|Dad and me at the barn, November 2007|
Dad was, at least as the family story goes (and we know about family stories), due on April 1st but held out until April 2nd. No fool am I, said he. Calabar gladly picked up that moniker many years later and wears it quite proudly as a matter of fact.
My dad was not an April fool per se, but a writer, a wordsmith and a terrible pun-meister--all of which was colored by his often-bawdy sense of humor. He loved words and crafting with them. He loved the lyric of languages and picked up foreign dialects with an impressive ear for accent and intonation.
The fact that he loved my blog filled me with great pride. He never once corrected my writing, though I'm sure there were many occasions to do so. He just read it and told me to keep writing.
So I have.
I love the ease of writing and editing on the computer--very easy to change and rearrange text, thoughts, the entire flow of a sentence. But when I have something serious to write--something that needs a more personal, permanent and visceral feel--I pick up the fountain pen Dad left behind and scratch my thoughts down in a Moleskin notebook, much the way he did for years. Sometimes I can even read what I wrote later--in and of itself another legacy--and I always end up with ink on my fingers when I'm done.
I miss you, Dad. I don't forget you're gone anymore, but your absence still makes me sad. I suspect there will always be times that is the case.