My grandparents raised me from the time that I was a baby. Coming from a family of women, I was lucky enough to have an especially close relationship with my grandfather. During the time I was writing my column, I dedicated one that was published on Father's Day to him. Unfortunately, he passed in 2005, and, honestly, my life hasn't been the same since. Yesterday was his birthday, so, in his honor, I'm posting the old tribute column—Jeff.
By Jeff Dominguez
Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned From My Grandfather
It's kind of unfortunate, and I don't really hold it against him, but the fact remains that my father wasn't around much when I was growing up. Whether or not this was by his own choosing is a subject that is still hotly debated some 30 years after the fact by many members of my family. I've heard a lot of stories about the years surrounding my birth, and sometimes I don't know which of them to believe. All I really know are the hard facts: my parents were teenage sweethearts who married against my mother's parents' objections. As one might expect, the marriage was short lived, and, inside of a year after saying "I do," they were divorced. The unexpected twist was that, shortly after they had decided to divorce, my mother discovered that she was expecting a baby—me.
When we left the hospital after my birth, we came home to the only household I ever really knew growing up, the household headed by my mother's father, my grandfather, Ruben Dominguez. In a situation in which instability seemed imminent, my grandfather provided me not only with a home, but also with a sense of stability upon which I look back on as the saving grace of my adolescence. He was not able to lavish me with many of the extras that a lot of my friends enjoyed, but he saw that I always had everything I needed, the most important thing being a clear understanding of the difference between right and wrong.
Now that I'm a father myself, I'm beginning to understand the significance of the sacrifices he gladly made for me. I know now firsthand the weight of the worry that follows a father around 24 hours a day. And I marvel at his willingness to assume responsibility for my upbringing at an age when most men are thinking of their retirement. Raising a young boy—from toddler to teenager—is not usually found on the retirement itinerary of the average guy. But then again, my grandfather is not your average guy.
One of the oldest sons in a family that eventually grew to include 16 siblings, my grandfather was forced by his father to leave school at the age of 12 so that he could be put to work to contribute to the family income. By the time he was 13 or 14, my grandfather had already become a man, doing a man's job for a man's wages. When other boys his age were out playing ball or sipping a phosphate at the local soda fountain, my grandfather was performing backbreaking labor in the farmlands of Central California.
He was a gifted athlete who, without school to foster his talent at team sports such as baseball and football, turned to boxing as an outlet for his athletic ability. He developed punching power that rendered his opponents helpless and bloodied, looking as though they had been "hit in the face with a sledgehammer" according to those who saw Grandpa fight. Boxing was only recreation to him though, and his modest claims to fame in the arena lay in having gone the distance with "Kid Nelson—The Knockout King from New York City" and having served as a sparring partner for his cousin, who, himself, once "fought the guy who fought the champ." My grandfather was a welterweight, and, by virtue of his blue-collar career, he astonishingly managed to maintain his fighting weight until his retirement.
From a very early age, work was life and vice versa for my grandfather. He married my grandmother in 1932, during the Great Depression. Despite the hard times he lived through, he was never without a job. At a time when men looking for a handout stood in lines that circled city blocks, my grandfather was proud to earn his way. "Never accepted the dole," he says. "Not once." Instead, he picked cotton in hundred-degree heat for ten cents an hour during the Great Depression.
More than just some worker bee with a great left hook, my grandfather also had a soul. He was a musician. He tells me stories about working all day, playing in the band at the local dance at night, and then racing home afterwards, just in time to milk the cows. The son of a Methodist minister, he also knows the Bible as well as any clergyman who's ever stood behind a pulpit. Although he did not—could not—pursue higher education, he made sure that I did. But even with my college degree, I'll never be as wise as my grandfather.
Life is full of uncertainties and gray areas, and whenever a problem arises, I know I can always turn to my Grandpa for direction. His ability to see through entanglements and complications and get right to the heart of an issue is almost magical. His innate sense of good and bad and right and wrong is always right on the mark. I can't convey what a valuable resource he's been for me throughout the years.
