My father was my brother.
We grew up together, along with brother Finn and mom.
We never had an argument or a bad word between us. Nobody did.
We all understood each other.
But I more than understood my father.
I felt like I was him.
His humor was my humor. His way of looking at the world was mine.
When I made it into the Danish Radio, he was there already.
When I wrote songs, made records and performed, he wrote books, made books and performed as well.
He taught me a great respect for the stage and the world of performing. "It is no fun, unless you take it serious" he would say, and he did. He was always well dressed, was always prepared, and treated everyone with respect.

He believed anything was possible, so I did also. He made a lot of right moves but the best one was meeting and marrying mom. They were a team. When they married they promised each other not to cry over split milk. Early on I remember we chipped a big porcelain serving dish. We celebrated it's demise by taking it to the back alley where we ceremoniously let it fall from the roof to shatter in a spectacular crash.

If we kids did something wrong, we did not get punished. We would talk about it, and found a good reason to not do it again. We felt like people together, not kids and parents.

My father was a good man, who had faith in humans. That is why he handed me a bucket of ice-cold water from a lake in Italy, which I promptly poured over him. He laughed, after he again was able to breathe.

He had faith in the elements, as I sprinkled water from the roof so he dashed out of the garage into the house expecting an imminent downpour.

He and mom had faith in my brother, Finn and Me, letting both of us travel to America at an early age. And he had the ultimate faith in my mother, letting her rebuild our homes, and manage everything including all money matters.

Once a weekly magazine called and asked my dad how much money he made per year. In a time where envy of success made such inquiries a tricky subject, my dad was caught a bit off guard and told the reporter that he did not know, as his wife handled all their money matters. Undeterred the reporter asked, "well, would you go ask her, then?" My father put the phone down, and came back a little later with the answer: "She said it was none on my business".

Many years ago I asked him what was the best moment of his life. Meeting my mom, was his first response, but also something which occurred on a commuter train back from his job as journalist on BT a large Danish newspaper.

There was a man a few seats away from my him who opened his copy of BT and started leafing through it. My father had a daily column on a particular page. He kept a discreet eye on the man as he could see him come to "his" page. From the side my father could not see the page itself, but he happened to know the layout that day, and now watched as the stranger's eye found his column and started to read.
As the man finished reading a little smile came into being. This was the greatest reward my dad could think of and a great moment in his life.

I think I would know how he felt if, one day, I would hear someone whistle a tune of mine on the street. I'm just glad to have know this man I called Far, and who now lives inside me.

Until we meet again.