My father - the hero
My memories of Bob:
I never called my father «Daddy» but Bob. His name was Robert and my mum called him «Bob». And Bob seemed just right from the moment I learnt to speak.
«Haaaanji hopp-ki-hopp», that's how he woke me up when I was lying in bed grumpy and grouchy in my teenage years. His kind eyes beamed at me from the doorway and the day could only be good! When I was younger, he used to carry me from the second floor of our house to the kitchen every morning and make me a warm Ovi. And even earlier, he carried my brother and me from the nursery to the kitchen at the same time, sat us on the dishwasher and prepared our morning milk pint. He was my hero.
That's how I got to know him as a child. He had an answer to every question, it was fun to learn to ski with him and all the «ouchies» while cycling were taken care of with love and ease. When he came back from his business trips, my brother and I would stand like puppies at the window of the airport terminal and could hardly wait to give him a hug. He was big. When he carried me in his arms, I often thought: «If I fall down now, I'll fall deep». Since he is no longer alive, I often think of his neck, which I loved to cuddle up to.
Humour is our religion
He was a jack-of-all-trades: he cut carpets for my doll's house, drew paper board games for my dolls and had the patience to teach me maths and how to drive a car. At Christmas, he put on his chequered trousers - just to look after us. Humour was important to him, sometimes I could hear my parents laughing heartily from the bedroom at night. I loved that feeling. They laughed a lot, not just at night. It's nice that they passed on this connection they had to each other to my brother and me. We also have this connection and it is precisely this humour that connects us today as adults.
Twice a week in the evening, my mother followed her sports programme and Bob cooked. We always had porridge and omelettes and every week was a highlight. I remember him standing at the cooker and telling us stories about how hard his mum's porridge was back then: «You had to dig it out of the deep dish with a hammer,» he said. He also liked to stand at the barbecue, preferably wearing an apron that I had brought him from Italy years ago.
He played in a bluegrass band and had occasional gigs. We sat on our children's chairs in the front row and I was filled with pride to see my Bob on the seemingly huge stage.
He usually came first in ski races and flew our entire family through the Swiss mountains in his glider when he wasn't working on an instrument in the tinkering room. He was a real hero. A rock in the surf and loved by everyone.
When he died unexpectedly in 2010, my world fell apart. To this day, it is still the saddest event of my life. For a long time, I wondered how life would go on without Bob. But thanks to all these wonderful memories from my childhood, my father is still alive in my thoughts. You don't forget a hero and I realised that at his funeral. Back then, 120 friends and acquaintances came to say goodbye to him. It still sends shivers down my spine when I think about that day. But I am convinced that his farewell was exactly how he would have wanted it: with a lot of humour. And I'm sure he would have smiled while reading this article, at the latest when he saw the apron.
With this in mind: Happy Father's Day, my beloved Bob!
