biggest laugh. That feels right.
I have been thinking a lot about how entrepreneurs teach. Not through books or frameworks or leadership talks. They teach through proximity. Through watching. Through absorbing things you do not fully understand until years later, when you realize you are doing exactly what they would have done.
That is the real education.
One of my dad’s friends told me something after he passed that stopped me in my tracks. She said he used to text her whenever blueberries were on sale. Years earlier, she had mentioned she loved them. He never forgot.
No one knew he did that until he was gone.
That is not an MBA lesson. But it tells you everything about how he moved through the world. He paid attention. He remembered. And then he acted, not for recognition, but because it felt natural to him.
As I often tell our team at StringCan, “Paying attention is a leadership skill. People know when you see them.”
His generosity showed up the same way. Food drive trailers. Holiday family adoptions. Rodeo sponsorships. Coaching kids' sports, even when we were not very good. Much of it is quiet. Much of it is anonymous.
You cannot install that with a values statement. You either orient your life around other people, or you do not. My dad did, every single day.
One comment on my dad’s obituary came from a neighbor who said he passed my dad hundreds of times on Gold Nugget Way, the street we grew up on. Always a smile. Always a wave.
Hundreds of times. The same smile. The same wave.
That is the lesson.
Not hustle. Not reinvention. Just consistency. Showing up the same way, year after year, so people know exactly who they are going to get.
Entrepreneurs do not get to hide behind departments or job titles. You are just you. And people remember how you made them feel. My dad made people feel seen. Like they mattered. And he did it without thinking it was anything special.
It was just how he operated.
Before YouTube tutorials and online courses, my dad taught himself decorative concrete staining and stamping. He saw where the industry was going and refused to stand still.
When your name is on the business, waiting is not an option.
He started young. Built alongside my mom, the love of his life. When they first went to dinner, he asked her what she wanted out of life. She said, “Everything.” So he married her and spent the rest of his life figuring out how to give her exactly that.
That is entrepreneurship to me. Not pitch decks or buzzwords. Just commitment. Responsibility. And the belief that you will figure it out as you go.
The biggest difference between people who grow up around entrepreneurs and those who do not is not skill. It is orientation.
You learn that ownership means being wrong sometimes. That mistakes leave scar tissue, and scar tissue becomes wisdom. You learn that business is personal because every invoice represents a family. Every handshake matters.
When you watch someone show up the same way for decades, generous and present and fully themselves, you learn that consistency is its own kind of greatness.
No performance. No brand. Just reliability.
My dad’s obituary said there is a giant Brad-sized hole in the hearts of his family, friends, and community.
Seven years later, that hole is still there. But so is everything he taught us.
Figure it out yourself. Give quietly. Show up the same way every time. Pay attention to people. Text them when blueberries are on sale. Laugh often. And when someone asks what you want out of life, have the courage to say everything, and then build it together.
One of his friends wrote, “Most of all, I laughed with him. It was an honor to know the man.”
That is the legacy. Not the concrete. Not the company. The fact that people felt honored just to know him.
Happy birthday, Dad.