Strawberries, memories and regrets

In current times strawberries and generally berries are considered to be super food. I have been always a bit careful about what I eat and, I must confess, even worried about my health. Perhaps overly so, but with my Polish background this is normal. An average Pole is very much preoccupied with health and diet. I even heard that Poles like to be sick. Being sick gives a certain amount of self-importance and commands attention of others. But I have digressed and the simple point I am trying to make is that I eat strawberries every day as I consider them good for me. When at home, I eat Australian type of strawberries, the berries  I looked down at some years. I even did not eat them for a long time considering them inferior to the strawberries I was used to in Europe. With time my memories of old fashioned European type of strawberries faded and the Australian strawberries improved its taste and prices, so now I eat them every day with my breakfast. The strawberries here are big, read and firm. From time to time, they even have pleasant taste. They last few days in my fridge and much longer in the fridge of the local fruit market and prior to that at the growers’ fridges. I wonder how many days pass from the time the strawberries are picked to the time they land up on my plate. 

Often, the memories of old days come to me together with the memories of fragrance of old fashioned strawberries my father used to grow. He came from the family of farmers and always had a farmer sole in him even if he led an urban life of a business person. As his business became successful he was able to indulge in a hobby farm near the industries town we lived in. He started an orchard which with time became a show case for the university of agriculture. The famous professor and his students used to come and visit my father’s orchard as it was considered to be a model and example for modern cultivation of apples.  

My father was a very pragmatic person and considered a waste of opportunities to be sinful. He had this orchard and as the apple trees were taking their time to become productive he considered it a good idea to plant strawberries under the trees. As I recall, in  the first years potatoes were planted and strawberries followed as my father’s knowledge of horticulture improved. My parents had a business to run so there was little time to dedicate to the farm activities, especially that my mother did not support my father enthusiasm for growing things. I was a child of urban tastes with reading being my favourite pastime, but taken to the farm I would partake in activities of the moment. I remember one day of potato-lifting time. It was September or October and the air was cool and fresh. The hired people were working on the field and after a while of observing the activities I joined in. As I was only a child my work had to be light, but father looked very proud observing me lifting the potatoes from the black fragrant soil. I will always remember the time and the smell of the air and the soil. I enjoyed what I was doing and it gave me the feeling of accomplishment, but I did not understand then how magical the time actually was.   

In those times agriculture was based on the rhythm of the seasons. Strawberries were ready for picking late June and early July. This is the time in Europe when the school year finishes and it is time to go away for summer holiday. My family could not do it, this was the strawberry season and one had to take advantage of it. This was however only my father’s view, the rest of the family did not share his love of farming and I even felt deprived of rightful pleasures available to my school friends. 

                                   

During the day my parents worked in their business, but come afternoon, my father sneaked out to go to his garden farm to pick a couple of baskets of strawberries for his family. He would proudly put them on the table in front of us and we would reluctantly pick at some the most beautiful strawberries I have even tasted. Only I did not know then that the fruit in front of me was so very special. I was upset that I had to stay at home when some of my friends were at the seashore. And I did not realise that my father was a very special man. The man of passion and wisdom, perseverance, courage and many talents. I did not understand so many things then... He was lonely in his passions; the family did not want to share his dreams. This must have been difficult and discouraging, but he was not to be stopped even if unappreciated by us. I am relieved to know that he was greatly appreciated by the agriculture authorities of Poland, but saddened that this is only now that realise those things.

This was the man who considered my father an authority on growing apples. This man even has a monument. How blind I was not to see my father achievements...

I know now that my father was a great role model and I must have learned from him some things by osmosis, and I am grateful to him for that.  I feel  sad, however,  that I never told him  about my respect and admiration. I understood things too late.

More on disciplinarian fathers

While I was writing my previous post about disciplinary fathers, I realised duality of my memories. There was a father who I felt threatened by and who dampened my mood when he was home and there was another father who taught me to ride a motorbike. Teaching me such a boyish skill did not seem to be connected to tenderness and perhaps it was not. But there was definitely love there. And lots of it. I may have not realised it then but I so clearly see it now. This is why I want to continue reflecting on the subject of a very complex relationship with disciplinarian fathers. In the generation of my father there were so many of them, later on it was almost expected from men to be softer with their children. Slowly, in many countries leading by Scandinavia, fathers were expected to play active and important role in taking care of children. My father, though, was brought up differently. He was most of all a man, his father role was not that pronounced and did not include understanding, caressing, playing with his children. He was supposed to be a man who had to provide for his family and be respected by children. There was no place for warm and fuzzy. His catholic upbringing also had something to do with his understanding of his responsibilities towards the family. 

