Celebrate this week

Ruth Ayres Celebrate

SOLSC at Two Writing Teachers

My story:

When I woke up today, daylight beamed through my bedroom curtains. Yesterday's weather forecast predicted snow and I had no wish to go an peek whether it had become true. Summer stays in my bedroom all year long. The photo above greets me on my bedroom wall. My dad took the photo.

My dad is a hobby photographer. He speaks seldom and he speaks slow, but he tells stories through his photos. When I was little, he took so many pictures that my mom gave up fitting them all in albums and instead organized them into paper bags with labels. I loved (still do) pulling them out and spreading the photos  over the living room floor.  I remember the days when he had set up his photo lab in the kitchen, and I waited patiently until he opened the door, invited me in and I sat next to him when he showed me the magic of images appearing on paper. My home is filled with my dad's photos - nature photos on the walls and photo stories of special events and everyday activities in albums. 

Today's morning was a bit busier than usual. Mimm went to gymnastic training, my hubby drove our middle daughter to the city, I had a cake to bake. A stick of butter softened on the counter overnight. Amazing how beating the soft butter and a cup of sugar, and adding eggs to the mixture combines it all into a smooth and soft cream. I look at it and think about calm, happy, light.

My dad is a calm person.  He has more patience than anyone else I have ever known. My one memory of him being a bit impatient was during my last year of high school, when I wanted to study in the living room and he wanted to watch soccer, instead of having an argument, he just huffed, unplugged the TV and carried it to his bedroom. The second time to make him frown and shake his head was when Mimm, being small and not speaking clearly, cried because he had peeled a banana from the wrong end.  I have never in my life heard dad yelling at anyone, or seeing him being bad tempered, or hurrying anywhere. He always has time. He starts his mornings early with a cup of coffee. I remember when I was younger, my dad used to grind the coffee beans with an electric coffee grinder. The soft buzzing of the machine and smell of freshly grounded coffee woke us up softly on the weekends. 

I ate my breakfast while baking the cake. Too many things on the kitchen counter left no room for the flour bag. I washed my little red teapot. It's roundness and redness of it contrast with the falling snow outside. Seeing the read and thinking of cold, I change my mind. Instead of adding cherries to the batter, I take frozen raspberries. Raspberries are from our countryside. Wild raspberries, a gift of nature.

My dad is a man of nature. When we are in the countryside, he wakes up first and walks for hours before others have breakfast. On some days he can go for several walks, on other days he can stay in the garden and watch birds and bugs. He is a hunter. Not the kind who hunts for sport, fun and pride, but one who brings food to his family and at other times, cleans the forest and feeds the animals during cold winters. He hasn't shot any animals for years, but the others still take him along when they go to the forest and share the meat with him. I believe that the long walks and fresh air have helped my dad keep a straight back and make it hard to read his age from his face.

Before mixing the flour and raspberries in, I prepare the pan with a baking paper, take out the last ingredient, a cutting board and a sharp knife. The cake wouldn't be perfect without some white chocolate in it. Chocolate is sweet.

My dad is sweet. He has always been trusting, kind and supportive. I had friends who felt they had to prove something to their fathers. Even as successive adults they still felt that they were not god enough for their fathers. I had friends who were afraid of their dads because of punishments and harsh words. My dad has allowed me to make my choices, learn from my mistakes, celebrated my successes. He has been there whenever I have needed help. One cold snowy winter, when I was pregnant with my second child, and I had to go to a doctor with my firstborn, I pushed the carriage through the snow, worried, tired, wind throwing wet snow into my eyes, and suddenly my dad appeared next to me. He had seen the snow, remembered about the doctor's visit, hopped on the bus to come to my place, seeing the closed door he had simply followed us fast. My dad. 

On our living room shelf: My dad with Mimm about 7 years ago.

While the cake was in the oven I wrote this slice to celebrate my dad.

Today is my dad's 80th birthday. 

80!

Happy Birthday!