Speaking of love, my dad died two years ago today.  He was 91. Cloth cap dilettante born into corridors of class and circumstance, working life—draftee, decorator, copper , courier—half-disguised secret dream self—poet, memoirist, local historian, cricket lover, hillwalker, herpetologist, hankerer after high, wild places. . . . He'd fallen at home a couple of weeks before but, in the way these things often seem to go, he’d rallied and was doing better. The end, when it came, was quick. He was holding my mother's hand and died on his own bed, in his own house, on his own terms. Change was a horror. “Time is the enemy” he once wrote. “It plucks you back when you would run; it hurries you when you would pause to reflect.” I remember the family joke about Time's great black oxen, their galloping hooves trampling all before them. We laughed then, but we knew all along that those oxen are real. And now he's two years gone.  On my last trip back, in 2019, we talked about Edwar