My dad was an engineer.
He was, I could argue, pretty brilliant. (as engineers usually are)
He was also uncomfortable around a lot of people. (as engineers usually are)
He was always known as “Verdés” – as if calling him by his first name would have been sacrilegious. No one called him by his first name. Not even my mom.
My dad was a quiet man, but quite witty. He never said much. But when he spoke he commanded attention and often surprised us with a clever observation. He was not overly demonstrative, but always (ALWAYS!) greeted us with a warm hug and kiss. There was never a day when I wondered if I was loved. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. But he constantly showed it.
To this day, I often wonder how this quiet, reserved, brilliant individual ended up with six offspring. A son and FIVE daughters. FIVE! How he and my brother survived those many years of estrogen dominance in the family, I’ll never know.
I can report unequivocally that he was not prepared for being the punchline of this particular cosmic joke.
Starting with my mom, the women in my family are all noisy, opinionated, passionate and demonstrative. And so, the quiet engineer often came home to noisy discussions and conversations (can you call them that when Cubans – particularly Cuban women – are talking loudly over one another?) and plots and plans as only girls can have.
He adored (to the point of veneration) his grandchildren. There were no little people more clever. None more amazing to him. And they were his. He reveled in their presence.
The scene in my big, fat, Cuban family was always noisy, big, grand. And this was not counting holidays or parties.
My dad would sit in the center of it all, a fixture, if you will, smoking his puro, and drinking in the ambiance.
All those girls. All those kids. We were his. And he was quite proud of the family he had managed to bring about.
I lost my Papi on this date in 1999.
I still mark this anniversary and make some space amid all the Noche Buena and Christmas preparations to remember and celebrate and grieve. I’m glad (for lack of a better word) that if he had to die in December, it was in the first half. I don’t feel like I can comfortably begin my celebrations until I’ve pushed through this particular day.
When my sisters and I are together, I inevitably think of him and how he used to often say at this time of year:
“El que tiene hijas, celebra la Noche Buena.”
(“He who has daughters, celebrates Christmas Eve.”)
Me, Alina, Miriam & Papi. circa 1977
I think it was his way of celebrating the abundance and life that having so many women (life-givers) in his home gave him.
I am still proud to be one of the Verdés daughters.
No matter what my last name is, that will never change.
Te extraño, Papi.
My Abuelo had 4 daughters and one son …great tribute ….
as I always says, so long as we always think of our lost loved ones, they are always alive with us.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad, Marta. My thoughts are with you and yours today. That inevitable day of loss is one I so dread and I cannot imagine having to remember it year after year. I send a big hug.
Thank you for sharing that with your readers. I lost my father not quite 2 years ago and not a day goes by that his presence isn’t missed. Prayers are with you today.
Very nice and touching tribute to your dad, Marta.Your description of your father could apply to mine. Engineer, quiet, and not too social, but commanded respect in the house. Except, my house was more male oriented, being it was just my brother and I. I was initially an electrical engineer because of him, and worked in this capacity for 8 years until I decided to go to law school (which actually dispointed him). Anyway, my Dad also past away almost 4 years ago. Miss him, too.
Marta, my thoughts are with you today. Although my “Papi ” is still alive and well, I lost my Mami 2 years ago. Ours was a family very similar to yours, but my Dad was alone in a sea of estrogen (he has 4 daughters).Every holiday is tough now without her, but the anniversary of her death is the most difficult, I think. You are in my prayers, dear!
My eyes are leaking . . . 🙁
Marta,May peace and joy abound in your heart on this day. My dad sounds a lot like yours. He is an Architect, a perfectionist, and a quiet man. But, when he shares, much wisdom comes. I almost lost him two and a half years ago when he suffered heart attack and it landed him in the hospitals for a total of 104 days. It was the longest Summer of our lives. In those 104 days his heart stopped seven times.
My dad and I are so different. I tend to be more like my Cuban mother. 😉 Lifting shopping carts at Target and asking Andy Garcia for his autograph at funerals. 😉 But during the time he was in the hospital God did a good work in me and restored our relationship. I knew if he passed away, the work in my heart was complete and I could be at peace. I am now enjoying our times together as father and daughter. From your words, it sounds like you had a wonderful relationship with your dad and shared many wonderful memories that you hold dear in your heart. Your words encourage me to love my dad more, because one day he won’t be around. Thank you for sharing your life. It is a means of grace and God uses you in a big way in my life.
Un beso, Ody
Marta, what a nice remembrance for your Dad. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. My uncle, Tiototo, was the exactly the same family figure your Dad was. He was, indeed, also surrounded by girls: three daugthers and one niece raised together. Funny he also used to say that saying about the daugthers and the Nochebuena. Another constant with me was “A quien Dios no le da un hijo, le da una sobrina”.Tomorrow, Dec.12th, it’ll be 16 years that we’ve lost him to diabetes complications, back there in Cuba… and no, we have never stopped missing him.
Hugs and love to you.
What a tribute. Well written, very touching.
“El que tiene hija, cena en Navidad,” was my grandfather’s – father of SEVEN daughters – favorite saying.
Lindo tributo! En paz descanse tu papi🙏