My Dad, for as long as I can remember, has loved the great outdoors.
Not so much to drag us camping (thank goodness) but enough to revel in getting up at five in the morning to hike around “the bush” getting precariously close to all manners of wildlife and getting grass stains on all his boots. He taught my sisters and I how to appreciate the outdoors, even if we weren’t willing participants.
And in the middle of winter – we really weren’t.
He has that unique ability to drum up a well of energy at the merest mention of things like “sledding” or “swimming”, and to this day, when you say “Wanna go pick blueberries in the blistering sun while your youngest daughter hides in the bushes and throws unripened green berries at us?” he will start the car.
On Saturday he is turning … 57. Or as he says, “18, with 39 years of experience.”
Here’s my Dad and I, 1987, in Ocean City, Maryland.
We haven’t changed (much).