The measure of greatness ...

I originally wrote the following piece for Latte Magazine, a local publication for which I was the editor-in-chief, for the Aug.-Oct. 1998 issue. I subsequently posted it on my now-defunct homepage. And now I share it with all of you.

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This August (Aug. 1998) marks the second anniversary of my father’s death.

Jesus Cruz George, called “Chu” or “Bai,” died of a heart attack down at his ranch along the Ylig River in Yona on Aug. 24, 1996. He was 55.

It came as a shock to everyone in my family. My father was the rock and the foundation; not just of the immediate family, but of our extended one as well. He was the strong one and he was always there for us. No one could believe it. Not dad. Not Uncle Jess.

Even two years later it’s not easy to come to grips with. He’s gone. He won’t weave us another hat out of coconut palm fronds. He won’t be able to take us into the jungle to catch shrimp and pick pugua. He can’t help me change my oil or make fina’denne’ dinanche or his fried rice or any of his other specialties.

My father was not a great man, not technically. There will be no statues of him in some park. No buildings will be named after him, not even a street.

He served in the Air Force for close to 30 years, retiring at the rank of senior master sergeant. Though he had a ton of decorations, ribbons and awards, he was not a great military man — they won’t name a ship after him or talk of his exploits at the military academies. But his men loved him. He was their teacher and father figure. Those he served under respected him, his judgment and his dedication to the job.

My father wasn’t a great craftsman. But there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix: lawn mowers, bicycles, cars, washing machines, leaky faucets. In today’s throw-away society, he was a throwback to another time. Why buy a new one when we can fix this one?

Dad wasn’t a great intellectual; he wrote no books, had no advanced degrees. But it was hard to find something he didn’t know anything about. He knew the answers to obscure crossword puzzle clues, knew the answers “Jeopardy” contestants missed, was the king of Scrabble and read voraciously. For a soft-spoken man, he had an amazingly vast vocabulary. He passed on his love of words to me.

He wasn’t a great artist; his work doesn’t grace the halls of galleries and museums. But his drawings sparked wonder in the eyes of his children, his grandchildren and his nephews and nieces. You could ask him to draw anything and he could. And he could weave fans, hats, baskets … anything made out of coconut palm leaves. He could carve, too. He made these large, wonderful spoons with coconut shells on the end. The handles were decorated with carved flowers and a name, painted delicately and carefully. You know those fancy wood nameplates you see all the time on desks? He carved those as well.

My father wasn’t a great educator; he didn’t teach at a big university, or even a small one. But he would always take the time to show you how something was done — how to weave a basket, carve your name, write in Old English letters. He taught anyone who asked and was willing to learn. He taught his children how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to fish. He taught me how to shoot a layup and a hookshot. He taught me how to take care of my car. And so much more.

He passed his values on to his children. Not by telling them what to do, but by showing them. My father stood by what he said — no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He was stern, but never unjustly so. He taught us to play by the rules, to finish something once you started. We learned how to be giving, to help those who needed it. He taught us the importance of an education, always pushing us without forcing us.

Dad always made time for his family. He was always proud of his children and reveled in the joy of his grandchildren. He didn’t let work run his life; there were always plenty of vacations and trips together. He was never rich, but his family was always taken care of, no matter what. If he had to eat chicken necks because one of us was still hungry and wanted the last drumstick, then so be it. We always came first.

So, while he won’t go down in history as a great man, he will be remembered always as a great father, husband, grandfather, uncle and brother. A great friend, boss and worker.

He lives on in the hearts of his family, in what he taught us. As we pass those lessons along, his presence and influence is spread further.

If greatness was measured not by deeds and accomplishments but by love, then there haven’t been many men as great as my father.

Dad, we miss you. I miss you. And I love you.

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