After having looked at my mother’s side of the family, today is the time for my father’s. After all, today celebrates the missing link between this couple and me – my father.
You are responsible for all these lovely childhood images, and pretty much for the fact that I write and take photos. The sound of the typewriter in the next room was what used to lull me to sleep.
Last year, for your round number, I wrote for you a book with 70 drabbles, 100-word stories. For today I’ve translated five of them into English. And since my mind is obviously hungry for challenges, I’ve kept 100 words in translation as well.
Let’s see what you take after her.
How she was quick to do something I would leave for later, for example floor-cleaning.
How she always knew what was good for her and what not.
How she lifted her nose over her glasses thinking how she could improve something.
Her hands were in the same position as yours when you cut something.
How she ate chicken (I take this after both – I was told I could be in a chicken finger-eating commercial).
How nothing was hard for her.
How she cared for animals. And us.
And the nose. The nose too.
And now a bit of serious analysis.
Grandpa is “to blame” for everything: he who was always pretending to be scary (and you all believed him), was never able to be scary around me.
If you are small, you draw a conclusion: that from now on everybody will take it easy on you.
That there is no danger, no obstacle.
That I can climb every supermarket shelf.
That the sight of me will soften every hard look and make every stern man smile.
That I’ll be able to tell everybody what they have coming.
“Grandpa, you’re grumpy, go to work.”
How often we were waiting for you! “Today daddy returns!” From various towns that were far and had a strange name.
You always brought so many things since you’d been thinking of us. You were full of stories and I was learning.
It was a little like when I brought notebooks from school and you and mom had to sit down with me to go through them.
Or when you’re the only one who answers a question on my blog.
Africa, Brazil, Lapland, Taiwan, Helgoland, Russia, Priština.
It was a bit like Santa Claus. Except I didn’t need to hide.
When I played with grandma’s postcards, of which I’m often reminded by Italian towns, at first I only looked at pictures, then I started to read them. And receive my own.
“I eat strawberries and think of my little mice.”
Your round handwriting always meant a story, never just “Kind regards”.
And then I heard you used to write poems, about the sun reaching her name and the fountain without water.
Now there are no more postcards, only likes, smilies and @-ats. Your comments still reach and please me.
As for poems – there is never too early or too late.
I love to observe how she’s cooking when you’re watching. As if she was dancing. Different spices, ingredients, approach.
No doubt, no suspicion: it will be good, even though different. Because different.
You merely look, without a suggestion. Sometimes you open your eyes widely with an astonished “Nooo!”
You must be wondering where she gets all this: from your and grandma’s kitchen surely not.
When it’s done, you have a taste and eyes stay open.
If she tries to find an improvement, like grandma, it will be you who’ll say: “No! It’s spectacular!” After, silence can continue. With mouths full.
And here are some more images for you to remind you of what was, what is and what always will be.
Cin cin, dad, and thank you for all the genes (including the smart one)!
Photo – vintage: BM
Photo: a © signature mmm production