Ata Franc
The man who taught me to work
Carpenter, forester, teacher. The rock of my life. The one who, with quiet hands and a calm voice, showed me what work well done actually means.
He had his own carpentry workshop — the smell of resinous wood, dust on his shoulders, chisels lined up like soldiers. He made windows and doors that still stand today in houses of people who never met him. For him there were no shortcuts. Every joint had to fit, every edge had to run straight. "If you work, work properly, otherwise don't work at all," he would say — not as a command, but as a fact.
When Ata Franc was nine years old, the Nazis took his father away to a concentration camp, where he later perished. Franc was left alone with his mother and sisters. As soon as he could, he began caring for his family. He was a man who, despite everything, always 'made things happen' — he always had beautiful cars that he used to drive people to weddings and celebrations. His word, which he repeated in almost every sentence, was Fiat 1300. With his Fiat 1300 he drove people around and created beautiful moments for them — and of course earned well too. He also had a motorcycle, which he proudly used to ride my mother around the former Yugoslavia.
At home he built a beautiful house, and four sons were born to him — one of them is my father Slavko. Franc cared for his family, worked in a socialist window-and-door factory, and at the same time set up a proper little workshop in the old house. In fact, he upgraded the workshop left to him by his father, who was also an excellent carpenter. To this day the house has been called 'Pri Tišlaju'. The machines inside are still those cast-iron ones from Germany from around 1933 — truly incredible machines that belong in a museum, yet they still work perfectly today. Along with some modern equipment, which you can tell from an airplane isn't made as well as they used to make things back then.
All the windows and doors he made in his workshop still serve their purpose today. Near the end of his life I was given the honour among his grandchildren to drive him around to doctors and to the shops. Every time we were out together, people would greet him and thank him for his work — even twenty years after their purchase. That always brought tears to my eyes. Those tears of happiness when you see someone can still be satisfied and grateful for something they bought two decades ago. Incredible. In those moments, standing next to him as he spoke with his former customers, I felt immense pride and told myself: I must achieve something like this too.
He also taught me not to get directly involved in politics. He always said: 'Politics is a whore.' Because power and authority corrupt a person. He himself never engaged in politics — even though he was screwed over by both the Nazis and the communists. Instead he worked. Built. Cared for his family. And that was his strength.
He owned his own forest and often took me with him. He taught me to look at a tree before cutting it. To understand which tree was ready, which still had to grow, which would become a beam and which a board. He taught me that the forest is not a warehouse of wood but a living being a man tends to, and that tends back. That was my first lesson in what regenerative economy means — decades before I even heard the word.
Together we built a hemp fireplace — a stove clad in a hemp-and-lime mixture. Natural, breathable, fireproof. With it we won the main innovation award at the World Hemp Congress 2013. It was his quiet pride. My first public proof that our ideas worked — and that behind them stood a man who never sought attention, only a thing done well.
At the end of his life he left me his Ford Fusion. To me it is the best car in the world — not for its horsepower, but for whose it was. Every time I sit behind the wheel I hear him: "Drive calmly, son." Sometimes I quietly wish for a Mercedes for a Sunday drive, but that Ford is home. Just like he was home.
Almost every day I think of him. I send him a beautiful thought, dedicate a song to him, do something with wood the way he would have done it. He will never truly leave — as long as I work properly, as long as I build things that last, as long as I teach others the way he taught me. Enjoy yourself, ata, wherever you are now. ❤️
This platform — LOVE Coin, all of this — is also yours. In every piece of code I assemble slowly and correctly. In every decision where I choose lasting over fast. In every young person I try to teach how to actually work. And in every customer who comes back after twenty years because they were treated well. Your hands are now in mine. Ata Franc, I hope we (our product) have done well enough to make you proud.
