Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "dad"

As I mentioned last week, I'm definitely writing another book. And because I'm not one to waste any time once I make a decision, I can now tell you that I've already started doing the research for it.
I must admit, it has been a little bit challenging so far. My grandparents and a lot of the people who knew my father best have died. His remaining friends and family live all over the world.
So far I have spoken to some of my European relatives, and I've really enjoyed reconnecting with those whom I haven't seen in years. I've also enjoyed speaking with cousins whom I've never met.
Because he never spoke much about his childhood or what happened after World War II, there were a lot of things I didn't know about my father until extended family began sharing stories after he died. Now I want to know even more.
The next challenge will be trying to separate facts from family legend. But that should be fun!
So until next time, "That's life..."

It is quiet here in my brand-new home office. The phone stopped ringing long ago and now I really need to concentrate, so I've resisted the temptation to open i-Tunes or play an old CD. There is no cat underfoot - Eli is downstairs sleeping.
So there are no distractions, but there lots of memories in this new space.
Some surfaced when I found the tiny photograph of Dad and me in a small hand-painted silver frame. We are pictured curled up next to one another in an old, overstuffed armchair. I am probably eight or nine years old. I have straight, long hair gathered in pony tails and a big smile on my face. I look a lot like Mom, but I clearly love my father.
Dad looks sad, or perhaps a bit wistful. Perhaps he is annoyed because I've interrupted his reading -- he is holding his glasses and has a newspaper or book in his lap. Or perhaps he is simply longing for a cigar.
Boy, how he loved a good cigar...
In fact, he was a regular customer at Jim's cigar shop on Greenwich Avenue. As a little girl, I often accompanied him on his weekly visits there. I remember the distinctive aromas and smoke wafting through the air. I also remember the friendly arguments about the origins of the world's best cigars.
Judging by the old glass containers I just found in some architect's file drawers, Dad really enjoyed a good Dominican cigar. I don't know if he ever got his hands on any Cuban cigars -- but then again, I wouldn't have put it past him.
Clearly he didn't heed the warning labels on the Davidoff boxes stating that tobacco is a health hazard. But that's hardly surprising, either. My dad always did what he wanted -- consequences be damned.
However, as I've frequently said, that's another story for another time. And if you want to know more, well, you'll just have to read my next book.
Until next time, "That's life..."

For some reason my friends are on my mind quite a bit these days. Perhaps it's because I haven't seen any of them for a while -- although that's hardly unusual.
Some of my closest friends live in other states. Some live nearby. But geography isn't the issue. All of us are busy.
Lately it seems we've all been extremely busy. Too busy to return phone calls. Too busy to return texts. Too caught up in the stress and frenetic pace of 21st century life to put our own issues aside.
It's not an indictment. I'm not upset. In fact I've never judged or based friendships solely on the amount of time people are willing to invest. I measure them against far more intrinsic values.
My dearest friends aren't the people I've known the longest or those that I hang out with most. They are the people who have been loyal through thick and thin. They've put up with the drama and they've never hesitated to give me a swift kick in the butt when I needed one most. They haven't asked me to trust them. They've just shown that I can.
There's a fierce, unspoken bond. I know they've always got my back. And I'll always have theirs.
My closest friends are an elite group. I can count them on one hand.
As I do, I remember something my father always said. He told me that you'll be lucky to have a few truly good friends in life.
I am definitely a lucky girl.
Until next time, "That's life..."

As a wise man once told me, we all have choices. And as I continue to write a book based on my father's life, I can't help but wonder about his choices.
He wasn't the only one who was forced to flee his country as a political refugee. Why did he hang on to the past when his friends decided to move on? Why did he fail when they succeeded? Why did he blame others for his misfortune instead of taking control of his own life? Why did he choose to be a victim instead of a survivor?
On one hand, these are questions only he can answer. On the other hand, they are universal questions. After all, we all have challenges in life.
Some of us will face catastrophic illness or injury. Some will face the loss of a loved one. Some will be brutalized or violated by criminals.
It is an unpleasant truth -- one that is easier to avoid. Or deny.
But the bottom line is that how we meet these challenges is what ultimately shapes and defines us. Each of us can choose to be a victim -- or a survivor.
Personally, I am a survivor. Are you?
Until next time, "That's life..."

So, last Wednesday was my dad's birthday. It was also the nineteenth anniversary of his death.
I still miss him and I always will.
I still love him and I always will.
That's not to say we didn't have our share of issues. We had plenty. In fact there were times we drove each other crazy. There were times we almost came to blows.
What can I say? He had a wicked eastern European temper. So do I. In that respect I am definitely my father's daughter.
Looking back, I had plenty of reasons to be angry.
Daddy never put a hand on me. Words were his weapon of choice. He once told me he never wanted to have children, but he "accepted me" when I was born. I don't remember if I was nine or 10 when he told me that. All I know is that I was definitely too young to understand. In my mind, my father wished I had never been born. And he told me as much.
I held it against him for a long time. Those words fueled teenage rebellion and served as inspiration when I was old and smart enough to get the best of him -- and just about everyone else -- in verbal sparring matches.
But I had a choice in the last months of his life. I could hang on to all of that anger. Or I could let it go.
By that time he was all but bedridden, his feet ravaged by neglect and type II diabetes. It was clear that he was suffering and that he would suffer more as other complications threatened to set in.
So I went to him. And we talked. And we reached an understanding. At times it was an uneasy truce. But in the end, I'm glad we made peace.
And in the end, we all have choices.
Until next time, "That's life..."