The Junkman’s Daughter
So - given this is my first blog, I felt it would be appropriate to explain the title. It’s about two things: one - obviously, my dad and two the dichotomy that was his life which profoundly impacted mine. Someone recently told me that the word dichotomy was a good word to describe me - my dual nature - which I share with my dad. Junkman seems to be such a demeaning title for someone you love dearly and he was so much more than that, but when I think back on my childhood with him, that’s what stands out in my memory.
My parents had me late in life; my mother was 43 my father was 53 - they already raised 4 children and had 4 grandchildren by the time I was born. At that time he was facing medical retirement, which made it necessary for my mother to go back to work. For the first time in their marriage, they reversed roles; she became the breadwinner, he became the caretaker. If you’re familiar at all with Hispanic culture or machismo, you can only fathom how devastating this was to him.
So, being the resourceful man he was, he began collecting scrap metal. My summers are a collection of memories being roused at 6 in the morning, and going with him in his beat up old pickup while he scavenged for anything worth selling. I would help him load his truck and after about 3 or 4 hours go with him to the ‘junkyard’ to sell the scrap metal he collected where he earned a few dollars - or at least enough to buy a 6 pack of beer and an Orange Crush for me - my daily salary. These summers taught me not to fear but have pride in hard work and instilled in me my own sense of humility and determination. He may not have been able to work a regular job anymore, but it was his way of salvaging his independence and perhaps salvaging his own life - he didn’t just collect scrap metal, but anything that seemed useful or important. He would bring it home, fix it, modify it, create something new out of something old - much like his life.
My father was ever present in my life. He was fearless, and God-fearing - my hero - a man who I had no doubt would confront and tackle any situation he was faced with, yet at the same time could happily sit and watch cartoons after school with me. He possessed only an 8th grade education, yet read the newspaper daily from cover to cover. He never failed to amaze me with his resourcefulness and ingenuity - if there was a way to fix something, you can bet he’d find it.
He was a humble man who was extraordinarily proud of his family. He was a devout Catholic who served his country in World War II, dutifully enlisting the day after Pearl Harbor in 1941 until his discharge date 3 weeks after VE day in 1945. He was proud and fearless but had no pride whatsoever in his service and because of his faith - lived his life in constant fear of hell because of the lives he took from fighting in a war. He never boasted or discussed details of the time he served overseas, even though he was the recipient of a Bronze Battle Star and achieved the distinction of Sharpshooter for his Marksmanship qualification badge. If you happened to get him on the subject, it would always be brief and the results would inevitably be the same; a few choked back tears and a cough while he muttered under his breath “War is Hell...”
Although he lived in poverty, living in a tiny house with a widowed mother, aunts, grandparents and an assortment of cousins, he came from a family of musicians; he played the guitar while his brothers and mother played everything from violin, piano, saxophone and drums. I never did get to hear him play, but it’s apparent to me where my passion for music came from. He was the best storyteller with a wicked sense of humor. He gave me a life of not needing or wanting for anything.
I could go on and on about him. But it boils down to everything I do, everything I am - are a direct reflection of him in my life.
Tomorrow will be the 17 year anniversary of his passing. I was just 23 years old when I watched him take his last labored breath and leave this earth that cold snowy night. Even though time has eased the pain of his absence, not a day goes by I don’t think about him and reminisce. I feel his presence in my life constantly, particularly when I need him most - to the point I’ve had dreams of him during my most trying times. I miss him terribly, but I’m eternally grateful I was blessed to have a Junkman for a father...looking back on his life helps me recognize just how much he shaped mine - from my resourcefulness and tenacity that borders on stubbornness, to my inner strength and devotion to my husband and daughters.
I was paying more attention to you than you could possibly imagine Daddy.
My parents had me late in life; my mother was 43 my father was 53 - they already raised 4 children and had 4 grandchildren by the time I was born. At that time he was facing medical retirement, which made it necessary for my mother to go back to work. For the first time in their marriage, they reversed roles; she became the breadwinner, he became the caretaker. If you’re familiar at all with Hispanic culture or machismo, you can only fathom how devastating this was to him.
So, being the resourceful man he was, he began collecting scrap metal. My summers are a collection of memories being roused at 6 in the morning, and going with him in his beat up old pickup while he scavenged for anything worth selling. I would help him load his truck and after about 3 or 4 hours go with him to the ‘junkyard’ to sell the scrap metal he collected where he earned a few dollars - or at least enough to buy a 6 pack of beer and an Orange Crush for me - my daily salary. These summers taught me not to fear but have pride in hard work and instilled in me my own sense of humility and determination. He may not have been able to work a regular job anymore, but it was his way of salvaging his independence and perhaps salvaging his own life - he didn’t just collect scrap metal, but anything that seemed useful or important. He would bring it home, fix it, modify it, create something new out of something old - much like his life.
My father was ever present in my life. He was fearless, and God-fearing - my hero - a man who I had no doubt would confront and tackle any situation he was faced with, yet at the same time could happily sit and watch cartoons after school with me. He possessed only an 8th grade education, yet read the newspaper daily from cover to cover. He never failed to amaze me with his resourcefulness and ingenuity - if there was a way to fix something, you can bet he’d find it.
He was a humble man who was extraordinarily proud of his family. He was a devout Catholic who served his country in World War II, dutifully enlisting the day after Pearl Harbor in 1941 until his discharge date 3 weeks after VE day in 1945. He was proud and fearless but had no pride whatsoever in his service and because of his faith - lived his life in constant fear of hell because of the lives he took from fighting in a war. He never boasted or discussed details of the time he served overseas, even though he was the recipient of a Bronze Battle Star and achieved the distinction of Sharpshooter for his Marksmanship qualification badge. If you happened to get him on the subject, it would always be brief and the results would inevitably be the same; a few choked back tears and a cough while he muttered under his breath “War is Hell...”
Although he lived in poverty, living in a tiny house with a widowed mother, aunts, grandparents and an assortment of cousins, he came from a family of musicians; he played the guitar while his brothers and mother played everything from violin, piano, saxophone and drums. I never did get to hear him play, but it’s apparent to me where my passion for music came from. He was the best storyteller with a wicked sense of humor. He gave me a life of not needing or wanting for anything.
I could go on and on about him. But it boils down to everything I do, everything I am - are a direct reflection of him in my life.
Tomorrow will be the 17 year anniversary of his passing. I was just 23 years old when I watched him take his last labored breath and leave this earth that cold snowy night. Even though time has eased the pain of his absence, not a day goes by I don’t think about him and reminisce. I feel his presence in my life constantly, particularly when I need him most - to the point I’ve had dreams of him during my most trying times. I miss him terribly, but I’m eternally grateful I was blessed to have a Junkman for a father...looking back on his life helps me recognize just how much he shaped mine - from my resourcefulness and tenacity that borders on stubbornness, to my inner strength and devotion to my husband and daughters.
I was paying more attention to you than you could possibly imagine Daddy.
Your dad seems like an interesting man. No question he had a profound impact on you.
ReplyDeletelove it angela....amazing.
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