Tribute to My Father

македонски

Vangjel Gjeorgjievski

August 1, 1953 – January 26, 2024

Vangjel, or Vane, as many relatives and friends called him, and Vanche for us at home and those closest to him, was my father. Husband to Snezhana, also father to Borche (Ana), and grandfather to Ivo. He grew up in Chifte Furni, a district in Bitola, the youngest among one sister and two brothers, in a house over 100 years old, belonging to his parents Boris and Marionka. He completed his primary education at “Sts. Cyril and Methodius,” continued to a secondary school focused on economics, and was briefly a university student. Around the age of thirty, he met my mother and got married, proudly carrying the title of the “oldest bachelor in the family” until then. My father and mother belonged to a generation that deeply valued dedication, hard work, and hospitality.

One of my earliest memories of my father is from a cold winter morning when I was about five or six years old. I sat on a sled as he pulled it through the snow. That’s how he and my mother would take my brother and me to kindergarten during the winter. It took me years to realize what a challenge that must have been for them, but it was those very efforts that shaped my resilience and paved the path for my life.

In 1993, my father and mother built a new house where the old one once stood. With their own hands, with the help of friends and family, and in times of scarcity, they created a home that was much more than just a house. They had an unconventional idea for the design – it was meant to be a space for togetherness, a place where family and friends could gather. I grew up with the sense that our home wasn’t just ours; it was a warm haven for many. This was because my father was the axis around which people gravitated. He was sociable, selfless, dedicated, and always willing to give his all for others.

My father was skilled with tools, always fixing or crafting something, and often engineering unique devices. There were very few moments when I wasn’t by his side during those activities. He encouraged my curiosity and my desire to learn how to handle tools, repair things, and create alongside him. Everything I know today about craftsmanship, I owe to him.

He had a profound love for traveling. He was always excited about new places, exploring with the joy and curiosity of a child. Even on our last trip together to the United States, he carried the same enthusiasm – marveling at the beauty of nature, architecture, and human creations.

My father was a music lover. He never missed the New Year’s Concert of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, and I grew up cherishing that tradition. He especially loved listening to music on the record player, with our neighborhood echoing to the sounds of “Rokeri s Moravu” or “Queen.” Dancing wasn’t his strong suit, nor did he particularly enjoy it, but the little “dancing” he did had its own charm – a sideways lifting of one leg, with a quick bend and stretch in a repetitive rhythm.

We often watched handball games and movies together. However, he wasn’t a fan of horror films and avoided watching them with me. He was deeply emotional, often moved by beautiful or touching movie scenes. Sometimes, he would shed a tear, which gave my mother a reason to gently tease him. But that sensitivity wasn’t confined to the screen – it was a fundamental part of who he was. I will always remember the tears of pride and trembling voice when he congratulated me on my graduation and doctorate.

He spent most of his life as a crane operator, working at great heights alone in the cabin. Since daily family lunches were a cherished tradition in our home, I often heard stories about his and my mother’s workdays. Not only do I not recall him ever complaining about his job, but those moments taught me the value of hard work. I came to understand that he was deeply committed to his work and carried it out with precision and care.

On Annunciation Day, April 7th, my father celebrated his name day. Our home was filled with guests, for whom he and my mother prepared with love and welcomed warmly. My father energetically served the guests. These celebrations left me with the impression that he and my mother did all of this not for prestige or status but because of their genuine hospitality and kindness.

Vanche was a man who was loved, cherished, and respected. He had a witty sense of humor, often joking with both strangers and friends, sometimes at his own expense, sometimes at theirs. He had little tolerance for foolishness or manipulative behavior. My father was intelligent, quiet, and honest. He sometimes gave the impression of being strict, but beneath that exterior lay a heart full of love and care for those he held dear. He was someone we could always rely on whatever support was necessary and helpful.

My father and mother taught me to respect others, to fight for the ones I love, and to take care of myself. From them, I learned how to maintain a home, to love life, and to view the world with a bright spirit. Together with my mother, my father gave me unconditional freedom to build the life I wanted, showed me the beauty of living, and filled me with hope.

I celebrate him, and I am endlessly grateful for all that I am and all that I have achieved because of him.

I miss him greatly.

January 26, 2025