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Like many people, I often blame my father for the person I am today.

Me and my dad, c. 1971

Me and my dad, c. 1971

For instance, I have inherited his (and his mother’s) earlobes.

And, we both love pickled eggs.

Our hair colour has progressed through the same blondish, darker blondish, non-descript mousy (the kind the dye commercials always show to try to entice you to jazz up your blah), and now, brown.  As someone who has always identified myself as blond (and in my 30s, with a little help from some jazzing up), it’s still a little startling to notice that I now have completely natural brown hair.

Yep, it’s my Dad hair with no jazzing and I am embracing it.  Next stop for me, I hope:  the beautiful white of his beard and hair.

I also hold him largely responsible for my vintage leanings.

He was the person pointing out the difference between old cars like Aston (Martins) and Austin (Healeys) and bringing home strays to fix up (Triumphs, MGB, 1936 Dodge…)  He was the person playing us Vietnam protest songs like Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant from the 60s, even though I was a teenager firmly in the 1980s.  He was the person who said in 1999, “Wow, those new bank machine things sure are handy, aren’t they?” even though the rest of the world had been using them for a decade.

Yes, this Father’s Day, I blame my father for the person I am today.  In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s a big reason why I’m so odd and, of course, wonderful.  And also, why I’m still using cash instead of  those “new fangled” debit cards.

Today, Dad and I (and our matching earlobes) plan to spend the afternoon together at…where else?  An antique car show.  Except that it seems to be raining.  And dad feels the same about The Nature as I do.

Maybe we’ll cozy up in his MGB with a jar of pickled eggs instead.

Love you, Vat. xoxo