Happy Father’s Day!

For Father’s Day, here’s a post in honor of the paternal unit responsible for 50% of the DNA that produces this blog.

My father visited in late March and we headed to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum south of Boston.  Dad was part of the generation affected greatly by JFK’s presidency, and I was glad to show him one of my favorite museums.  Especially striking is how the designers deftly handled the physical and emotional transitions from the campaign trail to White House years to the assassination to the large atrium with the gigantic flag hanging, leaving you feeling hopeful at the end of what could have been a sad final exhibit.

Afterward, we took a self-timer shot in front of the Boston Harbor, looking out from Columbia Point:

Father & daughter

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!  You’ve been a great father; thank you for all the travels, bits of photography advice, and car repair.

A Covey of Quail

I’ve been tutoring a couple in West Marin, teaching them how to use their computer, their printer, their iPod, and their camera.  Milly has taken to gardening while listening to Pandora Radio on the iPod. Richard was so inspired that he printed out a booklet of his poetry and prose and gave it to his sister for Christmas!  His latest project has been a photo of the day blog.  A recent entry was a covey of quail, perched on the boom of a Flying Scot at the Inverness Yacht Club.


Quail perched on a sailboat

I was drawn to how they’re pointing in different directions, and the blueness of the water. Way to go, Richard!

I’m off to Massachusetts for four months to finish my master’s thesis.  Here’s to more sailing on that coast!

Riding

He didn’t know what to expect as I tapped his left thigh to signal a turn onto the narrow mountain road. It’d been years since I had last driven up the winding route to the top of the ridge, so, neither did I.

The “SPEED LIMIT 15” sign should have meant something to him, but he blatantly ignored it as he poured on the throttle, accelerating to a speed probably twice what was posted. We roared up to the first turn, a steep hairpin which lacked any sort of banking. An abrupt downshift almost threw me off the back of the bike as the curve presented more than he expected. The second hairpin, like the first, was also accompanied by a rapid decrease in engine revolutions as I clung to his waist and tried to mimic his lean. By hairpin number three, he’d gotten the hang of the curving strip of pavement and I was able to relax a bit my white-knuckle grip on his jacket.

While the asphalt wasn’t as smooth as some other roads we’d ridden, it lacked potholes and most importantly, other cars. We twisted and rumbled up to the peak, where we parked and walked around the summit of my favorite Inverness hill. Douglas irises, coyote brush, moss, lichen, bishop pine trees, pumpernickel flowers, and poppies shone in the bright afternoon light. We could see to Hog Island and Dillon Beach along Tomales Bay, as well as to the Point Reyes Lighthouse, Chimney Rock, Mount Saint Helena, and most of the hills of wine country. “Heavenly,” he declared the vista.

The descent was an entirely different matter: My sunglasses, combined with the face shield on my borrowed helmet, made the reflections from leaves appear pink, blue, yellow, or vivid green. I imagined what the oak trees would look like with indigo blossoms the size of magnolias or the ceanothus with pink foliage. As soon as we began to drop in altitude, he turned off the engine and we quietly coasted down the road in neutral, only turning the engine for two brief uphill portions. It was strange only hearing the rush of wind, rather than the usual skull-shaking throb-THROB-throb-THROB of the engine, as we silently rolled toward the main road amidst a riot of pinks, blues, and greens.