Old Papa - August 3, 2008
Old Papa sticks in my mind like an old cactus, one of those tall 200 year old Saguaros native to the Southwest, with white blossoms, crimson fruit, and a large trunk where small animals burrow and birds nest. The old man lived 84 years but he seemed much older, his skin thick and hard, his large hands betraying ancient and enormous bones beneath. And like the Saguaro, he didn’t bloom until he was past fifty, acquiring a mild mannered sweetness that melted little children into his long arms.
Maybe the mellowness of aging comes naturally, but in the old man’s case nature was a lifetime of struggle and hard knocks. Orphaned at an early age in Central America, his childhood was filled with the strict discipline and beatings of seminary school, not the nurturing love of a mother. Occasionally he lived with relatives who shared caretaking duties with a game of tener me aqui, translated ‘keep me here’. After living a few months with one family, the young child would be sent to the home of a nearby uncle or aunt with a message, “Tell them that you need a little tener me aqui”.
Old Papa’s scarred childhood came to haunt even his children. Using the only methods of discipline he knew, savage beatings were routine in our household. It seemed his wrath could be triggered by the most minor of infractions, though in retrospect he was probably acting on deep, pent up, unconscious frustrations stemming from grim poverty that persisted despite an intrepid will and drive to provide.
But the old man was devoted and generous nonetheless, working overtime to feed and clothe six children. Every spare moment he spent transforming a junk car into a polished sleek and reliable sedan, or making fine polished furniture, refinishing wooden floors, installing new plumbing, replacing electrical wiring, landscaping and gardening, painting and roofing an old broken down house until it was transformed into a palatial wonder. And like icing on a cake, he was a wonderful artist, drawing beautifully detailed pencil sketches of famous American presidents and movie stars, and painting enormous oil murals to hang on the walls.
The man was a living paradox, big and scary with short temper and a brutal whip, yet a magnanimous and dedicated slave to family, with enormous talent and unflagging strength. It’s that lifelong commitment and loyalty that I remember and admire most about the old man. No matter the effort or sacrifice required, he always pushed himself one better. And his faithfulness and loyalty to his wife, was no different than that of a dog to his master, not the slightest hint of infidelity and ever the devotion to service.
I’ll never forget Old Papa and I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because every now and then he visits me in my dreams. And in the dreams, he’s never the scary tyrant I knew as a child, but always the wizened gentle and kindly grandfather everyone came to love in the end. Old Papa sticks in my memory like a thick, rough, thorny, succulent Saguaro cactus, home to small birds and animals.
Maybe the mellowness of aging comes naturally, but in the old man’s case nature was a lifetime of struggle and hard knocks. Orphaned at an early age in Central America, his childhood was filled with the strict discipline and beatings of seminary school, not the nurturing love of a mother. Occasionally he lived with relatives who shared caretaking duties with a game of tener me aqui, translated ‘keep me here’. After living a few months with one family, the young child would be sent to the home of a nearby uncle or aunt with a message, “Tell them that you need a little tener me aqui”.
Old Papa’s scarred childhood came to haunt even his children. Using the only methods of discipline he knew, savage beatings were routine in our household. It seemed his wrath could be triggered by the most minor of infractions, though in retrospect he was probably acting on deep, pent up, unconscious frustrations stemming from grim poverty that persisted despite an intrepid will and drive to provide.
But the old man was devoted and generous nonetheless, working overtime to feed and clothe six children. Every spare moment he spent transforming a junk car into a polished sleek and reliable sedan, or making fine polished furniture, refinishing wooden floors, installing new plumbing, replacing electrical wiring, landscaping and gardening, painting and roofing an old broken down house until it was transformed into a palatial wonder. And like icing on a cake, he was a wonderful artist, drawing beautifully detailed pencil sketches of famous American presidents and movie stars, and painting enormous oil murals to hang on the walls.
The man was a living paradox, big and scary with short temper and a brutal whip, yet a magnanimous and dedicated slave to family, with enormous talent and unflagging strength. It’s that lifelong commitment and loyalty that I remember and admire most about the old man. No matter the effort or sacrifice required, he always pushed himself one better. And his faithfulness and loyalty to his wife, was no different than that of a dog to his master, not the slightest hint of infidelity and ever the devotion to service.
I’ll never forget Old Papa and I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because every now and then he visits me in my dreams. And in the dreams, he’s never the scary tyrant I knew as a child, but always the wizened gentle and kindly grandfather everyone came to love in the end. Old Papa sticks in my memory like a thick, rough, thorny, succulent Saguaro cactus, home to small birds and animals.