From El Freijo to Spanish Harlem to meeting his first grandson, Frank Priegue remembers the legacy that was his dad.
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Father’s Day weekend is here. Fathers across America will receive gifts of ties, cheap cologne, and handmade cards then spend the afternoon grilling with a beer or two.
For me Father’s Day gifts evolved over the years. In elementary school I made Dad a card as a class project, later on my brother Bob and I chipped in and bought him a gift. Years later our wives spent hours searching for the perfect gift—they all met the same fate—being tucked away in a drawer or closet never to be seen again.
In our family, Father’s Day grew into an elaborate backyard barbeque of grilled shrimp and sardines, Italian Sausage, pork chops and juicy steaks, and beer, wine, and sangria served in multiple courses throughout the afternoon and well into the evening. First-timers learned to bring a pair of loose-fitting pants because you were going to be well fed.
Initially I thought this was a bit excessive until I remember how Dad grew up.
He was the youngest of five children, born in El Freijo, a rural village in Northwest Spain. Although the family was poor, they were better off than many—being able to grow food meant the family was able to eat.
Like his brothers he learned a trade, carpentry, out of necessity. Building and selling rowboats brought in money helping the feed and clothe the family of seven. Home Depot didn’t exist in the 1930s so Dad and his brothers cut down trees and dragged them home for the wood needed before going to school.
Despite their efforts I get the sense there were nights, the family went a little hungry as food was stretched to feed five children and several local children because my grandmother knew were less fortunate. Dad said his fondest childhood memory was waking up and finding a stack of filloas, a cross between a crepe and a pancake, which his mother stayed up all night making for the family.
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Last year was my first Father’s Day as a member of the club, but it wasn’t spent grilling in the backyard like we usually did—it was spent in a nursing home. Two months earlier Dad was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer and given two weeks to live. Funeral arrangements were made and a priest give administered last rights, but Dad fought valiantly.
He was no stranger to death, his older brothers were both killed in the Spanish Civil War, his father passed away shortly afterwards, apparently of a broken heart. He spent over ten years on freighters and merchant ships, surviving two shipwrecks—he was only one of three who survived the second one.
The last ten years of his life were spent in and out of hospitals the procedures included a pericardial stripping, a hip replacement and a gall bladder removal. Complications from the Gall Bladder removal put him in the ICU for two weeks when he developed sepsis. He cheated death so many times—I wondered how many lives he had. So I wasn’t surprised that Dad was fighting back, it he fought most of his life.
In 1946 Europe’s economy was recovering from World War II, with few prospects he joined the Merchant Marine. Before leaving my grandmother told him, “Go find a better life for yourself, but remember if things don’t work out, you always have a home to come back to.”
So he left, serving on freighters and merchant ships collecting stories of his experiences which would be told after Thanksgiving dinners and summer barbeques. My brother and I heard these stories many times, it wasn’t until we were older and had a few life experiences of our own that we appreciated hearing about his many trips through the Panama Canal, time spent in pre-Castro Havana, or arriving in Argentina a few days after Juan Peron was overthrown.
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In 1956 Dad settled in Camden, New Jersey with a little more than the clothes on his back, a few dollars in his pocket, and a trade when he caught a break. A friend named Viña was looking skilled carpenters to build the concrete forms for over twenty bridges for a project he was working on, The New Jersey Turnpike. He offered Dad and a few others jobs, a place to live, and his wife would even cook for them—on one condition.
Dad and the others were what would be referred to today as undocumented aliens—Viña was here on a work visa and wasn’t going to jeopardize his status. His condition was this, if any immigration official came looking for them, he wasn’t going to hide them, he would give them up.
A few months later, there was a knock on the door and Dad and two others were taken away. On that night, Dad had a bank book and some paystubs with him—it was his saving grace. Anytime an employer hired him, he insisted they withhold taxes from his paycheck, although he wasn’t a citizen he was enjoying the benefits of this country and he felt it was the right thing to do. On that night, it made a difference, the immigration official realized this was a hard-working guy who needed a break and let him go.
