In memoriam, part 1

He never achieved celebrity status, as he never strove for it. He was a capable man in many ways, but he never bragged about what he did. He was a quiet and even reticent man who preferred the company of his wife. His name will never be immortalised through popular songs, but I don't care.

I once lived under the delusion that he was just a simple salesman, one preoccupied with figures, budgets and deadlines. But I should have known better. It was my father who introduced us to the joys of outdoor life. It we the same man who taught me to appreciate art as he almost every Sunday would lead the way, on foot, heading for the local art gallery. And it was my old man who late last year purchased three CDs with poems read by one of Norway's most popular pre-war poets, one Hermann Wildenvey. He gave one to my brother and one to me.

For twenty-five long years he would faithfully turn up at choir rehearsals every Tuesday, and make use of his second tenor vocal chords. He had loved singing since age 9, and tenaciously stuck to it until his illness had sapped too much strength out of his body for him to continue enjoying the company of other male voices.

And it was the faithful companion of my mother who tended his flowers with the utmost care and skill for more than three decades. His garden never earned him a prize, but he always prided himself in mowing the lawn properly, pruning the grape vines in time, planting the tomato seeds in season, and harvesting the yearly modest batch of cucumbers.

He loved the soil. He relished in good music. He valued the voice of the poet, and he loved his wife and his two boys. He was my father and thus he is forever secured a prominent place in my own (Heart) Hall of Fame.