Joan Beck`s beautiful column of Oct. 27 brought back so many memories of my own father. Indeed, his life was like a sermon of home and duty . . . treuheim, steadfast.
Seated at the head of the dining-room table, a stack of plates before him, he filled and personally handed one to each child . . . our daily bread. He preached fresh water, fresh produce, home-baked bread and always, always, play in your own backyard!
The massive German Bible he would read aloud from: ”Du bereitest vor mir einen Tisch gegen meine Feinde” (”Thou preparest a feast for me in the presence of mine enemies”).
When Lindbergh`s flight was on the lips and minds of everyone, he built us kids a little airplane swing, painted it bright red and tightly secured and knotted ropes to hold us safely while we glided aloft like real dare-devil pilots!
I, too, feel sorrow for kids who do not have their very own father sitting in his black leather armchair in the living-room, endlessly playing
”Die Fledermaus” on the grammaphonospieler.
