My dad was born on March 2, 1936.  Today would have been his 90^th birthday.  When he was a boy, his family lost their farm in the Dust Bowl and migrated to California.  I suspect this contributed to his love of Steinbeck. He joined the Army, was a paratrooper (I cannot believe my dad jumped out of airplanes), did a tour in Europe, and then came home and went to University. He got his PhD in Sociology and spent most of his working life teaching and researching; he specialised in race relations and civil rights.  I probably became an academic because of him.  (I remember thinking as a child “If Dad can get a PhD, then I can too.  I will get three of them!”)

My dad loved the outdoors, especially the mountains. He loved to hike. He had a very dry sense of humour and told a great shaggy dog story. I was very gullible and nearly always believed his stories, especially the ridiculous ones.  He loved jazz and went to see it live whenever he could, often with my sister.  He was fascinated by politics and history, and he read anything and everything on 20^th century American politics.  Even near the end, after 12 years with Parkinson’s and cognitive decline setting in, Daddy could beat us all at quizzing – as long as the questions were about politics.

Dad taught me three important lessons in life. First, question authority. Second, always check your sources.  Third, and most importantly, be kind.  Happy Birthday, Dad! I miss you!  I’m glad you can’t see what’s happening down here.