Like a child he sat down and read every word I wrote. Not mere browsing, mind you, but with focused concentration, so much so he didn't even turn around to wave goodbye when I bid him & mom farewell on my monthly visit back home.
I have to admit, I felt somewhat flattered that dad would take an interest in my writings, never mind they're but journal entries on Multiply (http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/journal).
I have been trained to write since I was little. Dad would make me reach for the brown notebook placed at the edge of a tall cupboard in the living room, and have me sit down quietly by myself for 15 mins to pen my journal entry, every single day. I was encouraged to write about anything and everything - the weather, my encounters in school, my friends, teachers, sports, my favourite things, etc. He read and marked my journal each day, and each new day I had to do corrections on top of making a fresh entry. And so I wrote. And kept writing.
And today I'm still writing. I'm writing because the words just wouldn't stop flowing. I see pictures and images in my mind that dad taught me to see. He taught me to question what I didn't understand, he painted me illustrations to explain everything he knew from science to geography to mathematics, economics and politics. He taught me all that he knew and all that he was constantly learning. Like a sponge, I took in all he had to offer.
At 29 today, I am a sum total of his impartation. The good aplenty, the bad, well, a number, but most importantly, I took in the best of them all - the love of a father, my teacher and guide.
I have to admit, I felt somewhat flattered that dad would take an interest in my writings, never mind they're but journal entries on Multiply (http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/journal).
I have been trained to write since I was little. Dad would make me reach for the brown notebook placed at the edge of a tall cupboard in the living room, and have me sit down quietly by myself for 15 mins to pen my journal entry, every single day. I was encouraged to write about anything and everything - the weather, my encounters in school, my friends, teachers, sports, my favourite things, etc. He read and marked my journal each day, and each new day I had to do corrections on top of making a fresh entry. And so I wrote. And kept writing.
And today I'm still writing. I'm writing because the words just wouldn't stop flowing. I see pictures and images in my mind that dad taught me to see. He taught me to question what I didn't understand, he painted me illustrations to explain everything he knew from science to geography to mathematics, economics and politics. He taught me all that he knew and all that he was constantly learning. Like a sponge, I took in all he had to offer.
At 29 today, I am a sum total of his impartation. The good aplenty, the bad, well, a number, but most importantly, I took in the best of them all - the love of a father, my teacher and guide.
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