Father’s Day

J = Joe
photo by frizztext, featuring Joe Winter

On father’s day I could write about the father of Geoff Quinn, who died after a plane crash, but left a bottle with a letter for his son in the snow. Or about the father of Rita Crane, who managed to escape from Germany during the Third Reich, he became a famous photographer in NYC. Or about the father of my friend Klaus, who was a captain of a submarine during World War II, swimming with his crew near the coast of Africa, to make a break, ignoring some Greek oil tankers? Or about Joe Winter, New York, who impressed me very much (view the photo above, maybe follow the link). Why not about my father? They put me into an orphanage immediately after birth 1945. Had to search for a father-substitute. When I was a student, Monsignore Dr. Schwegmann, working for the Pope in Rome, gave me a room in his expensive country home, where he lived with a housekeeper and a donkey. Early in the morning he brushed the donkey (five).

N = Newspaper (The New York Times)
me, imitating one of my father substitutes

Then he went to church (six in the morning). Then he drove with his automobile to the German bishop, where he had a bureau. But he always took me in his car to the university nearby. In the afternoon, home again, we ate cake made by his housekeeper. In the evening we played chess and made some philosophical conversations: writing with chalk on a little black board: He could think, but not hear, not speak – during a thunderstorm a lightning had destroyed something in his nerves. He was the surrogate of a father. Only 6 years in my life, but I will never will forget him, because he helped me to find a lifestyle. I’m not brushing a donkey every morning – but the fur of my little cat. I am not preaching in the church a sermon every morning – but writing a little story daily for my blog…

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