I’m Son of Watchmaker. I didn’t know my father very well before he fell ill and died. Can’t say I know for certain that he’d care very much about Father’s Day if he was still around.
And I strongly suspect, in the end, I wouldn’t have had much to say to him about how differently we would come to view the respective worlds each of us had grown up in.
I last saw him alive when I was six. He died in a hospital when I was thirteen. He’d succumbed to arteriosclerosis and some form of dementia very likely brought on by the toxic chemicals he’d used every day in his work, repairing and assembling watches. I’d been told he was an educated, old-world gentleman who enjoyed discussing the Talmud with his father-in-law, that he had been injured during World War II, and that he had no head for business. What other things I was told about him were a bit subjectively colored to consider reliably reported, knowing the source.
I’m Son of Watchmaker. Bearing little physical resemblance to the few pictures I have of that husky Polish man, I’ve had to figure out what that means. I’m nominally intelligent, enjoy working with gadgets, and have some artistic capability. I try to be kind, but possess a cynical, anticipatory predisposition for resentment towards perceived injustice. I have no head for business, but can keep very good records of transactions and correspondence. I aspire to spirituality while detesting the shabby, despicable promises of organized religion.
Did I inherit any of this from him? Or was it just the morbid pessimism and a tendency to sweat excessively? I physically resemble my maternal grandfather far more. And he’s the guy I truly wish I could speak with now, as an adult. That guy was a poet. Genial, too. Bit of a cornball.
I’m Son of Watchmaker. Someone let me know what you think that means.