Aleksandar • Vacić

iOS bits and pieces

I work faster on Win than Mac

I worked with iBook G4 lately and was using it as a development machine for urgent work. My main environment is Windows 2003, so this was the chance to compare the two OS in full productivity mode. My usual working setup is file manager + HTML/CSS editor + FTP software + one or two browsers + whatever I need (like Photoshop). On Win, that means Total Commander (has built-in FTP), TopStyle Pro, Firefox and IE. On Mac, it’s SubEthaEdit or Dreamweaver, Finder, RBrowserLite, Safari.

A big...

…thank you to everyone who sent condolences, regards and best wishes. Each of them means a lot to me and I’m sorry that I can’t answer every single one. You have my deepest gratitude.

St. Nicholas, our slava

Today is St. Nicholas, slava of our family.

Among Serbs, slava is the day when you honor your family' saint. If a family don’t have a saint, they they can chose one, call the priest and then the host receives the slava through the simple ceremony. From that day forward, you celebrate it as the protector of your family.

This is a very old custom, dating centuries back. The communists did a pretty good job of eradicating this custom, but in the last decade it’s starting to get back its ground. I was never too much of a believer, but I was baptised as a child and always respected the Ortodox church as well as customs that go with it.

We always had huge celebration. Usually, you call friends and relatives, some to lunch, some to dinner. On the day after (slava is celebrated for 2 days) you call other important people, like your wedding best man (unless he was a guest on the first day) and friends who celebrate the same day as you are. However, as far as I can remember, when my father took the honors over from the grandpa (who died some 15 years ago), we never called guests for dinner. We have a circle of very close family friends for lunch, that always stayed way beyond the dinner time. It has always been one of the greatest days of the year. Even when I moved to Belgrade, I never missed to come home and celebrate with my family.

In the morning, we cut the bread, sip some wine on it, taste the wheat with sugar and nuts and the celebration starts.

The slava passed to me now. Today, we did all the same, but instead went to dad’s grave. No guests, no celebration. Just a simple honoring of the saint and a lot of memories of the past slavas. Some of our friends celebrate St. Michael the Archangel (Nov 21st) and they were fortunate to celebrate it before my dad’s accident. Most of our friends celebrate the same day as we are or the St. John (Jan 20th). All said that it will never be the same without Časlav. My dad always knew how to live up the talks around the table, knew how to talk with anyone, even people he barely knew, talk like they are life long friends.

Instead of laughs and cheers, I now listen to silence. Such is life. Next year, I will hopefully host the celebration.

As hours pass by

A friend of mine told me: My uncle, when he heard, came and said ‘the best man in Pirot died’….

My dad was a generous, helpful man. He always tried to help to whomever ask. Even if he had a work of his own, he left it for later and went to help when asked. Was it a small thing like changing the fuse or doing the whole electrical circuitry for the neighbors' house, he did it.

He was a man who could not stand to sit idly. We would go on a vacation to Greece, and after two days he did not know what to do with himself. A car of the fellow countryman broke up and my father jumped hey, can I take a look….

It is said that you can judge the person by his funeral column. That the legacy of each man is the number of grateful people and friends that he left behind. Over 300 people came to the funeral, most of whom I did not know. All was crying, some not believing that it really happened until they saw him in the chapel.

Many people on the funeral (and the day before in our house where my father laid) cried so hard that I, possibly for the first time, really understood how great my dad was. Some called on that and following days, expressing regret that they can’t attend for various reasons (it was on Tuesday, 1pm).

I heard many times “do good to be given good”. It’s so hard to believe in that now. In fact, I now think that it does not matter what you do. You can be a saint and live 40 or 70. You can be a complete jackass and live 20 or 90.

My mom asked a thousand times “what have we done to deserve this”? Nothing. It simply does not matter.

I can only believe in Destiny. For every man, there is a path he walks, and at a certain time he passes, one way or another. I have no other explanation of what happened. My dad built the electrical pill 25 years ago and used it ever since. Dozens and dozens of people used it over the years, many of them payed no precautions of any kind. Dad was always the first to warn about safety measures. Never rush, always do the job by the book…

Our neighbor, who worked 40 years in wood cutting industry, said that he has never seen such injury. Some dark forces joined in that moment and it all went wrong for my dad.

Patch of wood hit him in the left forehead, broke the bone into several pieces and all that went into the brain. With such wound, he was transported to City Hospital in the city of Nis (70km from our home town of Pirot) where he arrived over two hours after the accident. With all that, he undressed himself and sat on the bed, even waved back to a friend who went with him to Nis. The doctors could not believe what they saw on the head x-rays, that a man with such severe injury could even stand.

I saw him two days after, lying unconscious on the bed; he looked better than me. Neglect the head patch and swollen left eye, he was an image of a healthy man. 6 days later, when I went to the chapel to claim his body, he looked so small, somehow diminished.

After reading the papers I received from hospital, I think that it was his strength that kept him alive for seven days. His body fought all that time, exhausting all its strength and sadly, lost the battle.

Dad in the wine cellar

Rest in peace, dad. Just rest, for once.