To think of it: My fondest earliest memory of my father is whirling round on a gallantly colored, magnificently crafted, safari decked carousel: Parsifal sounds blasting out from the centre brass piped organ. Nineteenth century wood framed hinterland tapestry encircling the axis under the revolving twilight blue and white stripped parasol. Standing at my side…as I ride up …and… down, round …and … round, again …and…again ...and… again: Is my father. Moustache trimmed to a tee. Mellow yellow straw weaved trilby tilted and curled rim just so. Well dip deep down, dark adept brown eyes, dawned up his ruse smirk. Proud robust countryside chest with brawny bronze tanned arms below the cuff: a chiseled Romanesque nose, hands of an artesian stone engraver. A true sun-lovin, joke-tellin trickster who celebrated life in a Holy Grail of wine, soft shoe dance, plenty of sniggers and depression era songs well strummed on his folk hearted guitar: A true Napolitano. Who lives in my mind’s eye forever citing from our World Book Dictionary Latin rhythmic sounds echoing down candle lit halls of a shrouded art gallery. My father would like for me to unveil to you Our story.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Sep 2014 00:24:53 +0000
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