Pops. Piet. Short for Pieter. The Dutch spelling of Peter.
Dadums.
Opa. The dutch word we use for grandpa.
I don’t really call him dadums.
Strong. Like Bull.
Maddeningly opinionated.
A man without a middle name.
Jovial. Filterless. At times he drops an offensive observation like he’s lighting a fire cracker fuse and throws it into a crowd. When it explodes and they squeal and scream, he kicks his head back with laughter.
PIET! The chorus of a four letter word.
Story-filled and jam-packed with book smarts. He can read a book four times as fast as you can.
He tells stories. Long stories. Ones that you wonder when they’ll end or what the point is. But they’re a ride, with detours and road blocks. Back tracking and a lingering inquiry, “Where is this ride going?”
We grew up with three uncles on my dad’s side. My Uncle Rich. My Uncle Herm and My Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam was always asking for my dad’s money. Uncle Sam called again for the money you owe him. Poor Uncle Sam, always looking for handouts.
My most cherished compliments are those from women I’ve worked with over the years who said they appreciated that I treated women equally, respectfully, honorably and affably. My dad inspired the design in the fabric of that part of my personality.
When I hit a rebellious period of letting go of a faith that he taught me about, so lovingly, so politely, and knowledgeably, I passed through an era of anger. The kind of anger that makes you rip off the jersey with your name printed across the back and stomp on it before burning it. The anger was not necessarily at any one person, but at everyone at the same time. Despite that, pops continued to love and support me.
He even agreed with me once or twice.
When we debate politics, I’m the one who loses his temper. I’m “triggered” as they say. The they. The Junior they. Puerto Rican temper they say.
And when we’ve had fall outs, the burned bridges have been rebuilt. The war torn cityscapes after Godzilla vs. Kong battles have been re-constructed. Shining and brand new.
The city was rebuilt thanks to reading a Steve Martin memoir. Followed by one from Amy Schumer. In both, each made a resounding argument for repairing broken ties with one’s parents, no matter how difficult. I read these books with water flooded eyes and cheeks.
No matter how beat up and bloodied you are.
No
matter
what.
Heal. Mend. Apologize.
Love.
Forgive.
For Godsakes.
For
Piet’s
Sake.
Pops claims Divine Providence brought me to where I am today as a photographer, as a husband, as what could be considered success. I do not share that belief, but I’m glad he does. It is what makes Piet, Pops.
My adoption into the Witteveen tribe can be seen Providentially, too. Forty five years ago, Dad picked up a pregnant hitchhiker named Maria. A 16-year old stranger. Maria. That baby bump was me. Piet and his wife Susan, my mom, eventually signed paperwork replacing my surname from Erazo on my birth certificate to a word that in Dutch means “White Peat Bog”.
Last year, Tina and I bought a home, in part, to give the 720 mile gap separating us from my parents and siblings a shorter commute. As one would hope, it brought the tribe closer.
At 78 years old, my dad’s hard work and sweat, bloodied hands from quick to bleed skin helped us demolish the interiors. He worked tirelessly to lend his hands freely and frequently, from chainsawing a fallen tree to laying tile to replace our hearth. These are his gifts. These are his acts of love. These are his duty. His honor.
At seventy eight, he is still building the thing I call the fabric of my personality.
There were countless times when I shook from envy at anyone who heralded their parents as their best friends. This year, I looked into my dad’s face after a dinner at my home. Before he got in his car to drive the 16 miles back to his home, I put my hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye and I said, “Dad, I wanna tell you something …”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You’re my best friend, man.”
A firecracker exploded. Shocked him. Like he’d never heard those words. From anyone.
“You’re my best friend.” I repeated.
