One year short of a Beatles song

When I was packing to move here I ran out of time to choose some pictures and easily transportable tchotchkes to remind me of home. So in celebration of my dad's recent birthday, I have only a lousy photo of a photo. Photos from the 70s and early 80s have an odd finish - almost like a woven texture. And they acquire an orangey-gold glow that makes everything seem softer and warmer like it took place in late afternoon sunshine. But the glow doesn't exaggerate my dad's dashing good looks.


Or his seventies rockstar hair.

My dad was a varsity athlete and trained as a tank commander. But he also wore sandals, drove Volvos (LONG before they were popular), voted NDP, grew alfalfa sprouts and made yogurt, lobbied for and helped maintain conservation areas and nature preserves, and refused to let me play with Barbie dolls. He was a demanding dad, but he devoted more time to us than most parents I knew. He coached sports teams, took us on hikes and attended every excruciating music recital. After a day of work he still had the energy to sit on a child-sized chair and pretend to be impressed by a plate of Lego blocks in a make-believe restaurant. He drew cartoons of insects to stop me being so afraid of them, and the characters still appear on my birthday cards. He once got a speeding ticket because he was belting out the hits from 'Sesame Street Singalong' with us and paying no attention to the speedometer. I owe my appreciation of puns to him, and also my crazy eyebrows. He's working on my appreciation of red wine, which he no longer drinks out of Tupperware cups (see photo).

Happy birthday, Dad! I hope it's another great year.