This was written in 1987, and published in The Ukrainian Weekly.
My father, Vasyl, died almost nine
years ago. The day after my sister's
wedding, he suffered a severe heart
attack, spent two months in a coma, and
died without regaining consciousness
on November 1, 1978. For some reason,
Father's Day is the hardest day in the
year for me, more painful than the day
of his death, or his birthday.
Tato lived a life similar to that of
thousands of Ukrainian men of his
generation (born right before and
during the First World War). He was born
and grew up in the Boyko region. His
mother died when he was very young,
and the stereotypical evil stepmother
came into his life. He finished the
schooling available under Polish rule
to the children of the village (selo). The
family was strongly aware of its
national and cultural ideals, and participated
in the organized life of the selo.