During my childhood I observed events and I gave them meaning. The only meaning I was able to give with my very limited experience and lack of understanding of life. I saw my father as a hard man, short tempered, rash, dangerous and cold. This is the impression he made on me. Now, that I think about it, I realise that his self-image required certain behaviours, that seemed hard to me.  That self-image was a product of his upbringing. I was not able to see through the barriers he was surrounded by. I believe that deep down there was a softy somewhere but he was not able and not allowed to show it. It must have been hard on him.

I cannot be sure but I believe that relationships father-son are much more complex that it was in my case. I observed some man competing with their fathers. They had to prove that they were better, stronger, more or at least equally successful. I observed a son wrestling with his much older father who had a small chance to win. The son was a really nice and sensitive person but in this situation there was no mercy for his father’s ego. He had too much to prove to himself to notice that the conquest was uneven.

I was tempted to write more on the subject father-son relationships and about impact successful fathers have on life of their sons. I gave up on that though. It is too complex a subject and requires more though. Maybe some other time? I am tempted...

In any case it was cathartic for me to think and write about my feeling towards my father. I am so grateful for what he gave me, even if he hurt me as well.

Disciplinarian fathers

I just finished  the first book of Knausgaard life story – The Struggle. It was about his father. The book  is  brilliantly and painfully honestly written.  At least that is how the first book – Death in the Family - came across to me. Reading it I could find my own, old feelings about my father. About his heavy steps on the staircase, that immediately changed my mood from playful and light-hearted to watchful, scared and almost resentful. My father was a good hard working man who was a great role model for me and I am still thankful for some of my characteristics that I gained by osmosis observing him and his approach to life. So, why such a negative reaction when he  appeared in my peaceful and happy place. He loved me but I did not see it and did not understand that his love was not about kisses, hugs, smiles, softness or encouragement. He was responsible for the family and he took it very seriously. It seemed that it he never felt that he had done enough for us to relax and rest on his laurels.  He was straight to the point, a no nonsense person. A self made man, a bit rough at the edges but deep down sensitive. As a child I did not see the sensitive, loving side of his, I only saw that when he patted me on the shoulder I almost sat down on the floor, his caressing touch was so heavy. It almost hurt. I was afraid of him and tuned in to the sounds of home and its surrounding to recognise when he will be coming and I will have to change and present a protective and at the same time good girl demeanour.

When I think back to the times, I wish I could have a second round of my childhood. I would see my father in a different light and I would spend more time with him. Even if I remember him as a disciplinarian father, he never punished me. But I was still afraid of him and avoided his company. Sad and silly, really. So many missed opportunities for both of us.

Reading The Death in the Family I understood feelings of young Karl Ove. They were similar to my old feelings. The whole book is about the father and different chapters of his life. Many complexities and contradictions of the person are masterfully described. Still reading some reviews of the book there is typically a reference to a cruel and distant father. I read more into the father character. I saw a sensitive person as well as disciplinarian and indifferent father. There were times when he wanted to get close to his young son, share experiences with him. It did not work out. My father also wanted to spend time with me and we did have good times together. Like when he first taught me to ride a bicycle and some years later to ride his Russian huge and heavy motorbike IŻ. 

The motorbike looked something like this one. I get all mushy looking at it now and reminiscing my past a bike rider.

My father was  a very ingenious and dedicated teacher setting up motorbike on bricks in such a way that I could learn changing gears and operate most of the buttons with wheels spinning harmlessly in the air. In  the second stage of my “driving course”,  the motorbike was taken off the bricks. Father found a save place for me to practice and he let me loose. But he also held the motor bike to stop it with his force if I did something really silly.  It must have been physically demanding to run behind the motorbike holding it  in with me making all typical mistakes of uncontrollably speeding up or braking. Why didn’t I see that it was love he was giving me? On the strength of this education I got my driving licence at the age of 16 which was very unusual at the time in Poland. Thank you father.

My musing about disciplinarian fathers brought me to the point  that it is sometimes difficult to see beyond their harshness. Not a revelation? To me it is in a way.

There is going to be a sequel to this post. Or two. I want to explore my thought and feeling more.