Dad is 75 (En)

Dad turns 75 today.

Every year I make a post about him on this day, but I don’t like to repeat myself—it would be unfair towards him: his life can’t be reduced to a few paragraphs which his awkward daughter writes about him. There will always be something new in something old: even the most vivid memories have a tendency to fade away, but you can bring them back, and there are moments when you should do it.

I cannot yet process the very idea that my Dad is what is regarded in common consciousness as a fairly old man now: is he?.. Is he really? I haven’t seen him in ages: since the pandemic began, my plans to visit him in Moscow on his jubilee were abruptly cancelled and the only thing left are our Skype conversations, which are nice to have at least, but of course not exactly the same. Mostly, they are clunky and full of silly and meme-like “can you hear me?” “It seems your screen is going off” and the like. But I am grateful even for that: see, modern technology can be a lifesaver. After all, we can talk even if we can’t have a glass of Champagne and an opulent feast together: by the way, without any exaggeration, Dad is one of the greatest cooks, not to say chefs, I’ve known by far.

One of my earliest memories about Dad is when he’s dancing with Mum and their guests in our Tiksi apartment: I guess it might be a New Year’s Eve, because it’s a polar night behind the window, and the apartment is warm and full of delicious smells of freshly cooked food and perfume scents. Dad is laughing and picking me up, his glasses in round frames are flickering: I start laughing too and feeling absolutely happy. Maybe I was 3 or 4 at the time.

Another brief glimpse of my memory: we, Dad and I, are coming back from Zaporozhye to Tiksi via Moscow-Amderma-Khatanga (polar Yakutian settlements). Mum returned earlier and is waiting for us in our Tiksi apartment. I am between 4 and 5 years old; our journey is exhausting: we flew to Moscow without trouble, but then, the flights to the Far North were cancelled due to heavy snowstorms; it was unsafe. Finally, we managed to reach Amderma (later, all polar flights would go via Norilsk), then Khatanga—and were stuck there for two days. I remember an airport (it was called an air Vauxhall, in a fairly old-fashioned way), a roughly made wooden building, which I tried to explore, but Dad kept his eye on me. I remember that he managed to bring me hot food, although the only café for polar explorers and “vakhtoviki” (seasonal workers) was closed: I wasn’t hungry. The thing is I felt very jolly pretty much all the time, because it was an adventure, and Mum would be very proud of us two! I was sure that everything would be absolutely fine, because Dad has unconditional power and can resolve any problems. Now, looking back, I could only imagine his level of frustration: unable to communicate with his wife (she didn’t know when exactly we would arrive due to the weather conditions), with his little daughter who was constantly trying to sneak out and nagging him about food and play—yet he remained absolutely calm, patient, and cheerful, my Dad.

He was similarly calm when he was waiting for me at the hall of my University during my admissions and entrance exams: the whole thing took something like five or even six hours (we did all the tests in the archaic way, language and literature altogether), and I was completely drained at the end. “Everything will be fine,” he said, “have some chocolate.” He brought me a small bar, a Turkish one—milk chocolate with nuts. I’ve found a similar bar recently at one of the Turkish shops on Mill Road here, in Cambridge, and immediately bought it out of nostalgia: it wasn’t bad, but it tasted nothing like the one that Dad gave me. That one was divinely delicious.

I became a student, of course, and Dad told me afterwards that he also was very nervous, but was somehow convinced that I couldn’t fail: his firm belief in me has always made me stronger.

Dad is getting grumpier—especially after his major heart bypass surgery nearly three years ago: I don’t mind his grumpiness, because I am the same, after all. I am his daughter. And he is the best Dad in the world.

He got his second jab today, and is in a good mood. I will make a little feast in his honour today, because he deserves it. Happy Birthday, Dad.