This was previously written a few months after my father passed away; almost 3 years ago... Nothing can replace a good Daddy.
Daddy was born in a dairy/sweet potato ranch in Winton, California on July 2, 1927. More than likely his first bed was the large wicker laundry basket his brother used 13 months earlier. He and his brother, John were raised there under the steady and sometimes strict hand of their father and mother, in the Old World Portuguese fashion.
There were many stories of my father’s childhood that were told to us. There was the incident when Grandpa gave Daddy a whipping when he found out he was smoking cigarettes after the barn burned down, and the time he sat in a tub of tomato juice when he met up with a skunk. Who could forget the stories of walking two miles to school, and the time when Grandpa bought him and his brother one bicycle. One brother got to ride to school, the other got to ride it home; of course, it didn’t always work that way. And then there were his cowboy rodeo days, where he and his brother John would rope cows to impress the girls.
The cow roping was then replaced by my father's motorcycle. Dad spoke about this motorcycle with a gleam in his eye, and went on to say how he actually belonged to a gang of friends who would ride frequently to Watsonville, Gilroy and Monterey. Visions of my Dad as Marlon Brando arise…speeding out on Hwy 1 dressed in leather come to mind. Okay, I can't picture him dressed entirely in leather; but at least with the leather jacket, with maybe a cigarette coming out the corner of his mouth.
Dad was forced to sell for the Indian Motorcycle for only $200. He was now enlisted in the U.S. Army, and he wouldn’t be needing it now. He was stationed in Monterey for a short time in boot camp, and then transferred to Germany. It was there that Daddy saw the world and a lot of Europe. I do not believe my father took more pictures during this time ever in his life. There are dozens and dozens of photos of him in his Army uniform. We have a box full of them along with all the postcards he had sent to his parents:“Just a line to tell you I’m fine. Love, your son, Joe.” My father used the same line on all of his correspondence. That is all he would write. I guess my father wasn’t a man of much words, but he was quite a ham in front of the camera!
As irony would have it, instead of being sent to Korea, dad was sent to a small island in the Azores; Terceira. Terceira wasn’t just a small island, but the birthplace of his parents. My father was now meeting family and people that he would have otherwise never have likely met; namely my mother. It so happened that, my mother’s stepfather was a second cousin to my paternal grandmother. In fact, my mother’s real father’s (who passed away when my mother was an infant) brother was married to my grandmother’s first cousin. Are we confused yet? Anyways, my father at one point came to mother’s house to visit. Although the visit was short, my mother obviously left a lasting impression on my father. Although his Portuguese wasn’t the best in the world, he still made correspondence with her. The letters were written in English, and were translated by my mother’s cousin. My mother didn’t know what to make of this handsome American soldier. She knew that if she were to marry him, she would surely leave the island she loved so much, but he was such a handsome man. How could she say no to those green eyes?
When my Dad came back to California, he learned that his father had sold the ranch in Winton, and was now living in the sunny little beach town of Santa Cruz. This is where my parents made their home and raised us. Times were not always easy, my father worked hard so that my mother could stay home and raise my brothers, and the loss of my brother, Edwin was a tragedy in itself. Six months before, Dad’s brother John had passed from MS; I really don’t feel there was anyone closer to my dad, other than my mother. Time went on, and my sister, and I came along; and life on Alamo Ave in Santa Cruz was good.
Growing up I sometimes resented the fact that my father was always working. I didn’t quite understand why he was working so hard. Sometimes I would go with him on his side jobs where he would cut lawns for little rich old women, or at the begonia garden where sometimes we would all go out and pick corn. The garden was always full of begonias, and my mother was always home for us when we got home from school, usually with cookies or moon pies and milk waiting for us (we were plump and happy children), with dinner almost ready. Sometimes my father worked the graveyard shift, and for years I thought my father actually dug up graves at the graveyard. On those nights, my sister and I would get into my parent’s bed with my mom, as she told us old stories from the Old Country, where old men would walk the streets with burlap bags to steal the children who did not sleep at night.
Growing up we never took vacations to Disneyland or the Grand Canyon. We went to two primary locations: Pismo Beach or Terceira. Terceira was our favorite destination, and one of the most memorable and important gifts my parents gave us kids growing up. We are not talking about a week or two week vacations; more like two or 3 months vacations where we spent on the island. It was a magical place to us. We learned about the language, the customs, and we met our relatives—the people who my mother would tell us stories about became real. To this day, Terceira remains to be a magical place to not just me and my brother and sister, but our children as well. Sure, my dad would complain about the cost, and the amount of shoes my mother would stuff in a suitcase, but he loved that island as much as my mom. My most memorable vacations were spent on that island, and I have my parents to thank for, especially my Dad.
No one had bigger hands than my father. His two large hands could scoop me up and place me on his shoulders. I still remember him taking me down the stairs, and remember thinking that I was the tallest girl in the world because I could actually touch the ceiling. There wasn’t a thing my father couldn’t fix, or a home improvement he was afraid of, or a jar he couldn’t open. He was there when I moved back and forth from one place to another throughout those silly years after my divorce (they are still a little silly), was there when I had a flat tire, the broken tile in my kitchen that he replaced by flashlight, and was there when his grandchildren needed a ride from and to school. He was the man behind the scenes…the man who did everything, and could do anything, but alas, even super heros like my dad are human.
Our cousin, George may have said it best. At the reception following my father’s funeral, he said that his uncle was a true cowboy. He lived everyday like a true man. “He died with his boots on.” The last thing my dad wanted to be to my mom or his family was a burden. The thought of being bedridden, and unable to help his family scared him more than anything. At the hospital he told me he was “sorry” that the kids were alone that morning, and that I had to be there at the hospital. I reassured him that the kids would be okay as I adjusted the wet cloth on his head. He never thought of only himself, up to the end.
So this is to you Daddy. God couldn’t see a man like you suffer. He wouldn’t let the disease growing inside take away your strong spirit. God wanted us to remember you the way you wanted us to. It is hard without you. It is hard to not see your set of slippers near mom’s in front of your bedroom door. It is hard not to cry. It is also hard not to look at your garden of roses and not remember you, or think of your comical, Jimmy Stewart expressions, or sayings, without laughing out loud. We will see you again one day, but until then I want to thank you Daddy…we love you so.
