Zorba, Van Gogh and the Eggman

                           

As far back as I can remember--my father always communicated with me on the level.
His level. He had this unique way of making me feel important--As if I were never a child.
He would confide in me: report his struggles at work, or with my sisters, or my mother, or society.
He'd utilize me as his personal sounding board but I took at as a compliment.
I would listen--intently.
As if I could comprehend his hardships with the mind of a woman.
And as one may guess, with his confidence in me I grew up quickly
and since abandoned what young girls find intriguing in their formative years.
I don't recall a sandbox, but I see myself in yellowed photographs touting pail and shovel inside one. Maybe mine. But I don't recall the quintessential "fun" times of my youth.
I remember the serious times.

I was raised from a very young age to believe that FUN was a four letter word.
That our society was tainted by the blackening of the media.
And the blockbuster releases of the summer months were pathetic and henceforth "A deplorable reflection on our society." The world we lived in, according to Dad, was plagued by the lethargic "ME" generation that begged to be entertained. And frivolous things such as amusement parks, dominos pizza, and shirts with tiny alligators on them were considered vacuous, excessive, useless, unnecessary "things" of which his daughters would never indulge.

Not as far as he was concerned.

Instead dad took us to college.
He turned the campus of Michigan State University into our playground.
It was there that we'd get lost in botanical gardens, or embark upon journeys through the arboretum. We'd find sunken treasure in gathered pennies green and varnished within the fountain outside the library. Or my favorite: adventures of the art institute. We'd wander aimlessly amongst ghosts of The Masters, lost deep within the labyrinths of the Expressionist wing. It was there that my father would point out works by Kandinsky, Modigliani, and Van Gogh, quizzing us on the differing methods of each.

For a man who loathed the negative influence of our declining American culture,
he did his best to entertain us in unconventional ways.
His library being our main source of amusement. Consisting mostly of heavy hardcover versions on the subjects of Fine Art, Greek Tradition, or World War Memoirs. And as we read them or shall I say, paged trough the pictures, he fed 8-tracks of the Beatles or Pink Floyd or some obscure Cuban folk tune into the stereo. And we'd pester him with deconstruction of funny lyrics incessantly giggling:

"Dad...Why is Lucy in the sky with diamonds?"

                       "Dad why is he saying he is the walrus?"

                                 "Dad...why don't we need no education?"

Occasionally he would take us to the movies--The art house ones. Where popcorn and pop were exchanged for granola and fresh cider. The featured matinee was not Cinderella but instead,
The Milagro Bean Field War. Sometimes we'd huddle together on his lap to take in some vintage TV: A snowy 15" RCA from 1969 complete with (inert) rabbit ears extending miles long. 60 Minutes on Sunday eves became a tradition. And we bonded, laughing when he did, at the trivial discoveries of Andy Rooney.

That's about as lighthearted as it got on weekends with dad.

But he never stopped trying.
He marched us to church on Sundays, and Greek dance lessons on Mondays. And while our classmates were shipped off to Mystic Lake for summer camp, dad would take us on family excursions around town. Or sometimes not so around town. Like the field trip which exported us 45 miles outside of the cosmopolitan boundaries of East Lansing to the forests of Pine Stump Junction (population 40). Just so we could catch the excitement of the Soy Bean Festival...Which in retrospect is such a happy memory, because after an excruciating three hour car ride we discovered that the anti-climatic festival was just that: Mounds of Soybeans and not much else lying dormant in piles, wilting in the rain. This was fun for us because even dad laughed that day, and we felt closer to him because of it.

Back at his home, the condo, we would pounce upon our respective heating vents. He kept the place a balmy 62 degrees when we weren't there, and on the special occasions when his daughters stayed the night, Dad would crank it to 68 in our honor. Although the weekend sleep-away he created seemed a bit chilly, his valiant attempts to make a happy home warmed us from within. Even as children, our hearts went out to him for trying. We knew this was the best he could do. No matter how unconventional, he never stopped trying. He was the ultimate underdog for his children. For that reason, he was our hero.
And always will be.

Dad taught me many lessons.
And as a young girl, I may have been pushed into adulthood far before my time but I will say this: I have no regrets. These lessons made me the woman I am today. One that pays her own mortgage and trades her own shares and rarely feels the stresses and burdens of a life unhandleable. The flow chart lectures given behind a firmly closed bedroom door may have been premature for a child of 9. But it taught me responsibility, and that "money didn't grow on trees." And that most importantly attempts to do right, no matter how unconventional, are never inappropriate if inspired from the heart.

So this ones for you, Dad.
For the flowchart, and the campus, and cider, and the soybeans.
For Zorba, and Van Gogh and the Eggman...
Your most valiant attempts to raise me right, no matter how unconventional, are what made me exceptional.

And I am honored to be your daughter.

Comments

[Algernon]

There is no tribute on this earth for which a father could feel prouder.

[Algernon]

Oh, and by the way, it's very good to see a new blog from you. Hope it's not a rare incident.

[Maria Micaela]

Wow... you really had good childhood memories with your father. :D thanks for giving me the glimpse. sorry but can't help it to comment :D

[Angel]

beautifully written..very inspiring..

[shikha]

Amazing choice of words. I wish I could communicate half as well as u do. I am very envious. Keep writing

[Maria Stella]

Beautifully written, Christina. My eyes watered as I read your words and thought of the many memories my sisters and I have with our dad.

Thank you for sharing.

[manzky]

you just made me love my dad even more. =)

[Chaitan]

Lovely memories. Thank you for sharing.

[Karen]

I couldn't agree more with the others.. Your entries are all beautifully written.

[Sharlene]

you're such a gifted writer, and you use it for good too-to impart lessons in life. if you would write a book, it might be a best-seller =) God bless!

[cecile]

hi..just wanted you to know that you are touching lives in the farthest places you could imagine...i've read your blogs...i usually visit your blog in the morning before to start my routine at work..very inspiring...please continue writing...i wish you well...be happy...be my friend, ok?

[Cheyenne Lyn]

MAGNIFICENT...you've made your Daddy even prouder! Keep on writing!

[ChaKeE]

ola!
You wrote your stories in a lovely way that people could feel the feelings that you send through it.. They could be part of your stories, pieces of your life..it's a beautiful blog with all the contents in it...keep writting..i know there are many people that is waiting for your next story..and one of them will be me..

ciao!

[Dong]

at last, something worth reading today...

[-Klassik Bosan]

i wish i could write like you do, very inspiring. i hope you continue to write until the end of times. God bless x)

[Priya Christina]

i don't know you but that was beautiful - dad would be proud :)

['boddah-]

ur blog is really amazing.
i read it with my mouth open sometimes.
it's really beautiful.
i luv the way u write ur blog.

[althea barbara]

when the pain lessens...I hope you will share your gift of writing with us agian.

[makulit]

such a wonderful message!! hope we can see each other..

[PENPEN]

Hope to read more blogs from you.
You should be a diarist and publish a book like Anais.
You are a rare precious jewel.
Keep it up.

[Harold]

Hi! just wanted to say that you write beautifully. I hope I have what you had with your dad. My dad passed away when I was 9 and I can't even remember a single happy memorie with him. You are very lucky! Keep on writing!
God bless!