Thinking about my Dad

I regret to say that I don’t know that much about my Dad who passed away in 1989. He was born in 1902 at the beginning of the past century. 

I know that he was, like the rest of his peers, raised in poverty in the remote corner of the Alps that was my hometown. When he was a little kid he once almost grabbed a viper with his hands, as he mistook it for a treasure. 

Like all the kids back in these days, he help his family in work around and out of the house, went to Chamonix to learn how to become a carpenter and ended up being a dairy farmer and cheese maker; I don’t know the reason for that change in vocation. 

He performed his military service near Mainz, Germany, returned home, married in his mid-thirties, managed to buy quite a bit of real estate and built our family home. He was drafted to go the World War II, but was released when France capitulated and served as our town mayor during the very difficult years of war. 

One fantastic quality he had was to be a very hard worker and a very honest person! 

In the mid 50’s he built the restaurant that pulled my family out of need. He and my Mom had a girl in 1938, then shortly thereafter a boy and it took an accident and seven years later for me to show up. 

My Dad smiled rarely, had a short fuse, didn’t trust anyone and had contempt towards many. He never, ever, took me on his laps, played with me, addressed any kind word to me or tried to teach me anything. I feared him, yet he seems to be mostly indifferent to me. 

My Dad took care of me economically, but couldn’t do it emotionally, I still love him and forgive him fully, yet by today’s standards, it’s almost like as if I didn’t have a father...