I grew up visiting my grandmother Ruth, Sundays with my dad Frank, and this effort is a loving tribute to them. Frank was proud of his Spanish heritage and values such as duty, hospitality, and faithful adherence to Catholicism. He was born at home and grew up bilingual in Santa Monica on what was then Eighth Street, with avocado trees and wagon tracks to the barn. A ladder ascended to a high, wrap-around loft, with stables for horses below. He would visit cousins, all descendants of the pioneering Californios, at their great grandfather's Boronda Adobe, climbing a ladder outside with the other boys to the mysterious second floor door to sleep in the loft.
His father's realty kiosk still stands just east on Pico Blvd, across from the current Elk's lodge, and he is buried a few blocks farther in Woodlawn Cemetery. Left at age 12 with his widowed mother and older sister, Frank often dove for abalone in the Santa Monica Bay with the local boys for their dinner, meeting his life-long friend Bob Simmons there fishing for his family. By 16, Frank was a skilled hunter and outdoorsman, his life-long passion, planting hundreds of trees in his day.
In 1943, Frank enlisted in the army air corp. He had not been aware that the name on his birth certificate was Francisco and the army had him sign an affidavit that they were one and the same. Ruth had a rustic cabin in what is now Thousand Oaks, near a historic zoo. Frank would drive her there and check on her weekends until she decided to return home. Rated an expert marksman, while on leave as a B-17 bomber pilot in the Marshall Islands, he once teasingly invited her to shoot his 45-caliber service revolver and was astonished at her unflinching sharp shooting.
Frank was private about his WWII experience and modestly called himself a "fly-boy", with occasional long talks with his nephew Lee, a Vietnam vet. He once confided that all the pilots he trained with had been sent to England and were all killed, lamenting that he'd been separated and feeling that he should have been with them. Another family account is that he commanded flights on B-17, B-25, B29, P-51 Mustang, & Spearman training plane. He flew to Marshall Islands, in the South Pacific, on missions carrying high officials and witnessed both the A-Blast & B- Blast Nuclear Tests.
Because the life expectancy of pilots during WWI had been mere weeks, the army pilot license issued to him had no expiration date, and he carried it in his wallet the rest of his life.
I believe it was Ruth's powerful prayers that brought him back home to her; they were close the rest of her life. His sister had married his buddy Joe, who was also home from the war, the family living with Ruth in that era of housing shortage. Dad settled into the American life, working forty years for McDonnell Douglas Aircraft, carpooling and brown bagging to conserve for savings, home every night with his family. He did his army calisthenics after dinner well into his 80's.
He met my mom Marge at a singles group at church, the Damiens, inviting her to hike and fish with him and surprising her with a proposal as she hadn't thought of this as dating. He knew she was the one, he'd say, when he returned from a walk upstream to find that she'd cleaned his fish. They remained very active socially with the Damiens as well as neighbors and fellow parishioners. He revered Marge as an RN, devoting himself to her for the next 52 years, providing care at home for her last years after her stroke.
Rest in peace, Dad. I think of you and Mom watching Lawrence Welk every Sunday, foxtrotting around the living room. It's a comforting thought that you are together again. I hope there's plenty of trees around.
I grew up visiting my grandmother Ruth, Sundays with my dad Frank, and this effort is a loving tribute to them. Frank was proud of his Spanish heritage and values such as duty, hospitality, and faithful adherence to Catholicism. He was born at home and grew up bilingual in Santa Monica on what was then Eighth Street, with avocado trees and wagon tracks to the barn. A ladder ascended to a high, wrap-around loft, with stables for horses below. He would visit cousins, all descendants of the pioneering Californios, at their great grandfather's Boronda Adobe, climbing a ladder outside with the other boys to the mysterious second floor door to sleep in the loft.
His father's realty kiosk still stands just east on Pico Blvd, across from the current Elk's lodge, and he is buried a few blocks farther in Woodlawn Cemetery. Left at age 12 with his widowed mother and older sister, Frank often dove for abalone in the Santa Monica Bay with the local boys for their dinner, meeting his life-long friend Bob Simmons there fishing for his family. By 16, Frank was a skilled hunter and outdoorsman, his life-long passion, planting hundreds of trees in his day.
In 1943, Frank enlisted in the army air corp. He had not been aware that the name on his birth certificate was Francisco and the army had him sign an affidavit that they were one and the same. Ruth had a rustic cabin in what is now Thousand Oaks, near a historic zoo. Frank would drive her there and check on her weekends until she decided to return home. Rated an expert marksman, while on leave as a B-17 bomber pilot in the Marshall Islands, he once teasingly invited her to shoot his 45-caliber service revolver and was astonished at her unflinching sharp shooting.
Frank was private about his WWII experience and modestly called himself a "fly-boy", with occasional long talks with his nephew Lee, a Vietnam vet. He once confided that all the pilots he trained with had been sent to England and were all killed, lamenting that he'd been separated and feeling that he should have been with them. Another family account is that he commanded flights on B-17, B-25, B29, P-51 Mustang, & Spearman training plane. He flew to Marshall Islands, in the South Pacific, on missions carrying high officials and witnessed both the A-Blast & B- Blast Nuclear Tests.
Because the life expectancy of pilots during WWI had been mere weeks, the army pilot license issued to him had no expiration date, and he carried it in his wallet the rest of his life.
I believe it was Ruth's powerful prayers that brought him back home to her; they were close the rest of her life. His sister had married his buddy Joe, who was also home from the war, the family living with Ruth in that era of housing shortage. Dad settled into the American life, working forty years for McDonnell Douglas Aircraft, carpooling and brown bagging to conserve for savings, home every night with his family. He did his army calisthenics after dinner well into his 80's.
He met my mom Marge at a singles group at church, the Damiens, inviting her to hike and fish with him and surprising her with a proposal as she hadn't thought of this as dating. He knew she was the one, he'd say, when he returned from a walk upstream to find that she'd cleaned his fish. They remained very active socially with the Damiens as well as neighbors and fellow parishioners. He revered Marge as an RN, devoting himself to her for the next 52 years, providing care at home for her last years after her stroke.
Rest in peace, Dad. I think of you and Mom watching Lawrence Welk every Sunday, foxtrotting around the living room. It's a comforting thought that you are together again. I hope there's plenty of trees around.
