Judy Joy Salinero Dillon
My Dad
There are too many memories and not enough time. I really didn’t know my father until my mother died. But fortunately I had his last 13 years to really get to know him. He was a hard working man, stubborn in many ways but totally devoted to his wife and children and ultra proud of his two grandchildren Stephen and Carolyn. It wasn’t until the late 90s that I started to ask about his childhood and how he met and courted my mother. I eventually made a video tape of one of our lengthy conversations and made a copy for me and my brother. Hopefully he will pass this along to his children.
In 1986 my husband George and I, and my stepson Scott, had my father join us for a trip back to Spain. On the one hand it was a nightmare as my dad allowed me to guide him through France, Andorra and Spain. I say a nightmare as he spoke fluid Spanish to my halting Spanglish, yet I was given the task of booking rooms, seeing to a car repair, and ordering meals. Yet it was wonderful walking the streets of Macotera to see where he was raised and to join him in dancing La Jota through the streets of the town celebrating San Roque, drinking pitchers of beer, seeing a crude corrida del toros and seeing him laugh with joy.
In 1986 my husband George and I, and my stepson Scott, had my father join us for a trip back to Spain. On the one hand it was a nightmare as my dad allowed me to guide him through France, Andorra and Spain. I say a nightmare as he spoke fluid Spanish to my halting Spanglish, yet I was given the task of booking rooms, seeing to a car repair, and ordering meals. Yet it was wonderful walking the streets of Macotera to see where he was raised and to join him in dancing La Jota through the streets of the town celebrating San Roque, drinking pitchers of beer, seeing a crude corrida del toros and seeing him laugh with joy.
