Letter to my dad on his 81st birthday

Sitting here eating a scone and drinking a cup of coffee.

Your alter on the shelf above my computer holds your missal, buck knife (god only knows where and how that was used by my suburbanite father); a framed photo of you and mom on Tunnels Beach the summer the Gillards were here; a bottle of “Goats Do Roam” South African red wine I bought for the bitchen Capricorn motif on the label, a scone (of course served with coffee in a mug I made); and all the usual alter stuff: Buddha, Quan Yin, a couple unfired bowlie heads, Tibetan bells and a Zuni fetish of a horse.

Happy Birthday Dad.

I’ve pushed you to another plane the past few birthdays. It was Jennifer Weigel’s book, “I’m Spiritual Damnit” that woke me from my denial that you are still near and accessible.

Thanks Jen.

I can’t help but consider all I’ve learned in the past 4.8 years of your absence:
If you were still alive I’d definitely make a copy of Adele’s CD “19.” You’d love her lush voice and very sexy restraint. I’d also turn you on to “Radio Lab,” my favorite story telling podcast that is deep, intellectual and funny; thoughtful, mostly.

I’ve been really self-centered lately. I’d call you and complain about how my mother-in-law is driving me crazy and you’d give your pat response of “Tough shit,” and the conversation would move on the next topic; probably what you were making for dinner that night.

By the time you discovered your love of cooking I was living in San Diego off and on, as I chased boyfriends around the West Coast. Most our food exchanges were over the phone.

I have a Polaroid of a lentil roulade. In the white rectangle below the shot you wrote, “We must try this together sometime.”

I still haven’t been able to locate that recipe. It’s in neither of your “Vegetarian Times” cookbooks.

There’s so much to share, but most of it you know already since you are "in the next room."

Happy birthday dad.

I miss feeding and hugging you.