May 17, 2006
Steel may rust, but deep down, it's still steel.
I'm sitting here at the office in front of my computer, the sound of a massive rainstorm outside comforting me that I'm not out on the field today, when I hear our front office door open. The sound of the rain coming down hard outside gets a lot louder. Our receptionist is out today so there's no one to greet the visitor. I start to get up from my chair while clicking the "send" button on an email I was working on when I hear an all too familiar light whistle: "pphhhweeet."
It's my dad. I've been hearing that little whistle all my life. Whether it was time to come in from playing or whether I was hiding because I'd done something wrong or when it was dad just saying "Hey. It's time to go."
I step out of my personal office and into the main office space and there's my dad, standing at the front door, all 75 years of age completely soaked from head to toe.
"Papi," I say. "You're soaking wet. Are you crazy?"
"Bah," he says to me like a friendly Scrooge. "I brought you those frame pieces you needed."
"Dad. It's pouring rain outside," I reply. "You could have waited or called me and I would have come pick them up."
"No te preocupes," he says to me. Don't worry. " Eye ang faeen."
I go back into my office and get a beach towel that I have in a drawer - Dont ask me why I have a beach towel at the office, I just do and dont know how or when it is I brought it - and go back to the old man and throw it over his shoulders. Used to be I had to reach, stretch my arms up and wide to cover his strong back. It's not so difficult anymore.
"Come on," he says to me. "I'll help you load the pieces. I have to take your Tio Fernando to the doctor today." Tio Fernando isnt techinically my tio, but he's my dad's best friend from when they were teenagers and he just had a debilitating stroke a few months ago. Dad spent every day at the hospital by his side. Helping out. Consoling Tio's kids who are men older than me with families of their own. My old man stopped them from crying about their old man. Always appearing strong and composed and level headed.
I know better of course. I know that for my dad to see Tio Fernando lying there, dead to the world for all intents and purposes, it must have been heartbreaking. My old man was strong and consoling on the outside, but I know that he was hurting deeply on the inside. I know he needed consolation himself.
"Papi," I say to my dripping wet father. "You stay here and dry off. Ill get the pieces from your truck and load them onto mine."
"Yo te ayudo, Mijo," he says. I'll help you son.
"No, dad, You wait here."
I walk outside and into the pouring rain. Dad left his lights on when he parked. I open the truck door and turn them off, shut the door and start untying one of the ropes holding the steel frame pieces.
"There's some gloves in the truck," I hear my old man saying. He's now right there next to me, in the pouring rain again. "Use the gloves so you dont ruin your hands."
My old man has this thing about me taking care of my hands. Since he's been a welder all his life, his hands are all calloused. Cut. Scarred. Bent and broken in who knows how many places. Used to be he could turn off cigarettes in the palm of his hand. He doesnt want my hands getting all messed up like his because it will mean that I have had to bust my ass like he has all his life. And he has worked and toiled all his life so his son wouldnt have to. Now he always has a pair of gloves for me in his truck.
"Dad, get in the truck," I admonish him. "I can do this myself. And I dont want Mom getting mad at me when you get sick."
The mom getting mad at me line works. Dad gets in the truck but rolls down his window so he can supervise.
I untie the second rope holding the frame pieces and pick up two of the 12 foot long 1" tube steel pieces and walk them over to my truck. The grass mushes down under my feet. It's been raining all morning.
Then it dawns on me. It's been raining all morning and dad didnt have the materials for the frame pieces last night when I talked to him. That means he went out in the rain to the iron suppliers, bought the materials, loaded them up onto his truck in the rain, drove home, unloaded the pieces in the rain and then welded the damned things together - IN THE RAIN.
I get pissed at myself. Last night, when I talked to the old man, I told him I really needed them today when I could have concievably waited until tomorrow.
I finish loading the pieces onto my truck, secure them tightly and go over to the old man who is by now already turning on his truck and getting ready to leave.
"Coño, Papi," I say to my old man. For some reason my eyes are welling up. "I'm sorry. I didnt mean for you to do this in the rain. Perdoname, dad."
"Dejate de comer mierda," he says to me with a smile. "'Here's your towel. And let me know if you need me to make anything else."
I kiss the old man's wet cheek, his rolls up his window and takes off.
I stand there in the rain until I see him make his turn onto Bird road and then head out of sight.
Last year, when I was designing the exhibit space for CubaNostalgia, I knew it had to be something made of steel. Not because my old man is a welder and I could get it done pretty easily, but because by having my old man create the frame it made everything more meaningful for me. Knowing that my dad made something that I created for the CubaNostalgia Convention to be seen and experienced by so many was something that kept me grounded during those three days.
