He was blind and couldn’t see me point the camera, so I said, “Hey Dad, I’m going to take a picture of you.” He smiled.
I’m glad I did. It’s my favourite photo.
At his funeral service two decades later I set this photo at the front of the room, surrounded by sheaves of wheat.
And finally, now, thirty years after that, I’m realizing how much of me is an extension of him: his odd interest in both science and poetry, his love of nature and the country, and his stubbornness.
What would make me happier and more content than anything else in the world right now would be to drive an old tractor in circles around a fragrant field, pulling a disc or a mower or an old-fashioned rake, the air awaft with freshly cut hay, sea gulls hovering.