Sara Treon
A missed opportunity to share a beautifully crafted story of our father written by my sister, Estella Jr.
Today, we gather to honor a man whose life was a remarkable journey of transformation, love, and resilience. My father was not born perfect—far from it. He was a boy from San Antonio who didn’t learn English until he was six or seven, a young man who once walked a path that would lead him to unnecessary danger. But through love, accountability, and the unwavering support of my mother, he grew into a respected man, a devoted father, and a beloved grandfather.
My parents met not once, but three times before they were thrown into marriage—he was 19, she was 15. Neither had a clear example of what a healthy, happy marriage should look like, yet they made it work. They grew up together, raising each other as they raised their children, building a family on the foundation of love, forgiveness, and hard work.
My father was the jokester, the funny man who could light up a room with laughter. My mother was the serious, no-nonsense woman who got things done. At first glance, they seemed like opposites, but they existed in an imperfect balance that lasted a lifetime. Together, they created the strongest familial bonds anyone could ask for.
There were detours along the way—times when moving forward didn’t mean moving upward. But my father never gave up. He got back up, time and again, fueled by a fierce love for his family and a desire for his children to have better lives than he and my mother had known. He was also driven by my mothers will and uncanny ability to make him walk the line. They made sacrifices, held each other accountable, and never lost sight of the family first.
A couple of my fondest memories was watching my parents’ dance and box. My daddy loved spinning my momma on the dance floor. They were always the first to step out and the last to leave, moving fast and both trying to lead, yet somehow perfectly in sync. Even as he grew older and danced less, it was a joy to see him on the floor at Zenyda’s and Xavier’s quinceañera—his great-granddaughter’s celebration. That night was the last time many of us danced with him, and I am deeply grateful for that moment. It brought back memories of him dancing with each of us. I remember him telling me to put my little feet on his while we danced around and around. It’s a great memory to have. I know he is dancing with my brother and my baby now. The boxing however is just one of many fun memories they created for us. Daddy brought home some old boxing gloves he found god knows where he was always bringing home found treasure from someones trash. They had a boxing match in our living room he would playfully wind up the tap momma on the head with his other hand. Or he would hold her head so she couldn’t reach him while the rest of us were laughing with tears in our eyes. He would do this until momma got mad for real then he would stop and wrap his arms around her and pucker up his lips in the most obnoxious way and kiss the side of her face. They had no idea of the core memories they were creating. Or how much their playfulness helped build their family
My father was strong and proud, he is rested with the dignity he always craved. He was living proof that people can change. Each of his children carries a piece of him—funny, strong, and uniquely adjusted to who we are. He held onto some old beliefs, sparking debates that lasted hours or even years, but he never shunned us for having different ideas. He made fun of us, yes, but he never disowned us. For that, I am grateful. He loved us equally but treated us individually and had separately unique relationships with each of us. He left our world surrounded by his children and wife. Not quite how he thought he would go when he was 20 but exactly how wanted to go as he became older and wiser.
He loved us all equally, though I like to think he loved me—Nani—the most equal! He loved who we loved but wouldn’t hesitate to cut some one………off if necessary. Proud, occasionally boastful, and a source of knowledge and at times unsolicited advice, he loved my mother with an intense, fierce fire. In his eyes, she always looked the same as the day they met even 65 plus years later.
As a grandfather, he was unmatched. He never complained about helping with the grandkids, was the first to volunteer for school events, and was affectionately known simply as “Grandpa” by everyone—from the donut shop attendant to all of my kids’ friends. He ate mud pies baked by Eddie and Sara, showed up to every baseball game, and was always ready to help at any hour without complaint. He learned all the rules for La Crosse for Bella and Noah and he loved watching Vivian play tee ball. He enjoyed going to Lily’s performances. He watched all of them with tremendous pride and adoration.
He traveled the world with the Navy, lived out loud on his world tour—fighting in bars and waking up in the brig—but through it all, he loved his country deeply. His grammar and vocabulary, in both English and Spanish, rivaled that of university professors. When asked how he developed such a command of language, he’d say it was from reading the dictionary—especially during those times in the brig.
It’s hard to sum up 84 years of life in a single eulogy, especially when that life touched so many. But I’ll leave you with something my dad once said at one of my weddings: “If you look for perfection, the only place you’re going to find it is in the dictionary.” He was right. My daddy wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for us.
If your father is even half the dad mine was, then you are truly a lucky child.
