Today, I gave my dad a haircut. With a weed whacker.
I also brought him a fragrant rose vine clipped from a shaggy heirloom bush in front of our house, hydrangeas in a cup, a Meyer lemon from our tree and the latest family news.
Joseph Edward Borg—father of seven, lover of nature, long-time elementary school teacher, ex-Marine, avid reader, storyteller, amateur historian and adventurer—rests exactly 77 steps from our kitchen door, up a gentle hillside, in the St. Mary Magdalene Cemetery, among long-gone ranchers, farmers, hippies, poets and California pioneers.
It’s among the oldest and most peaceful graveyards in Northern California, and is the only neighbor immediately adjacent to our property, at the entrance to a small rural coastal village we’re blessed to call home.
He was a history buff who often visited ancient burial grounds on his beloved excursions with mom and their friends, and I know he’s happy to be here, near a simple mission church, under the towering cypress and eucalyptus, and so close to me and my family. Being 77 steps from our door, I often sense dad’s presence and feel he is looking out over us—and looking out for us.
I sometimes visit him privately when I’m stressed or have a particular problem. He keeps my behavior in check.
I think he knows when I make a mistake or screw things up. And I am quite certain he is proud when I do good or get something right.
Dad worked hard all his life for his family, and he and my mom managed to raise seven children on a public school teacher’s salary, plus the odd jobs they took to help make ends meet.
He was tough, and could be grumpy when it was warranted—a trait I’ve inherited, but I mostly remember him for his overly goofy, infectious laugh and the pride he experienced in seeing his kids grow up and watching our adventures and friendships and successes. I only wish he could have seen more of it.
Dad had adult onset diabetes, which led to a series of strokes, and a long, slow, painful decline the last decade of his life. He was such a good guy; he didn’t deserve this fate. He should’ve had an enduring happy retirement. Yet through it all he soldiered on, mellowed out and accepted his fate, in large part motivated by his faith, and the ongoing care and love of my mom and our family and friends.
In our early years growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, dad used to line up all five Borg boys in the family room and take turns giving us Marine Corps-style crew cuts with an electric razor, sometimes inadvertently trimming parts of our ears, but saving on barber costs. As we got older and it became more fashionable and acceptable, dad let us boys grow our hair out long, which we all did in part to avoid those brutal haircuts.
So now, at least once a year, I return the favor and give his gravesite a little trim. Looking good, Pops. Happy Father’s Day!
John Borg lives with his wife and two children in Bolinas, in Marin County.
