I have a strange relationship with my father. Well, I assume I do. Not having a control paternal relationship to compare against, I’m left to judge only by the reactions of friends. I have an unwavering respect for the man. The hand he was dealt in life, the hardships he has endured obviously moulded and shaped him into the person he has become. But, those are not my stories to tell.
Growing up, our interactions certainly raised eyebrows. From him casually slapping the back of my head,
“That’s for whatever I haven’t caught you doing”
To his intimidating presence when he wished to make a point.
Of course all relationships change as they grow. One thing that has never changed, however, is his boyish loved for adventure. He walked into the kitchen this evening,
“Greetings comrade, how goes the revolution?”
He’s enquiring about how my efforts to learn Russian, it’s coming on I inform him, slowly but I’m getting there. Without skipping a beat his face lights up, the tell tale sign he has thought of something he wants to share,
“You know what you should do?”
I’m smiling already. I know him, I know his ideas. Even the serious ones.
“Motorbike tour across the Russian Road of the Dead”
“Get your bike license first though, obviously”
Almost realising he ought to be the voice of reason he adds,
“But bring bottled water if you go to Chernobyl”