The Man in the Mirror

Sometimes when I pass by  a mirror and look through the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my father looking back at me. It's quite startling. Most boys at a young age dream about being just like their dad. That quickly changes when you become a teenager or young adult, the last thing you want is to become your father.

When I was a kid of 9 or 10, my dad early on a Saturday morning would come into the bedroom I shared with my brothers and say to me, "get up, we're going to go work." My brother David was to young and my brother Ralph was to studious to go, although sometimes he did, but I rarely got away. As a child it was fun, I'd watch and learn as my dad used the few power tools he had to do this and that. He was not much of a craftsman, but he got an A+ for effort.  My dad had a very limited education and worked most of his life as a laborer, but he was always a very hard worker. He worked mostly with wood products, so although he was limited in what he could do, he was always willing to work on almost anything we needed, including the likes of porches, windows, roofing, concrete and homemade cabinets. Some projects weren't always much to look at and some had distinctive "flaws" in them, my mother cherished and used anything he could or was willing to make that could better our home at least a bit. For much of his life he worked where they made doors, so he became "proficient" (actually proficient is a strong word) at hanging doors. Frequently he would take me with him to a job, that is hang a door or two at someones home. As I got older, I really started to hate being woken up at 6:00 to go hang a door at some guys house particularly when it took most of my already limited weekend. He was fair though and he would often split the $30 or $40 dollars he would charge to do the job.

Many times he brought home scrap wood or damaged doors that he would buy for a buck or two. As a boy of 9 or 10 I would use it to make all sorts of projects. We had a cellar of sorts where we would store all this wood along with various tools my dad owned. I would use these to make all kinds of cool things while listening to 60's era rock on 93 KHJ radio. My favorite by far was making go-carts. Some would be elaborate with steering wheels and foot brakes and anything else we could dream up. Living on a hill provided the perfect environment to ride these "vehicles" with the hope that the brakes would work and you'd walk away after a fast and thrilling ride. If you have ever seen "The Little Rascals" then you've seen us, except it was more of a Mexican version with my friends Tomas & George.

As I got older I realized that although I thought I was just helping my dad, I actually was becoming a bit like him. I would (as my brother’s would and do) think nothing of taking on a project. Now some of those projects I had no business doing, but back then I didn't know it. And like my father, sometimes things didn't turn out quite like I envisioned. I remember my dad doing something, like cutting a door and then trying to put it up and kinda scratching his head and looking at it with a queer gaze because he knew as I knew that something wasn't quite right. But we would take it in stride and would somehow "fix it."

He tried his hand at anything and everything, plumbing, electrical, drywall, masonry,whatever needed doing, I mean he had no choice. It was do it yourself or do without. Now don't get me wrong, my dad did a great deal right and often met with success. But as I look back now I realize I learned a lot more from my dad than I imagined. He was the typical Mexican dad, whose very presence demanded respect. No need to say anything, a simple stare spoke volumes. You never talked back, and you never acted stupid in front of him.

I guess mostly he showed me what it was to be a man. I don’t think he was trying to,mind you, he was just modeling it. I remember he always came home and gave my mom a kiss. He always handed her his whole check and she took care of him and us with it. And in return I never saw my dad raise a hand to my mother,(although he raised a few at me). And this may be hard to believe, but I never saw my parents fight, now I'm not saying they didn't, I just never saw it. I'm sure I heard a few arguments but never in anger or yelling. My dad is still around and at 81 he moves a bit slower than he once did. He spends the day with the same women he has for last 53 years, often bragging about his 5 children whom collectively celebrated about 115 years of marriage all to their first and only spouses. He and my moms hearts only beat to spend the remaining years of their lives enjoying their 8 granddaughters and 8 grandsons. They are his(and hers) reward for the fine job he did. So if I do become more like my father, it may in fact be a very, very good thing after all.