Father’s Day is Sunday and Mark will be celebrating with his eldest, and my kids’ dad will be celebrating with his eldest. Father’s Day is a day to make sure the father in your life is grand. If he is grand. Mark is a good dad, and my kids’ father is a good dad. Being a good father is a tricky thing; it’s like canoeing upstream. Water keeps coming over the gun whales and you have to keep paddling.
On the long trip from London to Los Angeles, I am on a justice trail, first watching the Anita Hill movie and then Spotlight, the movie about the Catholic church protecting the priests who molest kids. When you think about it, “justice” is a really overused word.
Ireland was lovely and green. When you looked into the woods, the green went on and on, so thickly. When you looked into the ponds, there was also green lying on the ponds. When the ocean went out, the seaweed heaped up along the shore, and there were mud flats, but then in the ocean came again putting wet fingers into the seaweed and the mud. We walked past the boat house which was half hidden by thickets and an abandoned blue paint that was losing paint. There was a church with many graves. And my friend in Ireland had to dig a grave for his friend’s mother and bury her in that grave. In Ireland, you might have to build the grave yourself. There is no Forest Lawn. You can buy fresh chickens at the market. You can buy honey that someone made with their backyard bees. In Ireland, you feel you can put your hands into green and your hands might become green. In Ireland, I didn’t write at all. I was teaching, but I was also walking around ponds. I am coming home from green to California, and I want to work in my garden this weekend.