“Ya llego tu papa….,” my mom would say to us when my dad’s yellow truck would begin to approach the driveway.
“Aaaapaaaa!!..... daaaaad!” my three other siblings and I would yell as we ran to the truck to hug, jump, and crawl on him like a nest of sugar ants would attack a cookie crumb. It was what we did every late afternoon as he finished a long day in the hot, suffocating, dry farm fields. It was probably the last thing he wanted; four kids fighting for his affection, but he never let us know.
“Epa! Epa!!” He would say and grab the brown paper bags filled with groceries, surprising us with “dum dum pops” from his shirt pocket probably to get us off his legs and his back. We would swarm around him, tearing our wrappers off the lollipops following him to front door and into the house.
My dad was the best dad anyone could ever want. He was kind, caring, loving, generous, affectionate, and if anyone was missing a 150 pounds of gold it was because my dad was carrying it in his heart. My dad was all heart.
He was a proud father. He was compassionate with us no matter the mess we got into. He tried his best to give us the best life he could with the knowledge and life experience he knew best.
He made the best carne con verduras, machaca, torta de huevo, and chorizo con huevo. He took us to Disneyland, Magic Mountain, and the Fresno Zoo even though we didn’t know they existed. He took us to the scorching fields to work, not because we had to, but because we begged him to.
He was an amazing storyteller. My favorite was the one when he sneaked into a church, dressed-up as a priest, and married a young couple.
He grew the best vegetable garden in town; savory onions, red cherry tomatoes, hot spicy peppers, tasty calabasas, aromatic cilantro, and one time even yellow corn. He loved to bbq carne asada and enjoyed a couple of beers (Bud-light was his choice), with cucumbers and aguacate con sal y limon.
He walked Cesar Chavez’s funeral procession because he knew the goodness of a person’s soul. He cried when a young life was taken away by unforeseen circumstances. He laughed when someone fell victim to one of his practical jokes.
He religiously watched Chespirito, hogar dulce hogar, y noticero 21. On occasion a novela would catch his attention. “No qualcuier chingadera,” he would say.
We’d talk about the weather, Bush, Clinton, or Reagan, and the latest news. He always asked about how my friends and their families were doing.
He lived to be 78 years old. He was wise, experienced, and humble. He lived through many social movements, wars, and the rise of technology. He was right about so many things, “les voy hacer mucha falta cuando me vaya.”
He’s right. Me haces mucha falta. Mucha mucha falta.
My Apa was the best father ever. I have his smile, his legs, his boyish figure. I cook like him, come up with nicknames for people, and tend to my flowers like he tended his vegetable garden. Thank you for being the best dad you knew how to be. Thank you for loving us unconditionally. Thank you for your words of wisdom that I miss so much. Te quiero mucho y lo hecho de menos. I love you dad and I miss you so much.
I am because you were.
Peace, Love, and God Bless!
