My Daddy could fix ANYTHING.
When I was just a toddler, I would sit on the couch, swing my legs back and forth like a metronome,and listen to the amazing miracle that was the Stereo. My little ears began to distinguish the different instruments, the orchestral suites, the various composers...we played a complex version of Name That Tune. Was ist das? Eine Kleine Nacht Music, Papa. Wunderbar, Liebchen! He had this ritual....Slide the record out of the cardboard cover, hold it gently by the edges of the white paper sleeve....remove the sleeve and balance the LP between index fingers....shake ever so slightly to dislodge any dust....place carefully on the felt turntable...lower the needle onto the vinyl surface...and voila! MUSIC!
I imitated this ritual with my very own (imaginary) record player.
One day, a visitor came to the apartment. A visitor of Some Importance. My Mother dressed me in some scratchy, ruffly dress and shiny shoes. I was already miserable. Now I had to BEHAVE, and Be Polite. Beginning to sulk, I sat on the couch and hummed. The conversation was academic, something to do with the Engineering classes my Father was taking at the University. I endured the "oh what a SWEET little girl" tossed in my direction and decided I would play by myself in order to avoid getting called by ALMYNAMESATONCE and losing privileges. I knelt in front of the couch, perused my imaginary record collection and selected something appropriate. (Peter and the Wolf, probably.) I went through the motions. Slid the record from the sleeve, banished the dust, lowered the needle and closed my eyes to hear the opening strains. THUMP! The Visitor sat down heavily on the couch. I began to SCREAM hysterically. He of course, leapt up from the couch as I wailed to my Father, he's crushed my plattenspieler, papa! Pointing an accusatory finger, I sobbed. Broken. I'll never hear music again....
The Visitor is ashen, shaking. Obviously never been in the company of a distraught, rather dramatic toddler. My Mother is furious. She tries to explain that it is IMAGINARY, but she does not speak Swiss and cannot find the appropriate Hoch Deutsch for "my little daughter has a rather active imagination."
My Daddy kneels before the couch. Puts on his reading glasses. Examines the crushed remains of my favorite invisible toy. Takes out his IMAGINARY TOOLS and spends about three minutes clucking and explaining to me in French ( so that those other people in the room who cannot see or hear the fabulous plattenspieler cannot understand us....) just what he is attempting to do. VOILA! He stands up. I clap my hands and try the Mozart. (He has explained that the Tchaichovsky is a lost cause, but perhaps I could choose another selection....) I close my eyes and HUM. Perfectement, papa! Merci!He switches to Swiss and sternly orders me to keep my toys in my ROOM where they will not be in the way of company. Asks me to apologize to our Esteemed Visitor. I curtsy and flee.
My Daddy could fix anything.
Except Lung Cancer.
I miss him Daily.
xox
Mensch, Greta....wenn ich nur *ansatzweise* so eine Mama sein könnte, wie dein Papa.
Posted by: Debbie | September 25, 2003 at 11:56 AM
It was so hard to write this in English :)
Posted by: greta | September 25, 2003 at 12:05 PM
How beautifully poigniant. I lost my father 26 years ago to heart disease and still miss him terribly. Thank you for sharing this special memory with all of us.
Posted by: Sheryl | September 25, 2003 at 12:24 PM
((((Greta)))) My family believes that my grandpa is keeping things running smoothly in the beyond... I think he and your father might be great friends :)
Posted by: Ann | September 25, 2003 at 12:33 PM
Cherie, this one truly brought tears to my eyes. What a wonderful remembrance! I love my dad because he's my dad, but he's not got such special skills, and we don't have that kind of relationship, alas.
Posted by: Maggi | September 25, 2003 at 01:38 PM
Ahhh so sweet a memory. My dad, too, could fix anything, until his last breath. That was 25 yrs ago, I still dream about him as if he never left.
Thank you for sharing.
Posted by: Ruth in Houston | September 25, 2003 at 02:58 PM
Oh my. You have made me cry, but in a good "daddies *are* wonderful" kind of way. My daddy could also fix anything, and many is the time in my adult life that I've wished that fixing the things that hurt me were as easy for him as fixing the washing machine seemed to be. Thanks very much.
Posted by: Gina | September 25, 2003 at 03:24 PM
Greta: What a bittersweet and poignant post. I have similar memories of my maternal grandfather. I miss him still, 20 years after his death.
Posted by: Amy | September 25, 2003 at 06:56 PM
Greta,
A very sweet memory. I hope you find lots of comfort in it and others.
xoxodeb
Posted by: YENTSTER | September 25, 2003 at 07:39 PM
Doll, what a tribute. Goes a long way towards describing where you, as a warm, loving, kind, sweet, smart and generous person, get your traits. I raise a screwdriver (the tool, not the drink) in honor of fathers everywhere who fixed the important things. Thank you.
Posted by: Rachael | September 25, 2003 at 08:35 PM
Thanks, Greta. What a wonderful story, and what a wonderful papa.
Posted by: alison | September 25, 2003 at 09:34 PM
A beautiful tribute, Greta. Your storytelling paints a vivid mental picture that brings about both a smile and a tear. Thank you so much for sharing. What a wonderful gift your father gave you. Vielen Dank, Freundchen.
Posted by: Kim | September 26, 2003 at 08:01 AM
Your writing does indeed paint a picture. Keep up the amazing story telling!
Smiles to you and the memory of your Papa!
Christy
Posted by: Christy | September 26, 2003 at 09:39 AM