I have always been a daddy’s girl.
My dad, whom I called Papi from the day of my first utterances, was 51 when I was born. As his only child, and born later in his life than he probably expected, I was almost predestined to be daddy’s littie princess. My earliest recollection of him is from when I was about two; I was sick and couldn’t sleep, and he carried me around on his shoulders in the darkness of the bedroom, singing me back to dreamland. I remember feeling relaxed. It’s comforting now to think back to memories like that now that he’s gone.
Papi was strict with me in a protective sense, It’s late, young lady; why aren’t you in bed? Who are you talking to on the phone? What kind of music is that on the radio? You’re NOT leaving the house wearing that. Growing up in a house full of extended family, I always had to account for everything. Despite the painful arguments of my teenage years, when countless fathers and daughters spend years arguing about short skirts and boys, I really never wanted to fight with my dad. We did anyway, as is the way of things, but it was mostly because we were so alike. Hard-headedness was a shared trait. A stubbornness to do what he thought was best. despite the opinion of others, often created an argument when our opinions differed. The fact that my parent’s ages spread them apart by two decades, and my father and I by three decades more, surely added to the unique dynamic.
Poor Mami was stuck with the two of us, and Papi and loved all the things she didn’t; tent camping in the rain, summer vacations in the remote wilderness of northern Quebec, and all things related to dirt. I was definitely not a girly girl, preferring to dig in the tight space between the garage and the fence for treasures, “saving” baby birds from the neighborhood cats, building deep igloos out of frosty snow in the bitter Northeast winters, and jumping into gigantic piles of fall leaves in front of our house in New York In some way, Papi was a part of all of it, or at least turned a blind eye to the mess it sometimes created.
I always felt the desire to help him with any task I could, such as when he would change the oil on our 1970s Jeep Grand Wagoneer. I’d stand in the grass beside him, and he’d “teach me” about cars, the way he would have if he’d been blessed with a son. I would hand him tools and rags, followed by bandages when hed inadvertently cut himself on a sharp piece of metal. I’d also hand him books with engine diagrams; sometimes there were extra parts at the end of some projects that would ultimately require a call for our local mechanic to give us a tow to the local garage for fixing what Papi broke. Anyway, he always meant well.
As I got older, we argued a little more, and by the time I left for college in Florida, our relationship was a little strained. Papi rarely told me he loved me, preferring to show how he felt through actions, not words. Being away from home for the first time made it difficult for him to do that, but he found ways. Every week i’d receive a care package, one that I could tell he packed from all the newspaper, bubble wrap and duct tape that surrounded each individual can of Chef Boyardee and package of macaroni and cheese. It took hours to open one of his boxes. The box was addressed in his beautiful script, which I am sorry to say that I did not inherit. I should mention that the box was nearly impossible to either pick up or open, because he would pack it to capacity with cans (I’m sure he didn’t want me to starve in college). He must have used about three rolls of duct tape to seal each care package, lest any rainwater, or daylight, seep in. I loved every box he sent.
Perhaps the best mail I received was a single card, received near the end of my freshman year. It was a Blue Mountain card, seeping with talk of love and pride for a daughter. But better still, hed written me a personal message, unlike any that I had received before or since, and I remember how I teared up when I read it. Not because it made me sad, but because I knew how hard it must have been for him to reveal that depth of emotion. We never spoke of it, and I saved that card and have it to this day.
As his health declined in later years, he grew weaker and more fragile, crankier and more set in his routine. But the sight of a doughnut and a cup of coffee, his secret downfall, always brought a smile to his face. As did a snuggle from the cat, who he cuddled with in bed until the day he fell and broke his hip.
My father spent his last Father’s Day in the hospital, recovering from hip surgery in 2006 at the age of 85. I was there, as I was on every previous Father’s Day with few exceptions. Papi had worked hard all his life; he had a tough childhood, lost his own father as an infant, was a veteran of WWiI, and worked hard to provide for the family, including a private-school education for his only daughter. I appreciate all that Papi and Mami did for me; often when you’re older you gain the perspective to understand the sacrifices they made.
Papi lived another three months after the surgery, and was able to leave hospice once when he started to improve. The second decline was one that forced upon him a battle that he was too weak to fight. I spent many of those last days at his bedside after work, talking to him and hoping that he could hear me tell him how much | loved him. One Monday morning, the call came for me to “hurry and come quickly,” but I regretfully arrived moments too late. After 85 years, he was at rest, and I took comfort in all he did to contribute to my life. His funeral was as he wanted it; PFC Guillermo A. Santiago, so proud in life for serving in the United States Army in WWiI, was buried at the Florida National Cemetery in Bushnell.
My father still affects me today, even in his absence. The bottle of cologne that we gave him on that last Father’s Day sits in my bathroom, unused, but reminds me how much you love to use the stuff. On cool mornings, I wear his trusted plaid flannel shirts, that he’d always tell me would help me not to catch a cold. Children can learn from their fathers, even when they have passed on, if they keep paying attention. A father’s love for his daughter, can transcend even death, and carries the idea of family forward in his physical absence. As much as we clashed, we also loved. Papi wasn’t perfect by any means, but he was, and always will be, my dad, my father and my teacher. Father’s Day remains a day to celebrate that, and nothing can never take that away.
