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My father died twenty years ago … in 1999. For many years he followed the path of a corporate executive in New York City. It was a well-paying secure career and as the father of six children it was the responsible thing to do. But my parents had a dream, and when I was in high school they bought a house overlooking the Intercostal Waterway in Morehead City, North Carolina. The family had been vacationing in the area every summer since I was a baby. And, every year when we visited the area my father would disappear for part of each day to paint watercolors of shrimp boats, and the Cape Lookout lighthouse, and sea gulls flying over sand dunes. But, purchasing a large, rambling brick house in 1960, 600 miles from our home on Long Island, with so many other priorities, seemed foolish … even to me.
My father died twenty years ago … in 1999. For many years he followed the path of a corporate executive in New York City. It was a well-paying secure career and as the father of six children it was the responsible thing to do. But my parents had a dream, and when I was in high school they bought a house overlooking the Intercostal Waterway in Morehead City, North Carolina. The family had been vacationing in the area every summer since I was a baby. And, every year when we visited the area my father would disappear for part of each day to paint watercolors of shrimp boats, and the Cape Lookout lighthouse, and sea gulls flying over sand dunes. But, purchasing a large, rambling brick house in 1960, 600 miles from our home on Long Island, with so many other priorities, seemed foolish … even to me.