When he was a little boy, he tells me, he wasn't exactly an angel. He says that he used to wake up in the morning with a sense of impending doom, thinking, "I'm probably going to get a really good lickin' today." His father, a man who possessed physical strength that has been described to me in terms on a par with that of your average comic book superhero, was also, unfortunately, a strict disciplinarian who adhered to the astonishing biblical principle of "spare the rod, spoil the child." The unfortunate combination of my grandfather's inherent mischievousness and his father's allegiance to corporal punishment left a predictable, frequent, and lasting impression on my grandfather, primarily on his backside.
Later in his life, when his own children needed discipline, Grandpa followed the only example he'd ever known. He was, I'm told, notorious for the severity of his spankings. Luckily, by the time he took charge of me, he'd abandoned that approach, and I grew up never once having endured a single spanking at his hand. Still, I obeyed his every directive promptly and without question. I did so out of a sense of respect that overwhelmed me. Perhaps someday, my little boy will attribute my own aversion to corporal punishment to the fine example that my grandfather set for me.
As far back as I can remember, Grandpa has always possessed a larger-than-life, almost mythical, physical stature in my eyes. Bigger, taller, stronger than anyone—to me, that is my grandfather. Through the years, I've grown pretty tall, myself, and one day, not too long ago, I realized that I now stand nearly a head taller than him. This realization hit me like a ton of lead. Here is the most imposing man I've ever known, the embodiment of the term "a man's man," the prototype for virility and inner and outer strength, and I'm standing here looking at the top of his head. "When did this happen?" I wondered to myself, flabbergasted. "When did I get bigger than Grandpa?" And then it came to me. As though a light switch had been turned on in my mind, I realized that it's true how a man's actual stature is measured not in feet and inches, but by the deeds he's done, the life he's lived. It's not just something nice to say; it's true—my grandpa is living proof. In reality, he now stands about 5'10", but he's assumed Bunyonesque dimensions to me.
My Grandpa is pretty old now, 83 this year. His bones have settled in over the course of his life and, he must be at least an inch or two shorter than he was in younger years. His body aches from years and years of difficult manual labor. His appetite is not as hearty as it once was, and he grows tired far more easily now than he ever did. Still, he remains the ideal to which I aspire. And even though I'm now a father, myself, I'll celebrate this Father's Day, and every Father's Day to come for the rest of my life, in tribute to him. Happy Father's Day, Grandpa!
The Pocket Watch appears in every issue of Pocket News. E-mail Jeff Dominguez at jeff.dominguez@yahoo.com; or call him at 916-393-8300.
THE POCKET WATCH
By Jeff Dominguez
Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned From My Grandfather
It's kind of unfortunate, and I don't really hold it against him, but the fact remains that my father wasn't around much when I was growing up. Whether or not this was by his own choosing is a subject that is still hotly debated some 30 years after the fact by many members of my family. I've heard a lot of stories about the years surrounding my birth, and sometimes I don't know which of them to believe. All I really know are the hard facts: my parents were teenage sweethearts who married against my mother's parents' objections. As one might expect, the marriage was short lived, and, inside of a year after saying "I do," they were divorced. The unexpected twist was that, shortly after they had decided to divorce, my mother discovered that she was expecting a baby—me.
When we left the hospital after my birth, we came home to the only household I ever really knew growing up, the household headed by my mother's father, my grandfather, Ruben Dominguez. In a situation in which instability seemed imminent, my grandfather provided me not only with a home, but also with a sense of stability upon which I look back on as the saving grace of my adolescence. He was not able to lavish me with many of the extras that a lot of my friends enjoyed, but he saw that I always had everything I needed, the most important thing being a clear understanding of the difference between right and wrong.
Now that I'm a father myself, I'm beginning to understand the significance of the sacrifices he gladly made for me. I know now firsthand the weight of the worry that follows a father around 24 hours a day. And I marvel at his willingness to assume responsibility for my upbringing at an age when most men are thinking of their retirement. Raising a young boy—from toddler to teenager—is not usually found on the retirement itinerary of the average guy. But then again, my grandfather is not your average guy.
One of the oldest sons in a family that eventually grew to include 16 siblings, my grandfather was forced by his father to leave school at the age of 12 so that he could be put to work to contribute to the family income. By the time he was 13 or 14, my grandfather had already become a man, doing a man's job for a man's wages. When other boys his age were out playing ball or sipping a phosphate at the local soda fountain, my grandfather was performing backbreaking labor in the farmlands of Central California.
