When dad was hospitalized at the VA, I remember bringing him things from home. We didn’t know how long he would be there initially, so, at first the items he asked for were every day essentials like his dictionary and thesaurus that he used for his daily cross word puzzles, his favorite pajamas and his cologne, in case he met a pretty nurse. That was dad!
After a roller coaster ride of diagnosis, prognosis, treatment plans and an undetermined length of hospital stay, he asked me to bring his prized possession to the hospital, his fancy black Stacy Adams, the shoes that brought him to all the special moments in his life like our graduations, weddings, funerals, holidays and of course, every Father’s Day celebration.
Like a good daughter, I obeyed. I went home, wrapped up his fancy black Stacy Adams and brought them to him on my daily trip to the VA. He gave me specific instructions: “Mijita, take these to the shoe shine man we say hello to every day. Tell him to give these a good shine and let him know they are for me. He knows me.”
Of course he knew dad. Everybody at the VA knew dad. When I wheeled him around to his appointments or just to get out and about, he was like the big man on campus “Hey Pacheco” sounded around every corner and good Lord if we passed by any women I’d have to push his wheel chair a little faster before he proposed to one of them.
I dropped off the shoes and told the shoe shine guy to give them a good shine for Manuel Pacheco. He smiled and said “Hey..Hey…for Pacheco, of course! Just give me a couple of days so I can do them right.”
I passed by the shoe shine guy every morning and we would exchange a hello and he’d give me an update. “Not ready just yet.” I gave dad the daily update and he would just laugh. I grew frustrated at the delay and he said “Aye Mijita, calm down. Things run a little slower here at the VA.” Boy did I learn that first hand.
We were getting close to discharge and finally, on my way past the shoe shine guy, he waved me over to let me know the shoes were ready. He held them up as if they were a trophy. Those beautiful black shiny Stacy Adams sure were pretty. I told him we would pick them up on our way out.
After what seemed like an eternity, dad was discharged. We were ready to go home, but first, we had one last stop at the VA. I watched the exchange between the two of them. Again the shoe shine guy held up the shoes like they were a trophy and dad looked at them like his prized possession. He thanked him and as usual, gave him a huge tip.
On our drive home dad told me he used to be a shoe shine boy. I never knew that! I treasured these tid-bits of his life he would share. I got used to dad sharing things from his past. It was usually in the quiet moments that he would share something new. I really miss those moments.
After we got home, dad put his shoes right back in the same spot, in the closet. I kept waiting for him to put them on for some special occasion or just because. He never did. A month after he was discharged home under hospice care, he passed away.
The next time dad wore his fancy black Stacy Adams was at his funeral. As I think about our time together and all the “preparation” conversations we had, I can’t help but think he knew that would be his last shoe shine and he knew the next time he would be wearing those shoes would be at his funeral. That was dad, even in death, he was going to go out in style with his fancy black Stacy Adams.

Art work by Jesse Rodriguez of Magnolia Grown