The Circle

So we held the celebration for the dear departed dad last weekend, at St Mark's Unitarian Church. The Unitarians are great because they don't care what or if you believe, and their kirk is spare on religious imagery but big on the soaring ceilings, leaded windows and acoustics of a sacred space.

There was no officiation, but several of dad's friends and family spoke about him, his young compadres from the Greek Dancing Group performed some folk dances, and we played some 20th C music he liked. No photos taken, no video- there and gone, except in memory.

Was up at his grave Friday lunchtime with my sandwich and latest issue of Pick-Me-Up. Said hello to dad and to that cheeky robin who's the bouncer there, ate my lunch and read my dreck in the sunshine. I leave my pebble on the plot, touch my fingers to his temporary plaque in goodbye, then back to work.

This is my favourite photo of dad with mum. It's 1967 and their first date, at the Renaissance Fair in San Francisco. Dad's already in his Greek dancing costume, mum in a hippie medieval dress she made from an Indian bedspread. They are 24 years old. In 4 years, they will leave California for a frozen Scotland of binmen strikes, 3-day weeks, power cuts, incomprehensible weedgie accents, paraffin fires, Scottish country dancing and a brand new life. He sings to her, "Will you go, lassie go?" and she says yes.