Dad never forgot Viña’s kindness—in fact he paid it forward. Years later our house was a popular stop for newly arrived laborers from the old country looking for work. Many nights as a child I remember him making phone calls to employers, and union reps while mom served them a home-cooked meal.
From Camden, Dad moved to Spanish Harlem, it wasn’t his first choice, it was out of necessity. In those days Spanish Harlem was a safe haven because Immigration Officers were afraid to go up there. It worked well for him. In Spanish Harlem he met Mom at a friend’s wedding. They married in 1959.
After starting a family, they settled in Queens moving into a house Dad built helped by many of the same laborers he helped find jobs for. Growing up in the only Spanish/Puerto Rican family in predominantly Italian/Irish neighborhood I realized we were different than many of the other families. With a family to provide for Dad often worked overtime taking side jobs working weekends, rarely taking a vacation.
We weren’t like the other families who went to Lake George or Disneyland every summer. Dad saved his vacation time. When we did take a vacation he made them count taking us to Puerto Rico or Spain for six to eight weeks. He made sure my brother and I knew where our families came from. He always said his favorite vacation was taking us to Spain in 1970.
I was six-years old in 1970 so my memories are limited to running through corn fields and riding in the back of an oxcart with my aunts. I also remember meeting my grandmother and how much she spoiled us. Years later he said bringing his children to Spain so his mother can get know her grandchildren was the best gift he ever gave her.
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Dad was from a different era, before parenting books, websites or blogs. He was old-school. He was our father not our best friend, he didn’t give us everything we asked for but we lacked for nothing. Most importantly he taught me that actions are more important than words, anyone can give a flowery speech, he backed them up.
When my brother joined the Navy he made him promise not to get a tattoo before going off to basic training. Years later when Bob and his wife Alicia were building their dream house he insisted on installing the kitchen cabinets, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it.
As for me, he had my back when I switched my major from business to photography. I remember when a professor let me use his studio one evening for a photoshoot. For a third-year student this was like hitting Powerball. Dad drove me into Manhattan when I needed help bringing props into the studio.
This trip was everything he hated. After work he liked to unwind with beer and the evening news, but off we went. We look the Long Island Expressway into rush-hour traffic headed towards the Midtown Tunnel. In those days there was no E-Z Pass, so to get through the toll booth you had to through quarters into a basket.
I handed him ten quarters, but he missed the basket. Scrambling out and scooping quarters from the pavement amid the sounds of honking horns and cursing motorists was rough. I can only imagine him venting at Mom when he got home.
Turning to me as we drove through the tunnel he said, “You picked a field I know nothing about, so I can’t help you. If you were a carpenter or an electrician I could teach you and introduce you to others who could look out for you. Always remember, if you need me for anything, I’m there for you and you always have a home with us.”
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A year ago I was a basket case as I juggled taking care for my infant son with consulting with doctors and fighting hospital supervisors when I felt he wasn’t getting the proper care. I dreaded late-night call—they were usually bad news. We’re moving him to a new room and putting him on oxygen or we need your permission to resuscitate him if it necessary.
One of the few bright spots of Dad’s last two months was bringing the baby to the nursing home to visit Abeulo. Although his mind wandered and he didn’t always recognize friends, the smile on his face and the glint in those hazel eyes left no doubt he recognized him.
He waited 88-years for his elusive grandson. My most precious memory of him was putting my newborn son in his arms so he could hold his grandson for the first time. His smiling face showed me how precious a gift it really was.
Dad loved a good story, so it’s only fitting his funeral gave us one we’ll be telling for many years. Leaving the church the skies became cloudy and turned dark gray upon arriving at the cemetery. The light drizzle we felt upon getting out of our cars became a driving rain storm. A friend later told me in her country they believe if it rains during a funeral, it’s God’s way of acknowledging receipt of a good man.
I remember arriving at my uncle’s home during vacations. After the hugs and kisses on both cheeks, like they do in Europe, Dad told his sisters, nieces and nephews, I missed you. We are going to have a great time but remember one thing, I won’t be here forever.
There will be a day when I have to leave. When that day comes I don’t want to see any tears because we were lucky enough to share this time together.
That is as apt an analogy for a six-week vacation as it is for 89 years of life.
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Photo: Getty Images
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