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Suddenly,
in March of 2002, I became an orphan. My
father was forced to follow my mother, she
had preceded him by almost fourteen years.
It was sudden, it was painless and it was
so fast.
"Good for the survivors", I
hear.
Yeah, right!
My stepmother, who made my dad intensely
happy for over two decades, is still
coping with her loss from day to day.
Because of my Distant Endeavors, I can not
claim to have grown apart from the man who
raised me, but being separated for very
long periods of time does strange things
to a relationship. It does not matter how
often we spoke using Alexander Bell's
handy invention, the
"face-to-face" part of it was
gone, and would remain lost forever,
except for those rare occasions when I
ventured home to the Low Lands to catch
up.
In spite of doing so at least once every
few years, the more of an outsider I
became. The Country that had maintained a
status quo in my memory, evolved
nevertheless and became a "foreign
place" to me.
The death of a parent is supposed to be a
shock, not an observed and factual
occurrence.
Of course, the End of Life is inevitable,
sooner or later we all go this path.
Better later, as far as I'm concerned, as
long as I can keep my wits about me. A
very good reminder it is as well; live
life to the fullest, because you never
know.
And that he did, my father; he did live
life to the fullest.
After an incredibly difficult decision to
divorce his wife, my mother, in his search
for true happiness, his life became what
it remained until the end; an intensely
pleasant and fulfilling existence.
I guess he should have never married my
mom, except that it resulted in the
production of my brother and myself. And
for that I will remain forever grateful,
well, for me that is, not necessarily for
my sibling because that is another story.
Oh, just sibling rivalry, you know. My
younger brother amused me often, but never
as much as when he fell face-first into an
open sewer.
The most upsetting part of the final
episode for me was that dad never got to
see my present habitat and what Costa Rica
is like.
Don't you ever get the same ignorant
remarks about offshore places that
Americans can make?
"So... are you still going to that
island?"
"What island might that be...?"
"That place you talk about; you know,
Porto Rica something..."
"Oh yes, yes I do..."
Well, my father never ventured there.
After flying all over Europe, including
the former East Block, he developed a
phobia that prohibited him from getting on
a jetliner ever again. But he saw the
photographs, and he heard the stories, and
he most certainly noted my tone of voice
telling him about this place...
So he knew...
He would have been so much better than I
am at explaining what people see in this
little country, this small sliver of land.
He's the one who should have written about
the Rich Coast and the magnetic attraction
it has.
As the "Head Master" of our
school, I had the pleasure of spending a
year as a pupil under his reign. It was
quite an experience. At least once a week
he would write on the blackboard in large
letters; "Self Control", and
then he would explain to the class the
virtues of this practice.
Strangely enough he never had to maintain
law and order with a heavy hand. Because
of his uncanny wit and brutal honesty, he
was liked and loved by almost each and
every student. The ones that didn't,
respected him deeply.
Geography was a favorite subject, and his
favorites were the class' as well.
I am sure we covered Central America, I
just can not remember. A lot happened
during that year, a year that turned out
to be a very important one in my life.
Every Friday afternoon, just an hour
before the final bell rang, my dad would
read to the class. How he managed to
choose the books, I don't know. He must
have been a mind reader, whatever he read
us, we loved it all. He took us to places
far away and we visited lands where we
would never venture.
I learned to love to read and I wanted to
write...this is a gift I will always
remember.
I wanted so bad to show where I live and
where I travel.
And to explain what this is like without
the benefit of actually going there, has
certainly sharpened my skills.
If he would have taken an ocean liner
instead and seen this place, he would have
written about it. Because he is obviously
unable, I will do this.
I will write for him, and I will write
about all that I managed to tell him.
And I will write about what is yet to be
told...
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