I promised my dad that his kids — my brother, sister and I — would take him on one last trip. Today, we're keeping that promise. We're taking him home to visit family and old friends.

Growing up in farm country around Okies and Mexican farm workers, one of the first poets I fell in love with was also one of the Valley's favorite sons — Merle Haggard.

In one of his most memorable tunes, "The Hag" sang about hating the cruelty of December, and how hard it was to have empty pockets and not be able to "afford no Christmas cheer."

I didn't have a cheerful December. My family and friends were kind, generous and supportive. My foul mood was all on me. Everyone wanted to give me hugs. But all I wanted was to hide.

I was trying to avoid, well, take your pick: loss, pain, reality. A giant empty hole that may never be filled.

It's been over a month since the hole appeared. Yet, even now, I prefer to broach the subject from a safe distance.

This is what happens. Fathers die. It's the natural order. We're never ready. Eventually, we say goodbye to the first person we looked to for protection and praise, security and support, discipline and doting. How odd that someone could be your biggest cheerleader and harshest critic, all at the same time.

And the fact that this storm is all perfectly normal, and that every person will weather it at some point in life, doesn't offer any comfort when it is your turn.

It's my turn.

On Dec. 7, Ruben Gomez Navarrette — a native of California's San Joaquin Valley who moved to the southern part of the state so he and my mother could be close to three grandchildren that were loved fiercely and spoiled unrelentingly — passed away peacefully at 84 in his home near San Diego.

He used to say that, while any man could be a father, it takes a special kind of man to be a dad.

My father was that kind of man. Not a perfect man who didn't make mistakes, but a man who was fully committed to being a good dad, husband, son, friend, brother and grandpa. In the end, he checked all the boxes.

It was a hard goodbye, but a beautiful one. My dad left this world and stepped into the next, calling the shots. He got everything he wanted, and nothing he didn't. He wanted to see his children united, and he didn't want to die in a hospital hooked up to a machine. Check. Check.

My father once shared with me what he considered the secret of life. We all have a "core," he said. It's our essence, our center, our reason for existing. At his core, my dad was a simple man with a servant's heart. He saw those who were invisible, and he looked out for the left behind. He loved his family, job and hometown. That's where we're taking his ashes and having his memorial.

I'm a storyteller. But my father was the original yarn spinner. As my inheritance, he left me a treasure chest — overflowing with stories. Not all have happy endings.

He was small and thin, and his childhood nickname was "Pee Wee." Despite a hardscrabble childhood scarred by low expectations and discrimination against Mexican Americans, he never let the world tell him who he was or what he could become.

My dad was left-handed and, in the 1940's, his elementary school teacher would slam his left hand with a ruler. He learned his colors early; white classmates received gold stars, but the stars he got were black. In high school, he was terrified of reading aloud. He likely had dyslexia, undiagnosed. He also had the gift of gab and tons of emotional intelligence. He hustled, worked hard and kicked down doors that were slammed in his face.

He dreamed of being a law enforcement officer so he could help people. And that's who he was, and what he did, for 37 years.

Thanks to his police pension, he enjoyed a comfortable retirement filled with grandkids and caretakers and casinos and plenty of chances to enjoy his favorite meal: hamburger and fries.

Before he left, I made sure to tell my dad five things: Thank you. We appreciate you. We love you. We'll take care of mom. And we'll see you later.

His was a life that was well-lived, one that carried him far from humble beginnings.

Good job, Pee Wee. Gold star for you!

To find out more about Ruben Navarrette and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Dan Meyers at Unsplash