Francisco is Dead

Last year, my wife and I engaged in a morbid conversation in which we guessed which of our parents would be the first to go. Neither of us predicted her father Francisco. Yet Monday, following the NCAA national college basketball championship game, my father-in-law passed away.

Though our lives crossed infrequently, I was fond of the man. By the time I met him he was a shadow of his former self. However, over the last 20 years, I saw glimpses of the Francisco others remember vividly.

He was a man full of contradictions. Prone to acts of extraordinary generosity, he also had trouble providing for his family. Sensitive and loving, he was also vulgar and capable of acts of violence. Yet, despite experiencing countless disappointments and missed opportunities, I knew that his family still loved him and held warm feelings for him. He was, after all, Francisco, and there was nobody else quite like that man.

When I think of my father-in-law, two pictures come to mind. One, a framed photograph sitting on a dresser in our blue bedroom, is my favorite visual image of Francisco. The second "picture" is a series of memories relating to a trip to Panama we made three years ago.

Tbe photo is a candid image taken in Colon, Panama, more than fifty years ago. Francisco is standing with one foot on the ground, and the other propped up on a cement bench. Also standing on the bench is my wife, probably two-years old at the time. She's wearing a white dress with a white bow in her hair. What makes this image so compelling are the facial expressions of the father and daughter. While my wife has a serious, almost angry look on her face, Francisco's jaunty smile is both confident and playful.

Not just their faces, but their bodies also are a stark contrast. While my wife looks stiff and uncomfortable, appearing almost like a human shield trying to protect her father from unwelcome glances, Francisco appears relaxed and confident. With his handsome face and jaunty smile, and sporting a lanky, athletic build, one can easily imagine him a popular man about town, which I'm told he was.

Though Francisco clearly is a man in this photo, with neatly combed hair and crisply pressed clothes, in actuality he was 19 years old at the time. He was a teen with man-sized responsibilities that included caring for a wife and child. Yet, there is no hint of discomfort in the photo. Francisco appeared happy, in charge, and ready for action. I would have enjoyed spending time with that young man.

I did enjoy spending time with the nearly 70-year-old Francisco when we travelled together to Panama a few year back. Ostensibly our purpose was to check up on my wife's namesake, Clarisa DePass, who also happens to be Francisco's aunt. Because of Tia Clarisa's declining health (she's 92 years old), we make annual visits to Panama always thinking it will be our last encounter. That year we believed her passing was imminent and Francisco wanted to see her, too.

Since he was the Panamanian native, we encouraged Francisco to take the lead in making travel plans. Accordingly he suggested a hotel and said he'd arranged for us to be spirited around that week by a private driver. Sounded promising.

The evening we arrived in Panama was hot was sticky. We were exhausted after a day of travel that included missed connections and run-ins with customs officers. We were ready to relax. But, where was our driver? Francisco glanced repeatedly at his watch and assured us transportation was on the way as we stood with our luggage on the sidewalk outside the airport.

Thirty minutes later, our driver arrived . . . in a yellow school bus . . . the short variety. Yes sir, the fancy American travelers were about to hit the town in the short bus. This was not what I expected. And the hotel . . . well, needless to say it was a scary disappointment. We bolted that creepy joint immediately and asked our bus driver to take us to downtown Pananma city where we found better accomodation options.

OK, so maybe trusting Francisco to make travel arrangements wasn't such a great idea. What was a good idea was trusting him to be our personal, family ambassador.

After our first day, we determined that Tia Clarisa had rallied (as usual) and that a bedside vigil was not required. That was a relief. Francisco was the first to suggest we escape "old lady duty" and start having some fun. And fun we had. In the restaurants we visited, Francisco always knew what to order, and entertained staff and fellow diners with snappy jokes, a warm smile, and magnetic charm. Even though my American Express card was on the hook for the bill, everybody focused their attention on Francisco, who played the role of Big Papi to a tee. He was the host, the leader of the pack, our patron.

One evening we went out to dinner with two of Francisco's old friends, one a physician, the other a retired business executive. The three of them cut dashing figures wearing their starched, linen guayaberas and puffing fat Cuban cigars. I tried to hang in there, but felt a little unsophisticated in the presence of these three distinguished Panamanian gentlemen.

Food was not the highlight of that dinner, instead it was all about the cocktails and the music. A young guitarist enlivened the evening playing classic Spanish songs. Of course the three gentlemen knew every word, and, after a couple of drinks, they often added their voices to the tuneful melodies. I felt transported, like I was in some snazzy 1950s nightclub in Havana or New York--and that I was a guest observing the antics of these fabulous Latin gentlemen. It didn't matter that Francisco borrowed money from his son-in-law to "host" the dinner, or that his clothes were just a little threadbare, that night he was comfortable being the grand old man. And I was happy to be in his company.

The week in Panama went by quickly and included days sitting by the pool, drinking beer in outdoor cantinas, and dressy dinners. Pleasure quickly replaced care for a sick old lady as our primary purpose. And none of us regretted that decision.

My wife and I wondered whether that was Francisco's intent all along, to persuade us to pay for a vacation under the guise of caring for a sick relative. Past experience with him made that scenerio seem likely. However, regardless of his motives for wanting to be with us, we are grateful for that week with Francisco. It was the only real experience my younger children ever had of spending time with their grandfather. And the grandfather they saw was interested in their lives, fun to be with, and a pleasure to watch.

It's a shame that I didn't know the Francisco in the 50-year-old photograph, and that the week in Panama was a one-time experience. Yet, as I join his family and friends who will mourn the passing of Francisco Goboourne this weekend, these will be the images I will hold in my heart as I tell my father-in-law good bye and pray for his peaceful passage to the world beyond.