The Hobbyist

25.01.2021

The Hobbyist

My new father arrived with just a suitcase, except a piano.

As a student he was a drummer in a marching band, and also played

the accordion occasionally, especially when he had a few drinks.

The piano got its place in the bedroom. My mother owned at the time a small flat, part of a co-op.

The new man in the house asked me if I want to learn to play.

Sure, why not and I climbed up the musical scale. The lessons lasted three years until I became tired of “Diabelli” and “Czerny”. Afterall, it was the time of the Beatles.

My stepfather, I never called him that, studied education at the

university. He started late in life when he was already in his thirties.

However, his father had been a teacher, his sister and his brother-in-law, too. So was my mother.

He trained hard for his exams as phys.-ed. teacher. I watched when

he prepared in a large training facility what had all that strange looking equipment. Impressed by my fathers exercises on the high bar and the rings I showed some interest in that sport. But still I wondered how I will do looking at the two gymnastic horses. One for jumping across, the vault, and the other for not sitting on, the pommel horse.

To prepare for his performance on the mat my stepfather took even ballet lessons. I was afraid I would end up becoming a “ballerino”. My inspiration didn’t go so far but I joined a group of gymnasts in my school.

Once I mastered the basics successfully, I stepped up my

performance level. Except, at the high bar, the forces were too demanding. My hands opened their tight grip around the bar, and thanks to Isaac Newton’s observation about the centri-fugal and the centri-petal force, I now know how painful they work.

Flying freely is an exhilarating experience, except when your

landing field is not covered by a mat. They called it touch down, but in my case my knees hit the hardwood floor followed by my bouncing forehead on the parquet. Since then, my front teeth are adorned with a golden nugget.

After my career as a bedroom piano player ended the space fill up,

literally with water, in a basin. My father bought an aquarium. Not just a big one, additional four smaller transparent water containers for breeding ornamental fishes. He started with angelfish (pterophyllum). From the proceeds he purchased a pair of symphysodon aequifasciatus, blue discus fish.

Suddenly, a quiet time entered the bedroom when my father hoovered for hours in front of the basins, observing the breeding.

During that wet period, I took tram line number three and trained

at the local swimming pool for the district championships.

I came in third place in my age group. My coach told me I did

well, except I was already one year older than the other participants. That concluded my course to become an Olympic athlete.

The coach recommended water polo and I gave the thought a chance and watched the game.

First, the strangely looking eggbeater kicks kept the heads of the

players barely above the water surface. Second, I noticed what happened below, under water. I didn’t have the “balls'' for that.

On my way home a beautiful girl dressed all in white, white

blouse, white mini-skirt, white socks and white sneakers, waited at the tram stop. In her left hand she carried an oversized fly swatter.

I asked her what she was going for and I learned that the swatter

is a tennis racket, her shoes are tennis shoes, not sneakers. Measuring her up, I could see that all and imagined the little tennis balls underneath her shirt.

I tried to meet her again and joined the tennis club at the edge

of town. A few seasons I played in the junior team, participated in district tournaments with more and less success. More less, if I look back now.

Unfortunately, the girl in white never crossed my path again. Anyway, I was probably out of her league.

In high school the teachers tried to lure us in one of these extra

curricular activities. The phys.-ed. teacher recruited for the soccer team. The language department searched for international ambassadors. The music teacher enlisted members for the school choir. He succeeded.

Me, a tall standing almost adult, nearly six foot, blowing out the

air of my chest made the sound of a young Bass, what was later adjusted to Baritone.

I thought I did very well as a leading voice in the choir.

Proudly, I applied as an “extra”-singer at our opera house.

Verdi’s Aida needed a few “Nubian” slaves to fill the scene and

the vocal score.

That was really fun and I enjoyed being a dark-brown painted

singing slave who savored his freedom at the end of the 4. Act.

I imagined even a future as a professional singer, except one day

soaping off the body paint under the shower a ballet dance announced:” When I have to join the army, I will nibble off all the officers.”

That was it, no more artistic calling for me.

During the time I studied hard I soccered a bit as a goalkeeper,

often fetching the leather bullet from behind me.

Judo as a way of self defense fascinated me. I got excited

watching the air traveling bodies. Balance or the lack of it revealed the magic of that sport.

