KAKO JE MOJ OTAC PETAR BOBAN, GABRIĆ UMRO RADEĆI NA NJIVI KAO I VOJNIK NA BOJNOM POLJU BRANEĆI SVOJU ZEMLJU HRVATSKU

Petar Boban, Gabrić, rođen 14 srpnja 1907.,  umro od kljenuti srca 21 rujna 1981., na njivi zvanoj Moba kod sela Blaževića. Mater mi je pričala u Parizu pred Božić 1985. godine kada je došla, na njezin zahtjev i nezinu želju, sa unukom Mišom, unukicom Ljljom i kćeri Jakicom u Pariz upoznati svoju nevjestu Annie, moju suprugu i mojih šestero djece. Tada mi je ona pričala kako je njezin muž Petar, naš dragi otac, djed i svekar Petar umro trgajuću kukuruz. Bilo je oko 9 i pol sati u jutro, ponedjeljak 21 rujna 1981. godine.

Moja mama, naša mama, baka Vićeka mi je sve u detalje rekla kako je to bilo. Oni su, po tadašnjem običaju, obrali kukuruz prije nekoliko dana, posjekli kukuruzove biljke i složili u snopove. Tog dana, ponedjeljak, mama i otac Petar su s uprežnim kolima otišli dovesti tu kukuruzovinu, kako se je to tada zvalo, što je obično služilo “hajvanu”, kravama, konju i drugoj živini za zimnicu. Bila su dva konja, naš i kuma Dominika Boban, Blaškića. Otac je bio na kolima dok je mater njemu dobacivala snopove kukuruzovine. Otac je to slagao – kako bi što sigurnije i bez problema – da to na putu do kuće ne ispane. Najednom reče: “Vićeka moja nešto se ne osjećam dobro. Daj mi onu rakiju što je pod mojim kaputom tu kod buceta”. Mater nastavlja: “Dok sam se ja udaljila i došla do buceta gdje je rakija bila, Petar je već sašao s kola i na jednu galju od kukuruza sjeo. Ja sam došla i sjela uz njega a on samo nasloni glavu na moja koljena i izdahnu. Ja ga trljam rakijom po vratu, zovem ga: Petre moj šta je s tobom. Tek tada sam vidjela da je umro. Ja počela nabrajati iz svega grla. Ljudi koji su na polju bili i na svojim njivama radili svoje poslove su čuli moj plač i odmah u pomoć priskočili. Jedan čovjek iz Blaževića je došao sa svojim malim autom. Kako je moj Petar bio krupan čovik, nismo ga mogli staviti u to malo auto. Ljudi su izvadili oba sjedala i stavili su moga mrtvoga Petra unutra i šofera, a mi smo svi ostali za autom išli i plakali, nabrajali…” Tako mi je mater pričala u Parizu pred Božić 1985.

Draga moj brate Jerko, drage moje sestre Jakica, Mile, Matija i Kate, dragi moji nećaki Mišo i Vlado, draga moja nećakinje Ljilje, drage moje kćeri Sophie, Catherine, Iva/Drina. dragi moji  sinovi Rafajel, Stjepan i Mile ovom vam pišem na hrvatskom jeziku a prevest ću i na engleski za moju djecu i unučad, koji na svu žalost malo ili vrlo slabo govore hrvatski.

Sjetimo se našeg oca Petra Baban, Gabrića, vašeg svekra i djeda, na 21 rujna, malo manje od četiri mjeseca bit će 37 godina od njegove smrti. Pomolimo se za pokoj njegove duše. Počivao u MIRU Božijem, dragi naš Ćaća Petre! Tvoje kćeri, tvoji sinovi, tvoja unučad i praunučad.

Tvoj sin Mile Boban.

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Petar Boban Gabrić was born on July 14, 1907. and died on Monday September 21, 1981., on the field called Moba near Willage Blaževići. My Mother was telling me in Paris on Christmas time 1985., when she come there with grandson Mišo, grand-daugther Ljilja and daughter Jakica. She, my Mother, come to Paris to meet me and my children, her grand children that she never had a chance to see before, and also to meet her daughter in law, Annie my wife and my wife’s parents that she never saw before. Then my mother told me how her husband, our dear father, grand father, and father in law died in the field harvesting corn. That was around 9:30 AM on Monday September 21, 1981.

My Mother, our Mother, baba Vićeka told me in detail how this happened. They had been working on the field, according to the custom of that time, harvesting corn  a few days earlier, but  they came to pick up the  stalks that day with wagon and horses. These stalks were used for the cattle during the winter time. There were two horses, ours and the other our kum’s Dominik Boban, Blaškić. Our father was on the wagon while our Mother was giving him the stalks to load…Suddenly our father cry: “My dear Vićeka something is happening to me. I do not feel good. Can you give me that rakija which is underneath my jacket”. Our Mother continue: “While I went to get rakija and come back, my husband come down from the wagon and was sitting on the ground holding his head in his hands. I sat next to him. He put his head on my lap and died. I try to call him: My dear Petre what is happening to you. Just now I realized that he had died. While I was crying at the same time I was rubbing his neck with rakija. People working in the field heard my cry and came to see what is going on and to help me. A man from Village of Blaževići came with his small car. My husband Petar was a big man and he was not be able to put him in the car. The people pulled both seats out of the car and put in my dead husband Petar.The  driver was driving the car while we were all crying behind the car…”

Thus did told me my Mother in Paris on Christmas time 1985.

My dear brother Jerko, my dear sisters Jakica, Mila, Matija and Kata, my dear nephew Mišo and Vlado, my dear niece Ljilja, my dear daughters Sophie, Catrine, Iva/Drina, my dear sons Rafajel, Stjepan and Mile, my dear nevjesta Robin and Sara, my dear grand-sons Zane, Cash and Tristan, my dear grand-daughter Simone, my dear Zlatko, Tony, Renato and Petar, this is for all of you to remember how your lovely grand-father died. Remember his death with our prayers, on September 21 it is going to be 37 years ago.

I love you all, your Father Tata Milan, your Mother, mama, your stric and strina, your tetak and tetka.

Bog! Tata, mama, Stric, Strina, Tetak, Tetka.