Garry Earl Fields finally used up whatever cosmic credit he had left on June 10, 2025, in Dayton, Ohio. Born December 21, 1965, in Ashland, Kentucky, Garry lived the kind of life that makes people say, “Wait, he was still alive?”

A lifelong wildcard, Garry once learned to swim in the Ohio River—which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about his decision-making. He was a man who did things the hard way, then insisted it built character. He narrowly avoided death by cirrhosis once, got a second chance, and instead of becoming a motivational speaker, just doubled down on the chaos.

Alcoholism and homelessness were constant companions in his life, and he burned more bridges than most people ever cross. But even in the wreckage, there were pieces of him worth remembering: his bizarre charm, his unmatched storytelling, his love for music that makes you feel something; Blue October, the Cranberries, Counting Crows, the Decemberists—sad alt rock was his love language.

He loved nature, especially the weird spiritual kind. In a simpler time, he could be found wandering the Serpent Mound like some grizzled druid or camping at Long’s Retreat like a cryptid who only appeared after dark, reeking of bonfire and unsolicited philosophy.

Our relationship was… fractured. Sometimes painfully so. But even in absence, he was present in strange, persistent ways. He was a deeply flawed man, but also a real person and still my dad. A broken compass who somehow still taught me how to to find north. And like a weird mixtape you didn’t ask for but keep anyway, parts of him stay with me.

Garry is survived by his daughter, Samantha McMillan, who inherited his dark sense of humor, music taste and a love for binge watching Forensic Files. And also by his grandchildren Samuel Hall, Halen Hall, and Nova McMillan—who will be told the honest version of the story; that while some people are hard to love, they are still worth being remembered.

He didn’t live gently, didn’t die cleanly, and definitely didn’t follow the rules. But somehow, that was the whole point.

There will be no funeral.

He left behind no money, no plans, no instructions—just vibes and unresolved emotions. So instead of a service, light a candle, play something loud and moody, and scream-sing “A Long December” into the void. Or don’t. Garry would’ve supported either decision, as long as it didn’t involve paperwork.

In lieu of flowers, consider doing something wildly unwise but somehow meaningful, then lie about it later like Garry would’ve.

Wherever he is now, may the music be loud and the campfire lit.

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