Rocinante

My parents have a wooden statue. The skinny legs of Don Quixote mesmerized me as a child. His craggy face was explored by my fingers as they grew. I studied the dark wood and its grain in the carving, feeling the smooth curves of his coat and pantaloons, wondering how you make something like that from a block of wood. The statue always seemed so strong, but delicate.

My father, who was hardened and shaped by decades in the military, wasn't always the way I knew him. Once, he wanted to be a poet, or a forester in Oregon. Once, he was a writer and a dreamer. Once, he was an optimist, a writer of love letters. Once, he was a philosopher king. Once, he sang "The Impossible Dream" in the shower, getting ready to meet my mother on a date.

Once, he was Don Quixote, adventurer, knight-errant, dreamer and hero.

We are different people, my father and me. Life shaped him in ways that I will still not accept for myself. But, that statue reminds me of him in his youth, in what I envision as his purest state.

C's parents had a similar statue in their home, when he was growing up. When I came to his house for the first time, I saw that he had the same framed print of Picasso's Don Quixote as I had grown up with (in addition to the statue). They played the soundtrack to Man of La Mancha on their turntable constantly - as did my father and mother.

C and I are buying a 34 foot sailboat. We will hopefully close by the end of the month. We dream of sailing together all over this blue earth. This purchase is the beginning of making that dream a reality.

The boat is not perfect. It is old. But, to our eyes, it is beautiful. It is Rocinante, the skinny nag, riding to glory - helping us tilt at windmills. As we keep believing in beauty. Believing in honor. Believing in dreams.