He was a gifted athlete who, without school to foster his talent at team sports such as baseball and football, turned to boxing as an outlet for his athletic ability. He developed punching power that rendered his opponents helpless and bloodied, looking as though they had been "hit in the face with a sledgehammer" according to those who saw Grandpa fight. Boxing was only recreation to him though, and his modest claims to fame in the arena lay in having gone the distance with "Kid Nelson—The Knockout King from New York City" and having served as a sparring partner for his cousin, who, himself, once "fought the guy who fought the champ." My grandfather was a welterweight, and, by virtue of his blue-collar career, he astonishingly managed to maintain his fighting weight until his retirement.
From a very early age, work was life and vice versa for my grandfather. He married my grandmother in 1932, during the Great Depression. Despite the hard times he lived through, he was never without a job. At a time when men looking for a handout stood in lines that circled city blocks, my grandfather was proud to earn his way. "Never accepted the dole," he says. "Not once." Instead, he picked cotton in hundred-degree heat for ten cents an hour during the Great Depression.
More than just some worker bee with a great left hook, my grandfather also had a soul. He was a musician. He tells me stories about working all day, playing in the band at the local dance at night, and then racing home afterwards, just in time to milk the cows. The son of a Methodist minister, he also knows the Bible as well as any clergyman who's ever stood behind a pulpit. Although he did not—could not—pursue higher education, he made sure that I did. But even with my college degree, I'll never be as wise as my grandfather.
Life is full of uncertainties and gray areas, and whenever a problem arises, I know I can always turn to my Grandpa for direction. His ability to see through entanglements and complications and get right to the heart of an issue is almost magical. His innate sense of good and bad and right and wrong is always right on the mark. I can't convey what a valuable resource he's been for me throughout the years.
When he was a little boy, he tells me, he wasn't exactly an angel. He says that he used to wake up in the morning with a sense of impending doom, thinking, "I'm probably going to get a really good lickin' today." His father, a man who possessed physical strength that has been described to me in terms on a par with that of your average comic book superhero, was also, unfortunately, a strict disciplinarian who adhered to the astonishing biblical principle of "spare the rod, spoil the child." The unfortunate combination of my grandfather's inherent mischievousness and his father's allegiance to corporal punishment left a predictable, frequent, and lasting impression on my grandfather, primarily on his backside.
Later in his life, when his own children needed discipline, Grandpa followed the only example he'd ever known. He was, I'm told, notorious for the severity of his spankings. Luckily, by the time he took charge of me, he'd abandoned that approach, and I grew up never once having endured a single spanking at his hand. Still, I obeyed his every directive promptly and without question. I did so out of a sense of respect that overwhelmed me. Perhaps someday, my little boy will attribute my own aversion to corporal punishment to the fine example that my grandfather set for me.
As far back as I can remember, Grandpa has always possessed a larger-than-life, almost mythical, physical stature in my eyes. Bigger, taller, stronger than anyone—to me, that is my grandfather. Through the years, I've grown pretty tall, myself, and one day, not too long ago, I realized that I now stand nearly a head taller than him. This realization hit me like a ton of lead. Here is the most imposing man I've ever known, the embodiment of the term "a man's man," the prototype for virility and inner and outer strength, and I'm standing here looking at the top of his head. "When did this happen?" I wondered to myself, flabbergasted. "When did I get bigger than Grandpa?" And then it came to me. As though a light switch had been turned on in my mind, I realized that it's true how a man's actual stature is measured not in feet and inches, but by the deeds he's done, the life he's lived. It's not just something nice to say; it's true—my grandpa is living proof. In reality, he now stands about 5'10", but he's assumed Bunyonesque dimensions to me.
My Grandpa is pretty old now, 83 this year. His bones have settled in over the course of his life and, he must be at least an inch or two shorter than he was in younger years. His body aches from years and years of difficult manual labor. His appetite is not as hearty as it once was, and he grows tired far more easily now than he ever did. Still, he remains the ideal to which I aspire. And even though I'm now a father, myself, I'll celebrate this Father's Day, and every Father's Day to come for the rest of my life, in tribute to him. Happy Father's Day, Grandpa!
The Pocket Watch appears in every issue of Pocket News. E-mail Jeff Dominguez at jeff.dominguez@yahoo.com; or call him at 916-393-8300.
