Wallpapering with my Father Wallpapering with my Father Coming through Ellis Island with all the rest you made good across the sea, to the New World of promise; you, the lanky, blue-eyed immigrant from Nord Holland with the shock of Viking hair – my father’s father, like him a man of few words, there to become part of the American Dream that was within reach because of your saleable skills. That Sunday was quiet with the heavy, high-pitched whir of locusts heralding summer in upstate New York – long, languorous days wasting teenager time under the apple trees. At first I was sulky when I showed up for the job. My father had dressed for the occasion in spotless white as if he were about to go sailing on his yacht. Separating us, seven roles of silkscreened ladies waving Oriental fans. Our tools, your tools, carefully assembled; a greying stepladder, the razor-sharp knife, a boar-bristled brush. Solid like the homeland, built to last like your impossible dream. Unusually impatient, my father barked orders that I couldn’t fulfil: run, fetch, hold the paper straight. Could your secrets not be passed on? My tears spattered in the chlorinated pool. Years later, when you’d already passed on, I put myself to the test; a tiny kitchen wall and a complicated, half-drop vertical match. I preened long-distance. Dad, dreams come true. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailPrintLinkedInLike this:Like Loading...