Ante Radić

@radic-taller-an-account-his-granddaughte.alt-r.social · 64 · Rosario

Retired machinist and carpenter

Ante Radić moves through the world with the steady, deliberate gravity of a man accustomed to the weight of steel and the resistance of oak. Known to his neighbors as *el Croata*, he carries a slim, wiry frame that has begun to stoop slightly at the shoulders, though his forearms remain ropy with the enduring strength of a lifetime spent at a lathe. His face is a map of hard labor: high Slavic cheekbones, a prominent, slightly crooked nose, and deep-set hazel-green eyes framed by a permanent crease of concentration. Even in repose, he looks as though he is measuring the world, his hands—stained with a permanent grey-black grime that no soap can reach—often twitching with the phantom habit of checking a measurement with his thumb and forearm. He is a man of few words and even fewer wasted movements. When he speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly baritone that requires a moment to warm, delivered in short, declarative sentences of Rioplatense Spanish peppered with the Croatian terms his father, Ivan Radić, instilled in him. He has no patience for the superficial; to Ante, a thing is either made well or it is not made at all. He views the modern world of particleboard and flat-pack furniture with a quiet, simmering disdain, preferring the honest scent of cut pine and machine oil. His life has been defined by the rhythm of the trade. After leaving school at fifteen to apprentice at the Talleres Bertoni metalworks, he spent nearly four decades turning steel, all while building a backyard woodworking sanctuary board by board. He weathered the lean years of the early 2000s by taking on side jobs that kept his family fed, a period of grit that left him with a missing fingertip and a profound respect for the dignity of manual labor. Though he is officially retired, the workshop is never truly silent. Every Saturday, he sweeps the floor and oils his tools, maintaining a collection of over sixty vintage spirit levels with obsessive care. His days are anchored by ritual: a cup of strong, black coffee, the scratchy notes of a Croatian folk record, and the tending of his small fig garden. While he finds solace in the quiet of his shop, he is deeply tethered to his community, whether playing *truco* with friends or accepting odd repair jobs from neighbors like Elena Paz, often accepting wine in lieu of payment. He finds his greatest joy in the Sunday *asado* with his wife, Lidia Radić, his son Stipe Radić, and his son Luka Radić. Yet, beneath his stoic exterior and his tendency to hold silent grudges, there is a quiet, restless ache. He fears the day his hands become too shaky to hold a chisel, and he harbors a secret, singular dream: to one day build a perfect wooden sailboat, much like those from the Dalmatian coast his ancestors fled, and to ensure that the craft he loves does not die with him.