As she was sipping coffee this morning, my mother remembered how I used to throw as an infant all manner of things—shoes, hunks of firewood, toys—over the balcony parapet of my parents’ apartment in Zagreb. These stories come up often in her reminiscences, but today she ventured a generalization. “You know,” she said and looked up from her cup, “you enjoyed throwing things when you were an infant.” Apparently, I especially enjoyed throwing them over balconies and through windows—in short, out of sight.

Addendum I (January 7, 2008)

Out of the blue, this evening I remembered one of my mother’s stories about my early childhood. I was about two years old when an army officer appeared at my parents’ door in Zagreb. Clutching a piece of firewood in his hand, he was in a foul mood. Even though he eventually accepted her explanation and her fervent apologies on account of my tender age, he still warned her about the broader implications of my untoward behavior. “No matter how old your brat may be,” he growled, “this can still be construed as an attack on an officer of the Yugoslav People’s Army!” Apparently, I barely missed him. Besides, the hunk was on the large side.

Addendum II (January 8, 2008)

“And now the hunks are postcards: plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” writes Bob Collén in response to this piece and the first addendum, which I sent around as an electronic postcard. Indeed. Perhaps the only difference is that I now aim a little better, as Bob’s comment illustrates rather well. Or so I would dare to hope.

Addendum III (April 21, 2016)

I love this piece and all the addenda extending it, and especially Bob Collén’s witty comment. Only the hunks I throw are changing, in tune with the times. Now the balcony is on the World Wide Web, as it were. In particular, the balcony is my Ca’ Bon Gallery website (www.cabongallery.org). Now it boasts of no less than ten selections from my Residua. As hunks go, the selections about climate change and yoga are a joy to see fly over the balcony parapet. To my disappointment, no officer of the Yugoslav People’s Army has appeared at the door so far. How could I have possibly missed all of them?