I aimed for one of these colorful belts, finishing up with a Cokyu

sash, the yellow belt, around my waist.

During a tournament I learned equilibrity is not everything. My

opponent impressed me already with his Nikyu belt. He stood up one full head taller than me. We met in the heavyweight class, because I was the only fighter in middleweight who showed up.

I heard that Judo means “the gentle way”. Dressed in my judogi I

locked eyes with the tall guy. With both hands simultaneously he grabbed, all of a sudden, the lapel of my jacket, lifted me off my feet and threw me violently down on the mat. One hundred kilogram plus came down on me and a loud whoosh signaled that all the air abandoned my chest. My teammates helped me up and the referee praised the victor.

This lesson pushed me towards bodybuilding. Getting strong and

into admirable shape arose as a desired goal. Three times a week I juggled dumb bells, pressed bar bells military style, squeezed like a preacher and steered clear of being buried by an overload underneath the smith machine.

The TV screen in the gym played a rerun of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s becoming Mr. Olympia. These pictures thrust down on me. Looking at the mirrored walls my diagnosis signified:

I will never be a “little Arni”.

In the meantime, my stepfather prepared for retirement. He took it

slow, worked half the hours and found a new artistic pleasure. He started painting, joined a group of like-minded people and organized exhibitions. He even sold a few of his oily canvases. His talents seemed endless. To this day I still own some of his watercolor paintings.

I, on the other hand, took up skiing. Downhill and fast, steep and

bumpy, challenging and leisurely floating mostly above the fluffy white, occupied my time off in winter.

A full ski season has roughly 150 days. Some ski bums claim they

skied them all, as do some rich people, or perhaps that are the rich ski bums.

I still toiled to make a living, and paid a substantial amount for the permit to lift up to the mountaintop. More than ten years I enjoyed skiing. Probably the longest time I sticked to a hobby.

Now, I am preparing to withdraw from the busy life.

By moving away from the mountains, getting some physical distance might do the trick. A chain of lakes, wine yards reaching down to the shore line, sunny days together with hot air enveloped me. The occasional jump into the cooling mix of H2 and oxygen came as a relief.

I joined a newly founded writers’ group. Expressing myself in

words, writing articles, essays and stories was always on my to-do-list. Over time I experienced things worthy to pen down. Often, I responded to newspaper articles or columns, put into writing what I disliked, even hated, or when I thought my ideas would solve the problem. There is a folder on my laptop named: Articles not sent.

Retiring to the lake, meeting fellow writers and perhaps getting

kissed by my muse, I wrote some poems. I published a 24-page booklet with my verses. The first edition of “My life in poems” can be purchased. But interested people should hurry. I issued only 4 booklets, which cost me 25 bucks.

In our writer’s group everybody talked about book publishing, but

no one had enough material and courage to go ahead with it, except the two founders of our little society.

For unknown reasons, I stumbled into the area of steampunk. My

interest in history and steampunk connected, and a story emerged turning into a real book.

I had no clue about plot, diction or syntax. My attention in

school to that matter probably was distracted by a blond ponytail in front of me.

My book with the title “Obstacles and Inventions'' exists as an

ebook. I managed to get the book published with no costs and got even an ISBN [97813957347]. I used a pen name, just in case if I become famous and people stare at me or ask for an autograph.

So far, the ebook retailers, like Barnes & Nobles, didn’t make any money with my book, but I also don’t “fakebook” or “chirp”. The promotional part of publishing eluded me.

However, I’m a bit old fashioned, even if I read now ebooks

myself, a real print book in my hands delights me. The attempt of successfully printing my e-book came with a prize of $ 40. I call myself now proudly a published author of a printed book, one prototype only.

My wife worked during her professional life mostly in

clean white outfits. One days she said: “I want to get my hands dirty”, and started with pottery.

Many years I resisted. My words sounded like: I don’t want to

compete.”

About a year ago my hands formed clay slabs into cups and mugs,

oil cans and pitchers.

Perhaps, misguided by my stepfather, a lack of extraordinary

talent and the absence of lasting endurance my hobby-life feels like an ancient cobblestone street where the kids hop from one island to the next.

When I sum up my life as a hobbyist, change has been an immanent

companion. But one leisurely activity goes all the way throughout:

Eating Well.