Brrrr. Temps here in Wisconsin are low low low. In Shakespeare's words, "Tis cold as a dead man's nose." Get thee under a blanket, make thee a cup of hot coffee, and let us talk Dr. Zhivago.
The film was released in 1965 but it was in the '70s when I sat up late one night and watched it on television. I loved Omar Sharif. He reminded me of my father. Not just his handsome good looks and his sophisticated charm. Dr. Zhivago was a physician who wrote poetry and loved Lara, a fair-skinned nurse. My dad was a physician who painted watercolors and loved Maryann, a fair-skinned nurse. Omar Sharif was born in Egypt in 1932 and my dad was born in Iran in 1932. Only one letter separated Sharif from Sharifi.
That night, my dad was at the hospital seeing to a sick baby. When he returned, I expected him to shoo me to bed. Instead he joined me for the second half of the three hour film. We marveled at the scenes set in the winter palace. The onion domes caked in ice like a giant magical confection. IMDB reports that the snow-laden interiors were created out of wax.
And when I burst into tears at the awful horrid ending, he nodded in agreement. "Those Russians," he said, "even their fairy tales are sad."
Omar Sharif passed away this year. I am extremely fortunate that my dad is nearby and living his life with gusto. He is still painting and still loving his fair Maryann. He seems to get a kick out of my new vocation and I'm excited to hear what he thinks of my new collection in the shop inspired by our old favorite, Dr. Zhivago.
Now that you're comfy, if you want to keep reading about my dad, here's one of the first posts I wrote and it's a funny one. If you like all this enough to read next week's post, sign up below and I'll add you to the email list.