Happy Birthday, Dad

In the Field, 7 a.m. Oil on canvas, 8x10, $65.

Yesterday, my dad turned 81. To celebrate, he played golf. How great is that?

Dad has refused to get old. He and his wife have traveled, by car, by plane and, for many years, by bike, throughout the world. They went skiing everywhere. They moved to Tubac, Arizona, a few years ago, returning to New England a couple times a year, to visit and escape the summer heat. In Tubac, they play a lot of golf, are active in the arts community, and go on what sound to me like brutal, daylong hikes. Dad drew cartoons for us when we were kids, and took up painting a few years ago. He makes wonderful watercolors of the people and landscapes of the southwest.

Time has taken some minor tolls on Dad, but they're barely worth mentioning. The fact is that, at 81, he's more active and in better shape than most people half his age.

I suspect that Dad might, at times, rue the fact that two of his three kids are engaged in activities that will never make us financially stable. But it's safe to say that it was his long-held desire to be a writer that sent my siblings and me in that direction.

So, thanks, Dad, for helping us hear the song of the creative life. Enjoy your 81st year!