The more I go through life the more I seem to be like my dad.
He was born in 1938. He grew up in the communism of Hungary at the time. He escaped it’s confines after the uprising in ’56. He made his way to the US and joined the Army and drove around tanks. He was stationed at Ft. Knox for a while and had the honor of guarding the Hungarian crown. He met my mom here in the states and got married and had me and Pete. There’s other things in between that I’m leaving out.
He wasn’t around a whole lot when I was growing up. First he moved down to Florida for a few years. Then out west to Southern California. Finally he moved back to where he grew up in Hungary on the outskirts of Budapest.
But every time I go out to the range with En I think of him — especially when shooting the Browning .22. I shot that out at my uncle’s land so often. I’m sure it wasn’t but it feels like every weekend. The normal shooting cans type of stuff.
Same thing with the motorcycle. Every time I hop on I think of him and smile a bit. I think of that little Yamaha twin.
And the wanderlust… that’s me too. Thankfully En shares that as well.
He would have been 73 today.
– = –
I’ve had a message that he left sitting on my answering machine since about two years ago. Maybe a week or two older. I’ve never deleted it.
“Hi George, it’s just me. I wanted to talk to you. I’ll call you later. Bye.”
Simple. Normal. Nothing strange. Just him.
From the past.
I did talk to him after that, so it’s not my last memory of him. But it’s a tangible memory. Pictures capture flashes, but not time. Audio captures time but not images. Video does both. I have pictures. I have audio. I don’t think I have video though.
By letting it out it feels like I’m letting it go a bit. I think that’s good for me.
– = –
It brings back good memories.