Twenty-two years ago my husband drove into NYC for work as usual. As he was coming out of the Holland Tunnel, he saw a gaping hole in the building. Tunnels were closed, he couldn’t come home. Made it out to Long Island where his brother lived. No cell phones working. Finally got in touch with Mike at night. Thought I lost him then. But nineteen years later, I lost Mike in the same way. All alone. Going someplace and never returning.

In 1937, my Abuelito was born in Pillaro, located in the province of Tungurahua, Ecuador. His family would eventually move to a small-town Milagro where he met, fell in love and married my Abuelita in February 1956. He was 19 years old and my Abuelita was 18. Their 64th wedding anniversary would be the last they would celebrate in 2020. They would go on to raise three children, five grandchildren and four great grandchildren in Corona, NY.
He was a great storyteller and painted such vivid pictures with his words, I often felt I was watching his memories.

When my grandpa was in his early 20’s, he left his young family, traveled to New York, for work and to achieve the American dream. He worked and would send money back to my Abuelita in Ecuador, until he was set up with an apartment and eventually, my Abueltia and their kids came over too.

I don’t remember why New York. But from what I remember, he arrived in the winter, and that the snow was as high as he was, and so cold.

Honestly, I don’t think NY held a special place in his heart. What mattered was why he came to America. As most immigrants do, he came for opportunity, for an easier life for his children so that they may have access to an education that would open the doors to becoming professionals. He didn’t school past some high school and he believed education offered opportunity so we wouldn’t have to struggle in life. I don’t think this was a conscious act, but whether he knew it or not, he and my Abuelita also instilled a deeply rooted connection to our Ecuadorian culture and for that I am eternally grateful.

Here’s what I know and can share about my Abuelito. I never once saw him wear jeans-EVER. Can you believe that! He was always a well-dressed man and his go to at home outfit was a classic white Hanes t-shirt, khakis pants. When he went out, over his white t-shirt he would put on a light colored short or long sleeve (depending on occasion) button down shirt and JCPenny or Payless black loafers. Of course, there was a wardrobe change for Fall/Winter where over his white shirt he would put on a long sleeve flannel. I remember his cologne and I can smell it now and see the bottle, can smell it as I am writing but I can’t remember the name. And he was always ready an hour before we needed to head out, anywhere. Always on time, punctual. The first time I EVER saw my Abuelito in shorts was during the summer of 2019 on his first and only trip to Ecuador with his great grandkids, my kids. I am not joking. He wore these teal/coral swim trunks, of course with a short sleeve button down shirt! Ha.

I can hear his laugh and see his smile reach ear to ear and his cheeks would turn a light red, he was always happy, jolly even, never screamed, never raised his voice, even tempered, caring, kind, loving, and now that he is gone, we miss him tremendously. I remember as a little girl, he’d take my little hand and rub it against his chin, right when the stubble was growing in and it would tickle my hands and we’d laugh. I miss him.

He helped raise my children, such a gift he gave my children–they had the opportunity to not just know their great grandpa, Lelo as they called him, but live with him for 5 years and laugh with him, play, go to the park, be cared for, and nurtured by him.

