I was a nine year old with a 110 camera and that’s my Dad just home from work as a psychologist at Richmond State Hospital. Under his arm is a brown bag of beer from Hornak’s Liquor – a little booze shack still in business near the tracks in the warehouse district of town.
It’s probably cans of Pabst.
There’s something wonderful about this photo and whenever I think of my Dad, I think of this picture, that sidewalk where I learned to ride a bike (a hideously wonderful bright yellow thing) and that a tree fell on our VW Rabbit right there in that parking space.
John Parrish died in 1985 when I was thirteen. I was young and most of the hurt subsided a long time ago, but I still think about him often and would love to know him now that I’m an adult.
I’m certain we’d be friends.