We went to see my 79-year-old dad on Saturday. He’s in constant pain with arthritis now, unable to walk far, and not the man I think of when I think of my dad, if you see what I mean. Like lots of old people seem to he accumulates junk mail, cards, papers, jars, packets of seeds, scientific journals, business cards and other shite which gets left lying around in neat piles. With the aid of some black plastic bags we were sorting through some of these piles and I unearthed this treasure:
It’s a photo of me as four-year-old in my Dad’s arms approaching Mount Shasta . It was taken by my mum in 1967, the first year we lived in California, when my Dad was professor at the University of California’s Berkeley campus. The photo encapsulates all the qualities that I admire my dad for: his pioneering spirit, his inquisitive brain, his loving and supportive nature. This is the man I know to be my dad.
It’s scary to see how much like my brother he looks. Indeed, when this photo was taken my dad was four years younger than my brother is now.
How short our lives are! Time to get on and do some living before I become a mad old hippie woman with cats…