Around this time of the year, I find myself playing this album—a tribute to my stepfather, Werner. Released in 1973, the year of my birth, it holds a special place in my heart. Werner would crank up the volume to insane levels during the summer, letting the album's bombastic sound permeate our half-timbered house and the streets of our quiet village in Hesse, Germany.
When I was 12, my mother met Werner, and we left the city of Düsseldorf to settle in a quaint half-timbered house dating back to approximately 1550. The transition was challenging—I had to leave behind my school, friends, and familiar surroundings to embrace a rather conservative village lifestyle. No longer could I walk to school; instead, a school bus became my daily means of transportation. The bicycle became my trusted companion, ensuring I could reach places in this new environment. My family, consisting of my eccentric stepfather, who meticulously renovated the old farmhouse, and my mother, who cultivated a vibrant pollinator garden and foster many animals including one time a donkey, raised many eyebrows. In hindsight, it may sound intriguing, but I assure you, carrying around an 8-inch old house key or ringing a cow bell instead of an electric doorbell wasn't fun. At that age, all I wanted was to fit in, but I didn't. However, I later discovered a circle of wonderful friends, which proved more fulfilling than trying to conform to the "it-people" crowd.
Werner was an extraordinary individual—multi-dimensional with his flaws and peculiar world-views. Nevertheless, he became a loving father to me, embracing me as his own child. It didn't take long for him to win me over. During my first visit, he showed me a large chest filled with old children's books, telling me they would all be mine if I showed interest. And interested I was, being an avid reader from a very young age.
The old house fascinated me. When we moved in, it lacked central heating, relying solely on three coal ovens. My room had no heating at all. In the kitchen, there was a wooden trapdoor secured with a massive iron ring that led to a basement I couldn't open. The attic contained a small smoking room where sausages and meat were once preserved, emitting a faint whiff of smoke as you cautiously walked across the creaking planks that covered the beams, preventing you from crashing through the ceiling.
As we settled in, we delved into the history of our village. We embarked on restoration and renovation projects, uncovering hidden secrets by removing walls filled with straw and mouse droppings—a physical testament to the nocturnal scampering sounds we heard.
Regrettably, our landmarked house was mostly covered in asbestos shingles. Werner's greatest dream was to remove them and reveal the original half-timbered facade. However, this project wasn't a priority in the house's restoration, and his untimely death 25 years ago prevented it from ever becoming a reality.
In addition to his love for history and old houses, my father had a passion for antique furniture. He would acquire old rustic farm pieces and spend countless hours stripping paint from cabinets, drawers, and beds. When I moved back to the city, Hamburg, he furnished my very first room with all the furniture he had found and restored for me.
Our birthdays were only one day apart—his on July 4th and mine on July 5th. We cherished this shared celebration, both relishing strawberry cake and playfully teasing each other about the presents we had prepared. Every year, I would carefully wrap his gift in beautiful paper, and without fail, the next day, I would receive my gift, wrapped in the same paper but slightly wrinkled. He would chuckle at his little wrapping paper dad joke, and I loved it.
During this time each year, I miss him deeply and reflect on the intangible gifts he bestowed upon me. They surpass any physical presents he gave. He instilled in me a love for eccentric, bombastic records that my peers of the same age rarely appreciate. Above all, he nurtured within me a profound affection for old buildings, furniture, and the history of the places we inhabit. He taught me that by delving into the essence of a location and embracing its beauty, I could create a sense of home wherever I may find myself.
And so, on this day - a little bit early - , I wish you a happy birthday, Dad! Thank you and Toujours L'Amour,
Nat
This is an evocative and moving sharing, thank you Nat. That tangible response to materials that you are making real in your life, I would think he would be proud of his influence on that blossoming in you.
Your birthday starts now! X
What a touching tribute filled with palpable gratitude and moving nostalgia. I cannot wait to read more stories from you - this is superbly crafted!