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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...
Hank
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