Kazantzakis’s experience with his parents is something I can relate with in my life. His father hardly betrayed his emotions and was tough, while the mother was a gentle soul. The two individuals had starkly different characters causing Kazantzakis to be baffled by how the two got along. Similarly, my parents also differed in their traits. There is a particular experience that Kazantzakis had with his father that I can identify with; the examination prizes that he received at a French Catholic school (Kazantzakis 32). My experience was different, but it made me recognize the character of my mother and father.

My seventh birthday was a day whose events I will never forget. I was feverish with excitement and anticipation of what I would accomplish on that day. It was a day I waited for with much anticipation because I would spend it with my father for the first time. For some people, it was a day like any other.  However, those who knew my father understood what a monumental achievement it was to gain his attention and affection, which he scantily showcased. Even the day seemed to favor our fishing spree. It was chilly outside with a slight drizzle. Yes, I had researched the conditions perfect for fishing. My brother, Todd, unsurprisingly, understood why I was fussing over such details. It had been long since he also had an intimate moment with our father. I had asked him how his day was like, and he promised to share the details on my birthday.

Todd answered, “Well, I would advise you to tone down your excitement.” He further explained that he tried to make conversation with our father, much to his disappointment. His response did discourage me. I cheerfully countered that my experience would be different. However, in reality, I was anxious about the fishing trip. What if it turned out just as bad as Todd’s or worse? My mother’s appearance stopped my thoughts. Firstly, she flung my bedroom door open which made an appalling creaking sound despite the numerous repairs. At times, I wondered why I closed it in the first place. Mother was excited that I was turning a year older and cuddled me for nearly ten minutes. To say that she kissed me and made countless birthday wishes would be a gross understatement. Indeed, she loved me and had no problem showing it. I just wished father were the same. Breaking from the long embrace, she told me that breakfast was ready.

On the table were my favorite breakfast items: banana pancakes, mango juice, a bowl of fresh fruit salad, and some Choco Puffs, my favorite cereal brand. Then there he was, his imposing image at the head of the table. There was an empty seat on his right, where I was to sit. I felt limp when he turned to me and said, “You are now a year older.’ ‘I hope you are ready for fishing. It is a therapeutic activity.” The words were flatly said, but I did not take any notice. I was gleaming with excitement. In retrospect, I should have realized that there was nothing much to look forward to that day. Once we had finished breakfast, we packed the fishing equipment and left in the family van.

It was drizzling when we got to the lake, and I had a good feeling about the day already. We unloaded the tackle box and began assembling the fishing lines. My father taught me how to fix the bobbers and attaching the plastic worm. He stared at me as I worked on the fishing line and hardly spoke. When I glimpsed at him, I saw him smile, or at least he was until I looked at him. Almost immediately, he put on a stern look. Eventually, he mumbled, “Good work. ‘Let us start.” We cast our lines into the lake and waited. The waiting seemed to last a century. The silence between my father and I was so loud such that it nearly deafened me. Except for the occasional buzzing mosquito, not much noise was there. Maybe this is what therapeutic meant? I was gazing at the lake and saw something stir. I could see some water ripples around my fishing line. Immediately, I felt something heavy tug on my line. I was so excited that my shouts got my father’s attention. “Hold up the fishing line! Hold it up!” I spent a few minutes reeling and pulling in the fishing line until I eventually caught the fish. My father and I marveled at the enormous fish I had found. I could feel my eyes tear up. My father was equally delighted and could not hide his joy, and he hugged me slightly. Suddenly, he shrieked, muttered inaudible words under his breath and looked angry. Personally, I was startled by my father’s hug that by the time I comprehended what had happened, he was ordering me to get back in the car as we were going home.

My brother and mother were eagerly waiting for us. Particularly, my brother was interested in what in what I had to say. I placed my fish on the kitchen counter and went to my room. My father was still unpacking the luggage, and he declined my help. I wondered whether I had done anything to annoy him. But then, I consoled myself that being distant and sulky was his nature. “So, how was it?” Todd asked, leaning against my bedroom door. He let himself in and tried to console me. “Let me guess, you felt lonely on the boat, and dad’s happiness was short-lived.” I sadly admitted that the day was as he had anticipated and that he was right all along. Todd and I exchanged our experiences. It turns out we had much in common. However, what we could not comprehend was why father was so unfeeling. We even wondered how he courted our mother. Then we pondered about the misery that our mother could be experiencing besides such a man. Fifteen years of marriage must have been torturous for her.

I slowly walked into the kitchen and observed my mother prepare the fish I caught. Father had left to take care of some activities which he did not mention to our mother. I stared at her for so long that she caught me off guard. “Mihi, what is on your mind?” My mother called me Mihi, an affectionate term she derived from my name.I sighed, and told her, “Mom, can I ask you something?” She was alarmed at my request but urged me on. I cleared my dry throat and asked her, “How did you meet our father?” She gazed at me and finally said, “Well, we met when we both schooled at the University. He was a charming man.” Charming? Even at seven years of age, that word seemed out of context. How was my father charming? Mother proceeded to elaborate how he swept her off her feet, and they got married soon after. Asked whether she foresaw the misery I perceived she lived in, she replied, “Misery? We get along just fine. There is no misery.” She then chuckled and gave me a glass of milk. Mother then asked me about my fishing trip. I tried to inject as much excitement into my otherwise bland story as I could. She seemed pleased, and I went back to my room.

I could not shake off the fishing trip. It seemed like being emotional was a weakness to my father. He was genuinely happy that I did not let him down. But why was he so cold? Was it wrong to openly show one’s happiness? What about my mother? I wondered how two people, so different, could get along for 15 years. It was already dark, and supper was ready. By then, my father had come back. The kitchen was welcoming with the aroma from the tasty meal that mother had prepared. We sat at the table and ate in silence. I went back to bed, glad that I was indeed a year older.

Undoubtedly, my fishing experience is a lot more like Kazantzakis’s incident with his father after he won the price. His father, just like mine, quickly wiped off any excitement that he had and avoided him. I feel that our parents are also similar. While Kazantzaki’s father is staunch and indifferent, the mother is generous and saintly (Kazantzakis 34). There is nothing both of us did for our fathers that could elicit the reaction we were hoping for. Growing up with such a parent is difficult. One is always unsure of what they have done to annoy their parent. In my case, I was tempted to think that I was to blame for my father’s attitude. Mother, on the other hand, was a free and generous spirit. I heard that she was the life of the party before she met my father. So wild was she, as her friend Lucia joked, that she could not remember anything normal about her. Kazantzakis’s mother was also a happy soul, but all that changed. It seems like the men in our parent’s lives dulled down their carefree nature.

Looking back at my 7^th birthday, I learned much about my parents. Just because my father was not an emotional being does not mean that he was cruel. I now realize that my father made many sacrifices so that our family would lead comfortable lives. On the day that we went fishing, he had taken unpaid leave to spend time with me. Right now, I know that he had our best interest at heart. Moreover, my father was a good teacher, as he patiently taught me how to assemble a fishing line and to catch fish. Although there was little communication between us, I eventually learned the best technique to catch a fish.

I also understood my mother’s nature. Although she was open emotionally, I realized that her friendly character was good for our family. It balanced out the stern approach that my father used. Perhaps, their different perceptions about life are what drew them together. If the two could get along, I could adapt to their various traits. I recognized that their variation in character variation was necessary for the wellbeing of my home. I would adopt some habits that my father had, like being hardworking, and infuse that with my mother’s calm nature. In doing so, I will hopefully achieve the best of both worlds.

Work Cited

Kazantzakis, Nikos. Report to Greco. Simon and Schuster, 2012.

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