On this day…

…I’d like to wish all fathers a very Happy Father’s Day!

Father's Day 2013

* * *

The little guy on the left is my own Dad, who passed just before Father’s Day in 1994.

The photograph was taken in the summer of 1919 and was originally hand-tinted.

My Dad had a copy negative made back in 1980, from which I printed a number of  8×10 black and whites, then sepia-toned.

Copies were given to his two brothers and four sisters.

My grandparents were immigrants from what was then Czechoslovakia, who came to America in 1912.

I’m pleased they revered the art of photography, so that I am able to present this image today, ninety-four years later!

4 responses to “On this day…

  1. Lovely gesture 1000, I am sure your Dad would be proud of you. Unfortunately my own Dad died when I was very young and I never got to know him..all I have is an old b/w photo…(violins playing in the distance)…but I think about him a lot.

    • That’s terribly sad to hear, smacked…but I think you came out quite OK! My Dad was a police detective, and could be very ‘irritating’ at times, especially when enforcing ‘the law of the house’! He’d yell at us, which could be heard a half-block away, and sometimes took the razor strop to our behinds–yet, I loved him then, and still miss him after all these years.

      A curious thing for you: When I arrived back home after the funeral/burial, my apartment was filled with the aroma of my “old” Dad (and he’d never been there!)–the smell of shaving soap being lather with the brush in the mug!–a wonderful, fresh smell I remembered from when I was quite young. Curious, eh?

      • That IS curious 1000! Shirley’s dad died a few years ago and was a smoker…very occasionally both of us smell tobacco smoke in our house at the same time (we are non-smokers)…it doesn’t last long and doesn’t happen often, but it is there…Shirl thinks it is her Dad coming to say ‘Hello’…

      • Exactly, smacked! Less than a week after my younger son’s death in that awful car accident in Poland, I was painting in my studio, as we didn’t even know if Poland would release his body. My door was locked, and I was heavily concentrating on a little pointillistic piece when, from behind me, I heard his voice, clear as day, saying, “Hello, Mom.” I turned, no one was there. I found out, from his ex-girlfriend who lived near Detroit, that within the same half-hour, she felt his presence and smell, even though he had never been to her apartment (they had broken up some nine or so months prior)!

        My belief? There must be some form of ‘life, after death’–we’re just not able to understand it…yet!

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