Father Wolf Turns 80

My father and I, Easter Sunday 1967.

Today my father, George, marks his 80^th birthday.  As I stated last month when my mother turned 80, that’s still a remarkable accomplishment.  My father was born and raised in Dallas; the middle of seven children.  On his father’s side, our ancestry dates back to late 16^th century Texas; something we’d known about for years, but which he’s confirmed through his extensive genealogical research.

As you might expect, my father is kind of old school.  He comes from an era when family was sacred and hard work was revered.  People took care of themselves and their loved ones in his day, and they didn’t play the victim when things didn’t work out just right.  He worked hard – too hard – all his life and, along with my mother, built a comfortable middle class lifestyle.  He also a typical dad; doing things that only a father would do.  When I was about three months old, my parents ran out of baby formula just as a major ice storm hit Northeast Texas.  My father simply got dressed and walked a couple of blocks to a nearby convenience store.  He thought nothing of it; what else was he supposed to do?  He also thought nothing of standing on his feet several hours a day, slaving over hot printing presses in a dingy shop in downtown Dallas for more than 40 years.  He’s paid for it with bad knees and gnarled toes.  But, that’s what men of his generation did.  They worked hard and took care of their own without question.  Society doesn’t seem to produce men like my father anymore – at least not in great numbers.

Like most Hispanics growing up in old East Dallas, he had it tough.  Classified as “other,” he was occasionally complimented with comments about his fair skin and good looks, as if that made him different, or better.  He told me he once actually got into a fight with a dog in the neighborhood – and won; returning home with a tiny piece of the dog’s ear hanging from the corner of his mouth.  I didn’t know whether or not to believe him – as if I had any reason to doubt him, knowing how mean he could be – until his mother and oldest sister confirmed the story several years ago.  That’s one of those ‘only-my-dad’ type of stories.

So, here’s to my father!  Happy Birthday!  You mean old Mexican!

My father on his 16th birthday, in a picture he gave to his mother.