"I'm sorry for your loss." Shared by family, friends, acquaintances and total strangers in times of grief, it's a sentiment designed to deliver comfort and compassion to those grappling with the permanence of a final goodbye. They're words that mark the end of a life and the beginning of a "new normal." And yet as we read the many kind messages we received after letting go of our Dad, a deeper theme emerged.

"Your Dad took an interest in me like few others."

"Your Dad treated me not only as your friend, but his ."

"Your Dad was like a second father to me."

"Your Dad was more of a Dad to me than my own father."

These people weren't just sorry for our loss. They were sorry for theirs . And of that we couldn't be more proud.

Tax records and business cards will show that Rick March made a living as an accountant, a career that capitalized on his intellect and provided well for his family. But his real dream was to be a writer, which probably comes as no surprise to anyone who ever left a visit with him feeling as though they were just interviewed for a forthcoming biography. He had an author's curiosity and an auditor's attention to detail.

Knowing our Dad – a Floridian by way of California, Oregon and New Hampshire – was like taking a master class in human interaction. Because whether you were raised by him or unofficially adopted by him, befriended by him or, in the case of our Mom, married to him for more than a half century, you never felt more important or more interesting than you did when you were with him. He wanted to know everything about you – your job, your hobbies, your friends, your family, your home. He wanted to understand not only who and what you love, but who and what you are . And given time to reflect on what you shared, he'd return with even more questions.

If you told him you were starting or considering a new job, for example, be it in solar energy, salon services or search engine optimization, you could bet he'd take a genuine interest in a business he'd never previously pondered, and that he'd do his homework in the days that followed to ensure that his next conversation with you on the subject would be more meaningful than the last.

Take him to a museum – any museum – and you better have planned to make a day of it. For no matter the subject, no exhibit would go unexplored, and no placard would go unread.

Finding the fun in your common ground was part of his social contract. It could be music or sports, food or wine, cars or cruises. Beating you in a lifelong tournament of mini-golf or always making room for ice cream. And while he may have borrowed some of his passions from you, they'll no longer feel quite the same without him.

Never preachy but always a leader by example, he taught us to plan for the future while enjoying the moment, to appreciate others while laughing at ourselves, to play by the rules while having the courage to change them.

And while you'd be hard pressed to find three siblings more different on the surface, he loved us all the same. Nothing, in fact, gave Dad more pride than his family. He treated our spouses like his children, deemed his grandkids "gifted" before they were born and enjoyed saying that our Mom was "out of his league." To see Dad at a family function, soaking up our sarcasm, lifting his glasses to dry the tears of his laughter and flashing a smile so big you could count his teeth, was to see the man at his happiest.

He leaves behind not only his immediate family – wife-of-50 years Darcy, sons Dave and Ryan, daughter Amber, daughters-in-law Dawn, Charity and Christina, and grandchildren Finn, Lorelai and Bailey – but also an equally adoring extended family of friends and relatives whose lives benefited immeasurably from his presence.

So as we say goodbye to one of the best guys we'll ever know and commit ourselves to building on his legacy in our own unique ways, we gratefully accept your condolences but also offer our own. Because we know that your world, like ours, was better with him in it.

-     Dave, Ryan and Amber March

In lieu of flowers, please consider making a donation in our Dad's name to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital with the hope that kids saved by that extraordinary organization bring as much joy to their families as he did to ours.

https://www.stjude.org/donate