My Dad

 Migration Fallout, collage/acrylic, 24 x 36

Elizabeth W. Seaver

My Dad loves his family, the church, Texas, words, ideas, writing, reading, graveyards, genealogy, teaching, three squares a day, and my mom, not necessarily in that order.  He was a serious boy and young man, but learned to play with his children.  I was born when he was 35. 

A couple of stories about him...He had (may still have) a big black cape as a part of his garb as an episcopal priest which he wore in the cold and wet at funerals.  He used to swoop around the house in it, "scaring" us.  

He and my mom took us on month-long driving vacations when I was a young teenager.  We were just on the start of one trip east (from Texas) and had camped in the rain on the border between Alabama and Georgia.  The next morning we got a late start because everything was soaked.  We were finally packed in our Rambler station wagon, three half-grown kids and dog on the top of the load in the back.   My dad, not able to see to back up, said to us, "Watch that tree."  Well, we did.  While he backed right into it.  Needless to say, he was furious.  I don't remember how that all resolved itself, but I do recall my mother saying, "Well, John, they did what you asked."

He's a great man and a great leader and a great dad.  But he hated the beach and swimming.

We only saw him in swim trunks until we were able to swim well.  Then he stayed in his long pants and long sleeved shirts, shoes and socks and slept in the car when we went to Galveston. 

I love you more than words can say, Papa.  Happy birthday!

This painting is in your honor.