As it turns out, the history of literature is full of writers who weren't too fond of their fathers.
After encouragement from three friends who each in turn reminded me that I am supposed to be something of a writer (and the last simply refusing to take "no" for an answer, thank you, Dave) I decided to write my own "quote," if you will, for my dad. Its reception was decidedly underwhelming. My father seemed rather bemused by all three of his gifts, all three of which I thought were very good, including mine.
In the meantime I should say that a trip up the California coast was just what the doctor ordered. Inspiration abounds in the beauty of the sea. It was cold and windy, but the wild flowers were blooming. I'm a failure at my attempts to capture it, but here are a handful of pictures for your own inspiration, if unfortunately minimally inspiring:
A misty morning view of the sea with reddish ice plant on the cliffs.
A California wild Poppy. Maybe.
If you can otherwise identify this wild flower, please feel free to contact me.
Misty morning mountainside, trail with bridge and wild flowers.
Sunset at the shore with driftwood.
A California sunset*.
*Sunset to the left. Washed out poor digital photo straight ahead.
