Education Mattered My dad dropped out of school when he was in eighth grade, if all the stories are to be believed. He was not proud of that, but he was proud that he charged us: You will go to college. One of his favorite sayings to us was, "I don't want you to have to work as hard as I do." And we knew what he meant. He struggled once his dream job closed up. The Hygeia Creamery shut down its Kingsville plant and moved to Harlingen, and he was not invited to come along. Dad tried a series of jobs including one that a local dress shop tried, having a panel van with ladies' clothing in it that would go to several towns in the area and call on its best customers and they could come out to the truck, look at dresses and then try them on in the privacy of their home, and decide if they wanted to buy them or not. Now, it seems like internet/online buying before there was an internet. I went along with him one day and I found it to be awkward; needless to say, so did Dad, and he kept looking for meaningful work. The Sunday came when he announced that he would be driving up with Mr. Meza, our across the street neighbor, who had found work in Houston. That afternoon he piled in the car with other Kingsville men who set out to Houston. Most already had jobs, my dad did not. Several of the men from our church, El Buen Pastor Methodist Church, had left for Houston, and through one of them found a job as a spray painter with Dresser Industries. It may have had an additional name, as it underwent several incarnations, but the main company was Dresser. My dad eventually became a master painter, spraying the computer cabinets that went on oil exploration trucks. Eventually, the fumes from the paint started giving my father headaches (the ones we gave him were not enough!), and so he sought other work. He became part of an assembly team that put in the electronics in the cockpits of the fighter jets made by Grumman and he did that for a while. Then, he got a job with Houston Independent School District, working in the electrical warehouse, where he retired. Still, he said, "You will go to college, so you don't have to work as hard as I do." And we did. All five of us have our bachelor degrees. I was the only one to not have a University of Houston degree, but I did do summer work there allowing me to finish my undergraduate degree in three calendar years. I sure did work hard getting my college degree so that I wouldn't have to work hard.
Manners Mattered One thing my dad disliked was for us to be rude. He believed we should greet everyone, shaking their hand or at least acknowledging them when we saw them. Yes, sir, and No, ma'am, were expected. We could not get away with just yeah, or nah. Respect for elders was important. And he expected our colleges and universities to teach that or at least he would ask, if I did not greet someone, "Did you learn that at college?" We would joke with each other that somehow that course was not in the curriculum for our colleges and universities. But, we learned the principles of good manners from him and mom. I was thankful I did not have to learn the strict Mexican ones that my cousins had to learn; they lived right next door to my maternal grandfather and he expected certain things that we never were taught nor expected to follow; holding our hands behind our backs after serving him a glass of water. We did learn, "Mande" as a way of expecting to do more for him or any of our elders. Mande literally means, "command" so we were at the command of our elders if they so expected. My daughters learned that one and to this day if we ask them something and they don't hear it, will ask, "Mande?"
God MattersWe all had a drug problem growing up. Any time the church doors opened, we were drug to church by my father. Worship and anything related to the church mattered. (Steve Harvey covered this in his portion of The Kings of Comedy). Sunday school, we were there. Sunday worship, check. Sunday night worship, check. Wednesday night worship, check. MYF meeting, check. Vacation Bible School, check. It was no wonder that God got ahold of me early on. And I'm so thankful He did! But, I always loved my church friends more than my school friends. Part of it was that here we were a minority in the country, members of a Protestant church, so we were double-minorities and that helped us bond with each other. Summer camp, check. We worked hard all year with our church MYF to raise the $20 per week charge at Mt. Wesley in Kerrville, Texas. Car washes, bake sales, spaghetti suppers, even an egg sale that to this day makes me smile that we even tried it. Two by two, our youth director sent us in the nicer neighborhoods near our church, to ring the doorbell of each house. The first house, if someone answered, and keep in mind, these were different times, we would ask if they would please donate an egg for our egg sale. Just one egg. Everyone had an egg, and off we would go to the second house and ring their doorbell. "Would you like to buy an egg to help our church youth group get to summer camp? Any amount will do!" And most would give us at least a dollar, some fifty cents, some two dollars. And after an afternoon of begging and selling, we would have amassed a significant amount of our needed money.
We were taught how to pray by our parents, and by my paternal grandmother, Petra M. Valverde, "Momo" as we called her. Prayer was our way of staying connected to God, and simple, sincere prayers were what were expected; nothing fancy, just from the heart conversations with God. Yes, we tended to ask more than we gave in our prayers, but it was part of our learning.
Singing was fun. Singing in Spanish allowed us to further learn the language. Reading responsive readings in Spanish were also great lessons of the awesome language. Singing was an important part of our worship, and to this day I miss singing in Spanish. The years of decline in the Rio Grande Conference churches in Houston, led to my parents deciding to visit an anglo church being pastored by one of my old college roommates, The Rev. Richard Laster, who was senior pastor at St. Philips UMC. They had known Richard for years and he welcomed and loved them, and made them members of St. Philips. There they also found dear sisters and brothers in the faith. It was St. Philips that buried both of them. They both wanted singing in Spanish for their funerals, but few to none of the members there knew how, so they used the hymns in English, including some that were found in the old Cokesbury Hymnal, "When Jesus Came Into My Heart," was one that a YouTube video reminded the pastor of that melody and found in the C.H. "He Lives" was my dad's favorite and we sang that, I in Spanish, in my pew, the rest in English.
Best Man IndeedI'll never forget my dad. As I shared in my words to the congregation the idea that Dad was just a phone call away blessed me. He was quick to answer and would either go rescue us or send someone to help us as need be. My maturing into a man was because I knew he was or could be there soon, should I mess up or need his help right away. He made trusting God as a father possible, because he was a good father. My daughters all loved him and loved being with him. His sense of humor tickled them. He would watch their shows and made his honest comments about them. Blues Clues was the one that really set him off. "How can he be asking such things? It's right there? Is that guy a dummy?" he would say, and just set my girls laughing and laughing. Every summer they would spend some days with my parents and were spoiled just as grandparents are supposed to do. Dad loved his great grandchildren as well, getting to know the Houston boy, Liam, a little more, as Liam loved going to see "Great-grandpa." It was he would cried the most as the coffin was lowered into the ground. But it allowed for this grandpa to talk to him about resurrection and eternal life.
Dad, you will always be my best man.
