The Old Man

Friday is Grandfather's Day at school. Sophie is mortified thinking that her grandfather will turn up looking grubby, like a homeless person. And I can feel her pain; I felt it only a week ago, when he spoke with John Nash after a lecture, where Nobel schizophrenic Nash looked professorial and his erstwhile colleague at Princeton snd MIT, my Dad, appeared like some vagrant, like you might expect Nash to look like, unshaven, dirty courduroy trousers and a heavey Irish sweater on a warm, spring day. I've become used to this; for Sophie, adolescent that she is and at a new school it is more difficult. More of a challenge, just getting Dad here and back presents a logistical hurdle and I am unsure of how to deal with it. I need to drive to New York in the evening, after two round trips to Little Compton from Providence in my ancient diesel, and up to Kent and back in the morning. I think it is signficant to try to make it all happen. Poor Dad. Well, I am hoping that Sophie will transcend her selfconsciousness and have a good experience. That is what is most important.