Taking a Poca Siesta

My dad was raised in West Texas on the poor side of the tracks and so he was blessed to have a great deal of Hispanic friends growing up. I used to think he was full of garbage when he would get going speaking his version of what he called Tex-Mex Spanish. I called it Spanglish and, at times, even just Dad is Nuts! Now that I am learning Spanish myself, I wish he were alive so I could re-witness his fluency. My memory recalls things he said and he really did understand and know a good deal of this foreign language he swore was Tex-Mex Spanish.

I feel ashamed to admit I thought he was stretching the truth all the time (aka LYING to us) in his stories about himself. I honestly believed he was the originator of the Tall Tale and did not doubt my belief until after he passed away several years ago. One of his sisters once told me he would get telling some of the most outrageous stories as a child and my impression concurred.


Then-- a couple years ago, I was talking with one of my cousins who was more like a brother to my dad and he got reminiscing and he told the SAME stories my dad used to tell! Hunting rabbits with bows and arrows and knives. Discovering arrowheads out in the desert. Racing a police officer to get out of a speeding ticket, etc. I could hardly believe my ears, except I knew my cousin could not possibly tell a Tall Tale the same exact way my dad did and it all be a lie. So in that very instant, my father became legendary to me, larger than life, and yet still real. But only because I knew too much of the nitty gritty other side to dad the imperfect father which has made it hard for me to love him more completely now that I am an adult.

Oftentimes, I get thinking about the things he used to say: stories, opinions on religion and politics, swearing like a sailor, and just the little, everyday sorts of things we all say. One of his sayings comes to my mind every time I get tired and wish I could take a nap. He would say I'm going to take a poco siesta when he would get tired, then pull what he called a sarape up over his face and take a rest in his recliner. His sarapes were not blanket-like shawls, but actual Mexican blankets, and to this day, I still call his blankets sarapes even though I know the proper definition.

So anyways. All this flashed into my mind because I am in dire need of a poca siesta.  Don't know if I will get one any time soon, but I am stretched so thin right now that almost anything could break me. And knowing this, I just keep on going because I don't know what else to do.

I don't always know what to think about my dad, but today I desire to express my heartfelt gratitude for a father who was always real. That real was not always pleasant or even bearable, but everyone always knew he would help you out of a mess if he could and he meant every word he said. Well, until he apologized, and then he meant every word after that. But there we have a whole other story...

related links:

My Hope For Eternity

Reflections on Suicide

a few things I cannot photograph

2 comments:

  1. What sweet reflections of your dad. He sounds like an incredible man to know...and listen to. Thanks for sharing some memories with us!

    (new follower from (in)courage)

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  2. I love your blog, Purple Lady! It is beautiful, and so are your memories of your dad. He seems like he would have been a great story teller. :-) Thanks for sharing, and thanks again for following my blog! I'm following back!

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