It is my father's birthday.
He turns 77. He is 30 years older than me.
That is how I remember his age.
He came to Canada in '56 escaping Hungary and the revolution with a group of forestry students. He eventually made his way to the Okanagan and met my mother who was just 20. And they married and I came along. He has stories to tell.
My father was a foreigner. His English still smacks of someone who has learned the language later in life. He wore wooden clogs through most of my childhood. I was embarrassed by them at the time because he was so DIFFERENT from the other dads.
Now I see how brave he was to stay the course and be true to himself.
My dad is an artist. He loves to paint and draw. And putter in his garden. He loves my mum. Still.
Happy Birthday Dad!