I’ve realized sometime ago my books tend to have great fathers in them.
That is, of course, because I had/have a great father. Dad was the sort of dad any kid would want. For one he knew everything, from the nesting habits of local birds to how to translate the Latin inscriptions we came across on our rambles through the nearby woods. And he has this thing where cats, dogs, even wild animals, come to him. As they should, because he’s a good man. (Though not a Good Man.)
My concepts of honor and duty come from dad, and though sometimes they’re onerous enough, they serve their purpose of making me part of something more important than myself: of making me part of civilization and family and humanity. Without dad, left to my own devices, I’d probably long ago have been kicked out of the human race for shoving.
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