I didnt even paint the frame as I wanted my father's work to show through. Didnt want any enamel covering up his hard work and sweat.
This year is no different. I've made a couple of very slight modifications to the frame, but it's still almost exactly the same. Except this year I think it looks even better.
I've had the frame built all year out in the backyard and it has weathered beautifully. The steel has rusted slightly throughout and it has a rather antique look to it. Only thing I've done is spray coat the frame with clear enamel.
And that's exactly how I want it, too.
Let it look a little rusty. Just like me. Just like my dad. Just like Cuba. The rust is only superficial, what makes it steel, what makes me me, what makes my dad my dad and what makes Cuba Cuba, is on the inside. And that, my friends, is still as strong as steel.
Posted by Val Prieto at May 17, 2006 12:24 PM
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Comments
That was the nicest thing I've read in such a long time. I'm sitting here at the office in front of my computer too. Just got back from lunch and sat down to check your blog (as usual) and was blown away. Val, you're very lucky to have such a wonderful father and he's lucky to have you, too.
Posted by: Lou ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.babalublog.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at May 17, 2006 02:10 PM
Val -
That was beautiful. When you mentioned your dad's whistle, it reminded me of how my father used to call my sister and I, when it was time to come home and get ready for dinner. There was never any doubt who that was for.
But as I read on about your father, I realized you could just as well have been writing about my grandfather. He passed away 16 years ago last month, in Miami, at the age of 70. He could be a gruff, tough SOB, but I remember him more as one of the kindest, most generous, most well humored men I have ever known. As you described the scene with your father, I could picture my "Abaray" saying and doing the same things.
I never had to ask him for help, for he was always there.
Abaray — Raimundo Masferrer Rojás — left Cuba for the United States on New Year's Eve 1958, in an old surplus PT boat, with his brothers Rolando "El Tigre" Masferrer and Rodolfo "Kiki" Masferrer. My grandfather left a comfortable life in Cuba, but politics — El Tigre was one of Castro's archenemies — and the murderous nature of the Castroites demanded he leave with little more than the clothes on his back.
But I never heard him complain. He loved life, and shared that love everyday with his family. And he worked hard, setting an example I hope I still follow today.
The tears streaming down my face as I write this remind me of how much I still miss him.
Thank you, Val, and God bless your father, and my father and grandfather.
And God bless Cuba,
MRM
Posted by: Marc Masferrer at May 17, 2006 02:39 PM
And this, my friends, is why Valentin Prieto is the blogfather. People like Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez and her commie daddy will never understand the human sentiment that it takes to write like that.
Posted by: conductor at May 17, 2006 02:51 PM
Val,
My dad was a trucker. Worked with his hands. He used to say the same things to me. I lost my dad in December last year.
Thanks for a glimpse into the life of you and your dad. I am holding off the tears.
Thank you.
Posted by: ohioguy at May 17, 2006 03:10 PM
Ok, people at the starbucks are now officially looking at me weird as I sit here and heartily laugh with this story. Man Cuban parents are special, in the sense of different special.
Your Dad, aside from a great guy, is a trip man. "Dejate de comer mierda" what a classic Cuban line.
Great post.
Posted by: La Ventanita at May 17, 2006 03:26 PM
They cannot understand the human sentiment because any supporter of fidel is inhuman.
Posted by: George L. Moneo at May 17, 2006 03:40 PM
Val, your Dad is great. Thanks for the wonderful story.
Posted by: Keith at May 17, 2006 04:42 PM
My dad is a surgeon, so his hands are always pristine. He always takes care of them and of course washes them a lot. His big hang up was the eyes. Growing up we migh be walking down a sidewalk or down a trail with low hanging branches and he's say ¡cuidado con los ojos! Today when I'm walking with someone and encounter a similar obstacle I say the same thing. Too funny.
Posted by: conductor at May 17, 2006 05:03 PM
Su padre es un tesoro muy raro.
Posted by: Caltechgirl at May 17, 2006 08:14 PM
Yeah. Steel doesn't change from time and wear. It can wear down; it can rust away; but until it's gone, it's still steel.
And sometimes it leaves a memory
Posted by: Firehand at May 18, 2006 12:40 AM
Val, your writing is le awesome as usual. Your parents must be so proud of you, recording all these things that will last through generations. And Cuba can be proud of having a son like you.
God bless your family.
Posted by: FL Mom at May 18, 2006 10:47 AM
My thoughts go out to anyone who's lost their father. I went through a rough patch with mine but we've reconciled and I'm thankful of that every day of my life.
Posted by: barrocas at May 18, 2006 03:29 PM
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