Uncle Vanyo and I.
That’s how far our similarity with Anton Pavlovich Chehov’s play would get.
Never married, our family became his nest and
he devoted his life and love to my sister and me.
I still feel his piercing blue eyes.
His church-bell deep voice echoes in my mind.
And the quick, witty and often unforgiving humour was my relentless drive and inspiration.
Well-read erudite, he was an intelligent force not to be reckon with; true gentleman, always true to his word. He had a numismatic collection and always use to tell us that from all the ancient coins we are his most precious golden coins...
We created our own world of Uncle Vanya and Sophia.
He used to whip my laziness every time I get stuck in the smallest hurdle when I was ready to give up and drown in self-pity.
He believed in my writing, he believed in my drawing, he believed in my singing, acting, story-telling and all talents I didn’t even suspect I had.
He encouraged me to be a daring and honest journalist and to be true to myself any time I am with pen in my hand and facing the white page – no matter if I was going to pour a flood of words or draw a sketchy picture.
He stirred my mind and aspiration as one stirs a slow burning coal into an engulfing fire.
Every time I accomplish something, I celebrate it quietly in my heart with my Uncle Vanyo.
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