Manuel. Manual. Manny. ‘Into. Mr. Lou. Little Friend.
Primo. Tio. Hermano. Grandpa. Dad. Daddy.
And to Sotera Lopez: Mi Amor.
And no matter what other name we had for him, or which title he held in our lives, it is true that we all called him Friend.
His eyes were kind. His smile was his calling card. He was patient and protective. He was always ready for a joke. He was generous. He was talented. He was your biggest fan.
When I reflect on a life of knowing him, I will remember his laugh. His bouncing knee that seemed like it had a separate motor from the rest of his body. His serenity and sense of purpose when he entered a church. I’ll remember how he slurped his morning coffee and how happy he was when he had any instrument in his hands, especially when he was strapped in behind the accordion. The one displayed at the Rosary last night. The one his wife saved for months to buy him. The one he so lovingly and consciously entrusted to his oldest grandson Gary Douglas just a week before he died.
I’ll remember that, when I was with him, I simply felt special. Just like every one of you did. It’s that feeling that packed the chapel for the rosary last night.
I can remember being in Stamford for a wedding where, as usual, I was running around with all the cousins at the dance reception. I cruised by the table where our family was sitting. Grandpa looked up, saw me, and said, “M’ija, let’s dance.” My heart soared! And then it sank. It was like Fred Astaire asking me to dance, only I didn’t know how to. At these occasions, I just goofed off with the cousins and drooled at the cake table. I didn’t dance. So, I tried to decline, but he led me out to the dance floor anyway. And I was so awkward. I felt like everyone was looking at me, seeing that I didn’t know what I was doing, and I started to cry. I felt like I was letting Grandpa down.
But he just held me close and told me softly what to do with my feet. And I remember thinking, “Why doesn’t he let me stop? Can’t he see I don’t know what I’m doing? This is embarrassing.” He took me around and around until the song was finished. I thought he was being mean. But that wasn’t it at all. Not only was he teaching me to dance, (which, clearly I needed the lesson) but he was also teaching me that, sometimes, you have to learn right out in front of everyone. And if you can’t do that in front of family, even if they are a big bunch of teasers, good luck with the rest of the world.
The life Grandpa led was an example of fearlessness and not worrying about whether the circumstances were just perfect. Like José said last night, he was a man of great faith in God. And a belief that we all have a calling. That belief led to many pursuits and adventures in 78 years. I asked Grandma a few nights ago if there was any adventure in particular that she wanted me to share, and after a moment of trying to pinpoint just one, she said, “M’ija, our whole life was an adventure.”
I know Grandpa would want me to keep this brief. In fact, he probably thinks I’ve said too much already. But I’d like to end by thanking all of you, on behalf of his wife, his children and grandchildren, and his brothers and sisters. Thank you for being here today and all throughout this week. Grandpa has been honored by your presence, your prayers, your beautiful flowers. If you traveled, may God see you safely home. Thank you to our amazing local family for your love and support. The abundant food and all the little things we may not even know you’ve done to make this week easier. Thank you to Father Thu, Deacon Jim, the Altar Society y las Guadalupanas here at St. George.
And thank you, Grandpa. For sharing your adventure with us. For the laughter. And the music that still rings in our ears. Thank you for teaching us all – in some way – how to dance through life with grace and courage. It is a dance that your family does across the great state of Texas. It’s danced from the Rocky Mountains to the East Coast and even overseas, in service to our country. So, if you keep playing that accordion and singing your song from up there, we promise to keep dancing — even when we don’t know the steps. Because we know you’ll be right here, whispering them to us.
Manuel Lopez, Jr., born December 25, 1932, died March 19, 2011. This eulogy was delivered March 23, 2011 at St. George Catholic Church in Fort Worth, Texas.
