Today, July 6 2018, it is 30 years since my father died. July 6 1988, early in the morning, in his own bed in their beautiful home in Edmonton, my mother holding him in her arms as I held her in mine. As I've written, at the moment of his death, I felt his soul fly out the window, and I felt part of him return and enter me. I felt his spirit enter me.
I just wrote to my brother that if Dad were still alive today, what is going on in the world would kill him. This is a man who thought Richard Nixon was as vile a human being as it was possible to be, the worst president imaginable. What a surprise lay in store for the world.
I'll try to find a picture of him to post, at some point.
Ryerson only ended on Wednesday; now my summer really begins. Well, except for seeing editing clients, my garden writing workshop in a few weeks, and of course, my own writing work. And all the rest.
Because I've been feeling crabby and put upon, I'd like to share a few delightful photos with you. I give you John and Paul: the early days, juvenile delinquents in the making. For your summer pleasure. And, need I say, mine.
Sigh.
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