A tribute to my father
|Sharing a laugh on Father’s Day|
My dad always told me I was a writer. He said this with admiration, I think. He encouraged me to write and would often help me when I got stuck. When I was taking an upper division English class as a freshman at Cal, he introduced me to the concept of an oxymoron—way before the meaning got attached to phrases like “military intelligence.” It was a tough class, but I knocked myself out to do well in it, and I still think fondly of “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”
It broke my dad’s heart when I declared a major in criminology. He asked, “What will you do? Wear a lab coat? You’re a writer. You should write!” Naturally, I resisted his interference. “I’m writing!” I protested, but I knew what he meant.
He would be happy, but not surprised, to know that I now call myself a writer.
|Glasses raised on the bateau mouche|
This is something I wrote several years ago, but it feels right to post it today—in his memory.
|Grampa Mike stories never failed to crack us up|
I keep a small picture of my father on my desk. Every time I get inspired and click the keys for hours, I look over at him and think: “Hey Dad—Look, I’m a writer!”