Who was my father? An American and yet not an American. He was born and raised in USA but in some ways he little resembled what some consider to be the American archetype. Of course, there is a lot to be said of archetypes - naturally, one cannot judge a person by their nationality alone, and nevertheless there are archetypes of just about every nationality there is. I guess archetypes say more about culture in general than it does about people. Nevertheless, many associate Americans with chattiness, that wasn't my dad - his personality was more laid back and less out there. He, like I, enjoyed listening and only chimed into a conversation when he had something thoughtful to say. He was the type who let his actions speak for him, but he wasn't shy or unsocial in any way. Instead, I would describe him as calm, mild mannered and empathetic. He had many characteristics of an introvert and yet he always seemed comfortable in crowds. He was in fact very easy going, and had a wonderful sense of humor. A person can be many things, I guess, and he had a complex personality - a rare combination of traits that made him unique and very loved.
Other parts of the American soul, he had in spades. He was an alpha male in all the best meanings of the word - hard working, family oriented, a man of many talents and a great role model in many ways. He believed in self reliance and what he didn't know how to do, he soon found out, and made sure he did right. Anything from carpentry to cooking, he mastered, and since he picked up new things quickly, he did so quite speedily as he went along. Anything you asked him to help you with, he did, without a moment's doubt. Happily even. In that way he was the very embodiment of the American dream in its original form - he realized his dreams through hard work, and nothing seemed impossible to achieve with him around.
One of my first memories of my father is of waiting for him to come home from work. I looked forward to that every weekday. My mother would be in the kitchen cooking and I'd look out the window as soon as I heard the sound of a car outside, hoping to see the red Opel that he was driving. I'd ask, "is daddy coming home soon?" many times and my heart would swell every time that red Opel entered our driveway. I was always so happy to see him, and of course I'd run to welcome him home. Strangely though, what I remember most vividly today about him coming home is seeing the headlights bouncing off the garage wall and running to the window to see that red car. It's weird how memories work sometimes.
Other early memories I have are of him reading bedtime stories for me, sitting on the floor beside my bed. I had a thick book filled with stories for each day of the year. "365 Bedtime Stories" it was called, but we didn't follow its almanack, and he would read several stories for me every night since they were really quite short - they were like a quarter of a page with a picture to go with them. I remember there was one about a princess called Aurora. That was my favorite (mainly because it had such a pretty picture) and he'd read it to me on many occasions without complaint. That was the man he was. Kind and gentle. He'd read to me every night even though sometimes he was so tired he'd almost fall asleep himself right there on the floor beside my bed, with my book in his hands. I still have the book somewhere, I'ts one of those things I'll always keep.
Of course I have memories that any daughter of a loving father has. Like the ones of him giving me a push so that I could ride my first bike (I couldn't start without him), of him taking me to ice skating practice and bringing hot chocolate that was always a little too sweet (he loved it that way) or of trying to coax him into taking a swim with me in the lake that we lived by (one of the coolest lakes in the country, brrr, I know now why he wasn't always so keen). Many little moments, that seem to have gone by so fast, where did time go?
I remember being fascinated with dad's camera. He had a DSLR and its many dials and buttons had me hooked. It was magical to me how he took so many nice pictures. Though sometimes I wished he'd shoot faster - as a kid I was always on the move and standing still for a photo wan't always what I had in mind. His interest in photography stuck with me though, I'll always associate photography with him, and all the many wonderful memories he captured in his view finder. I'm so glad to have them all, and I'm glad that he was not always behind the camera himself.
When I was a teen, I went through one of those awkward phases - who doesn't? I remember dad smiling at me often, and me being confused as to why. Like many teens I was confused about a lot of things back then. But now I know why he smiled, and I regret not smiling back very often then. What I wouldn't give for one of his smiles now. He smiled because he loved me of course, but as a self centered teen I was too stuck in my own little world to see it. Dad smiled a lot. Reflecting back, I think he was simply a very happy person, with a big soft heart. What a wonderful thing for a father to be.
When I married, dad walked me down the aisle to my future husband. Mom told me later how proud he was at that moment, thinking of that brings tears to my eyes. It was wonderful to have his large hand to hold on to, walking down to the beach where I got married, all jittery, emotional and with my heart pounding. I also love the symbolism of it - the most important male figure in my life handing over the role of protector to my husband. It is a beautiful tradition, feminism be damned - it's not about that to me. To me it is a show of trust, acceptance and welcoming my husband into the family. That he did, without a moment's doubt. He never questioned my choice of life partner, he loved my husband like a son and was happy to see us happy. That was who he was; a welcoming person.
When we moved to our house, dad, handy that he was, never said "no" when we needed help. I remember tearing out the old kitchen and building a new one with him, mom and my hubby. Dad was easy to get along with and he cooperated with such ease. Everything seemed to go smoothly with him around. Mom and I would assemble kitchen cabinets and drawers, and dad and my hubby would fit them together and attach them to the walls. My hubby would cut the floor tiles, dad would mix the adhesive cement paste, mom would scrape it on the flor and I would put out the pattern I wanted. We were a small, well oiled renovation team, and dad was my go to guy if I needed advice - he always had such wise things to say.
Dad was never one to pretend he was something he was not. I remember being on a trip with him, mom and my hubby, sitting in a restaurant just about to order some wine to go with the food. When the waiter asked what wine he'd like to order he simply said "nothing too expensive, they all taste the same to me". We all had a good laugh with him, it wasn't the most tactful thing he could have said, but it was so typical of him. He was not a fancy man, he was honest and down to earth, and he never minded laughing at himself. I loved that about him.
My father was a wonderful painter. He painted with oil and almost all the paintings at his and moms house were of his own make, beautiful and colorful. Sadly, he hardly painted anything after I was born - he only painted a handful of paintings that he made for me. I treasure them all. One of them was of a motif that is very close to my heart - a place from a book that I love. I always dreamed of having an interpretation of it on my wall. Having him paint it for me took the motif to a whole extra level of meaningful. He gave it to me on one of my birthdays, it was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes and I told him so. He replied that my reaction put tears into his eyes as well. We hugged and I stupidly tried to put a lid on my emotions, thus ending that wonderful moment. I love that painting, I love that memory, and I love that the giving of the gift affected him as much as it affected me receiving it. I will never forget how beautiful that moment was.
Lastly, I would say that dad was stoic. He never burdened anybody, even though we would't have minded him doing so. Five years ago dad found out he was dying. Yet he never let on how it must have affected him. He simply kept on smiling, being his usual loving self, sometimes perhaps even more so. I remember visiting him and mom, walking into the front door asking "now, who should I hug first?", "ME!" he exclaimed in a happy voice as he jumped towards me and gave me a big hug. I will always treasure that moment. It was so unexpected and wonderful in every way. Dad knew he didn't have much time left with us, yet he didn't show any signs of self pity, mourning or bitterness. He treasured every moment and made the most of life, right up until the end. I hope to take that aspect of him with me, treasuring every moment life has to give, smiling my way through hard times, showing love towards my friends and family and aspiring to follow the wonderful role model my father was to me.
