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Culture April 19, 2021
What happens to our legacy when we aren't there to record it.
“I’m always gonna be here. Poppi’s always gonna be here, okay?” My grandfather always spoke
the truth, but this was the first and last time he ever lied to me.
Growing up, dates were never important to me. Somehow, they still take up space in my
memory, especially dates I’d like to forget. October 21st, 2019, I found out my life was predicted
short. The odd thing was, I wasn’t frightened or worried. In fact, I felt a wave of tranquility
blanket me. I thought about how I’d be reunited with Poppi, a lot sooner than I imagined. I was
somewhat relieved to know that if I had to leave this world behind, I wouldn’t be alone. With the
Cystic Fibrosis diagnosis that came 21 years too late, after being passed on from doctor to doctor
that couldn’t be bothered with the work that went into diagnosing such a mysterious case, I
began to see the world a little bit clearer. I researched, I cried, and I reflected, a lot. I came to
realize how important legacy is in families, no matter what kind of remembrance it is. When
looking back on my times with Poppi, I can’t help but think of the impact he had on not only my
life, but so many others. I’m generally focused on the idea of being remembered, for something
great or something important. When I realized, three years after my diagnosis, that there was no
electronic footprint of my grandpa, I made it my mission to not only find out details and stories
from his past, but to begin documenting my own. January 26th, 2021 is one date I wouldn’t mind
remembering.
“Everyone knew Pete, he was so well loved around work,” Shari Chambers, Poppi’s former
coworker and close friend relayed to me. She mentioned how much my grandfather meant
around the workplace and the importance of his position. He was a Senior Process Engineer at
SBRC Hughes Aircraft, later called Raytheon Systems, a developer and manufacturer of radars.
In 1971, when Poppi first began working for the company, you didn’t need an Engineering
degree. Through his 39 years there, Poppi became known as the man with all the answers. He
had worked on simplified projects that would grow and become more complex, such as space
telescopes, that stumped some but not my grandfather. “He kept everybody in line,” Shari said.
He attended almost every meeting, informing the higher ups about what projects needed fixing
and how he and the rest of the team could fix them. Difficult and important tasks, such as
military grade infrared detectors and thematic mapper satellites, consumed my grandfather’s
days, only to come home and discuss which flavor of ice cream was better: rocky road or vanilla,
with my five-year-old self.
Ricardo Garcia, another comrade, recalled Pete from work, “He was a jack of all trades,” he said.
Ricardo relayed how important family was to Poppi and how frequently he’d speak of his loved
ones at work. When he was invited to work on an international product that took him to France,
“He spent a majority of the time there searching all around the country for [this] Jil Sanders
perfume for your grandmother, they didn’t sell it in the states, so your grandfather took a whole
suitcase home for her.”
Shari mentioned some of my grandfather’s favorite past times at work: enjoying good food with
friends at some of Goleta’s old gems: steak and seafood at Holdren’s and pasta at Baltieri’s. She
reminded me of when I accompanied him on “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day,” I tried on a
hazard suit that was ten times to big and entered a research facility’s cleaning room that was
extremely too polished for kids with Cheeto stained fingers. I don’t remember much from that
day, only that Poppi was excited to have me there. The memory of his smiling face glancing
down at me, with the flickering office lights above us, is cemented into my mind. When I picture
us together, my small hand intertwined with his, leading me to places, people and lessons that he
deemed valuable, I realized that it’s not only the story itself that is relevant, but the influence it
has on those hearing and experiencing it.
Although my time accompanying Poppi at work was rare, the times we shared outside of the
Raytheon building were countless. I believe that’s where my love for storytelling began, with the
man who taught me everything he knew about telling a good story, never mind if it was true or
not. For a majority of my childhood I’d sit outside of his work, in his old beat-up SAAB, in front
of an appalling pepper tree that had a hole the size of a basketball hoop in it. It was there, that
Poppi told me some of my favorite childhood stories that he made up on a whim, to keep me
entertained: The House Goblins, The Chicken Eating Cucuy and many others. I don’t know what
the future holds with my diagnosis, but I know one thing for sure, one day Poppi and I will be
reunited, sitting in the old, beat up SAAB in front of that damn pepper tree, and it’ll be my turn
to tell him a story, my story.
Along with being a mother of one, Valanci Villa is an aspiring English professor and professional writer. She has published articles in The Santa Barbara Independent and is currently working on a book of short stories. Hailing from a small town on the Central Coast of California, Valanci has big dreams to travel and create stories that encapsulate diversity, mystery and legacies.