These memories are random, and yet they aren’t. I don’t have closure. Just wanted readers to know an amazing man graced this earth and left a huge hole and I’m grateful to share him with you.
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En 1937 nació mi Abuelito en Píllaro, ubicado en la provincia de Tungurahua, Ecuador. Su familia eventualmente se mudaría a un pequeño pueblo, Milagro donde conoció, se enamoró y se casó con mi Abuelita en Febrero de 1956. Él tenía 19 años y mi Abuelita 18. Celebrarían en 2020, su 64 aniversario de bodas, y cual sería el último. Continuarían criando a tres hijos, cinco nietos y cuatro bisnietos en Corona, Nueva York.
Era un gran narrador y pintaba imágenes tan vívidas con sus palabras que a menudo sentí que estaba observando sus recuerdos.
Cuando mi abuelo tenía poco más de 20 años, dejó a su joven familia y viajó a Nueva York para trabajar y lograr el sueño Americano. Él iba a trabajar y le enviaba dinero a mi Abuelita en Ecuador, hasta que le instalaron un apartamento y, finalmente, mi Abueltia y sus hijos también vinieron.
No recuerdo por qué Nueva York. Pero por lo que recuerdo, llegó en invierno, y la nieve estaba tan alta como él, muy fría.
Honestamente, no creo que Nueva York ocupara un lugar especial en su corazón. Lo que importaba era por qué vino a Estados Unidos. Como la mayoría de los inmigrantes, vino en busca de oportunidades, de una vida más fácil para sus hijos para que pudieran tener acceso a una educación que les abriría las puertas a convertirse en profesionales. No pasó de la escuela secundaria y creía que la educación ofrecía oportunidades, para que no tuviéramos que luchar en la vida.
No creo que esto fuera un acto consciente, pero lo supiera o no, él y mi Abuelita también, inculcaron una conexión profundamente arraigada con nuestra cultura Ecuatoriana y por eso estoy eternamente agradecido.
Esto es lo que sé y puedo compartir sobre mi Abuelito. Nunca lo vi usar jeans, NUNCA. ¡Puedes creerlo! Siempre fue un hombre bien vestido y su vestimenta en casa era una clásica camiseta blanca de Hanes y pantalones caqui. Cuando salía, sobre su camiseta blanca se ponía una camisa de color claro, de manga corta o larga (según la ocasión), con botones y mocasines negros de JCPenny o Payless. Por supuesto, hubo un cambio de vestuario para Otoño/Invierno donde sobre su camisa blanca se pondría una franela de manga larga. Recuerdo su colonia y ahora puedo olerla y veo que la botella la huele mientras escribo, pero no recuerdo el nombre. Y siempre estaba listo una hora antes de que tuviéramos que salir a cualquier parte. Siempre a tiempo, puntual. La primera vez que vi a mi Abuelito en pantalones cortos fue durante el verano de 2019 en su primer y único viaje a Ecuador con sus bisnietos, mis hijos. No estoy bromeando. ¡Llevaba estos bañadores verde azulado/coral, por supuesto, con una camisa de manga corta con botones! Ja.
Puedo escuchar su risa y ver su sonrisa llegar de oreja a oreja y sus mejillas se ponían de un rojo claro, siempre estaba feliz, incluso jovial, nunca gritó, nunca levantó la voz, se mostraba ecuánime, cariñoso, amable, cariñoso, y ahora que se ha ido, lo extrañamos muchísimo.
Recuerdo que cuando era niña, tomaba mi manita y la frotaba contra su barbilla, justo cuando la barba crecía y me hacía cosquillas en las manos y nos reíamos. Le extraño.
Él ayudó a criar a mis hijos, un gran regalo que la vida les dio a mis hijos. Tuvieron la oportunidad no sólo de conocer a su bisabuelo, Lelo como lo llamaban, sino de vivir con él durante 5 años y reír con él, jugar, ir al parque, ser cuidado.
Estos recuerdos son aleatorios y, sin embargo, no lo son. No tengo cierre. Solo quería que los lectores supieran que un hombre maravilloso apareció en esta tierra y dejó un gran vacío y estoy agradecido de compartirlo con ustedes.

Alan loved deeply. If you were lucky to be loved by him, it was forever and a day. You loved Al unconditionally, that is what drew you to him.

My father died just days before his birthday. He always loved silly gifts and pranks–I keep seeing the “perfect gift” ideas for him in the weeks before his birthday.

I miss calling him to hear him rattle on about politics and playing his guitar. I cried when I got a promotion at work and couldn’t call him to share my news so he could celebrate with me. No matter what, he was always my biggest supporter and when hard times came he reminded me that “this too shall pass.”

He always had multiple projects going at once–learning to play guitar, woodworking projects, house projects, a new book, or landscaping projects. He left so many projects unfinished, and we continue to find more unfinished projects as we go. He had so many plans and ideas, and he will never be able to finish them.

He left so us suddenly. He was sick, then in the hospital, then better and released to go home. Then, he suddenly got worse. I begged and screamed at him that he needed to go back to the hospital. He finally relented and said he would go, but didn’t make it out the door and died at home as he was putting his shoes on to go to the ER. The paramedics did their best but weren’t able to revive him.

My last words to him were to tell him to go to the hospital, and his last words to me were “I guess I’m not progressing quite the way I should be.”

In April 2019, Dad and I were holding my grandson’s hands as we walked, swinging him up as he jumped, lifting his legs to fly above a step. I had no idea this would be the last grandchild to hold his hand.

I remember all the hands he held. Watching over the years, in all the different locations.
On beaches, streets, walkways, and in buildings.

Both of my grandmothers’ hands. His sons’ hands when they were little, mine throughout my life. His grandchildren’s hands at every age and his great grandchildren’s hands as they were just beginning.

Mostly though, I remember him holding my Mom’s hand. Everyday, as though they were just starting their life together, even though that was long ago. She misses holding his hand, it was so much a part of who they were together.