My Father was different

My Father jogged barefoot in the freezing winters of East Prussia

This is my winter, not East Prussia

He exercised every day...even into his eighties

He spit-shined his shoes every day for four years while in a Prison Camp in Siberia

He was different.  Often,  I was teased by my classmates because my Father was different

My Father was an Artist...that explained many things...

My Father was a Master Woodcarver from the Old Country

My Father would practice discipline by not looking into shop windows...very odd

When I was about 8 years old my Father asked me to come into his studio.  Fastened to his workbench was a thick piece of Alder wood.  He instructed me on how to carve a bowl.  My older sister had been given the same instructions.  She did well.  I did not, I carved a hole into the bottom.  I was not invited again.

But my Father took me on many painting expeditions.  I could paint.

My Father signed all of his work.  Once they were completed I would sneak into his studio and with one of his chisels I would carve "my mark" in an inconspicuous place.

On his 80th birthday I fessed up to my misdeeds.  He first looked at me in disbelief and then he threw his head  back and he laughed and he laughed.

My Father taught me to be different, I like it that way.

Happy Father's Day Pappa

Gina