Childhood memories are the subject of this episode, starting with Martin’s deeply moving recollection of a special time spent with his father in 1947 in the Ohio countryside. Being the seventh son of 10 siblings, an entire day of just he and his father was such a rarity that Martin cherished the events and conveys those memories in this emotional story.
It is followed by his daughter Renee sharing her own childhood story of growing up with her dad, Martin and the unusual but memorable time they spent together. No doubt childhoods can be as loving and complex as the people who raise us.
A complete list of the writers and poets from Ep 9 Our Fathers
“A Comfortable Silence” by Ramon Gerard Estevez AKA Martin Sheen is included by granted copyright permission.
“Holly Park Closing” by Renee Estevez is included here by permission of the writer.
“Where the Mind is Without Fear” Rabindranath Tagore
Network Sting: MSW Media
Martin: Hello and welcome to the second season of the Martin Sheen Podcast with yours truly, Martin Sheen, of course. And I’m delighted to be back hosting this podcast pilgrimage where the destination is still the journey itself. Along the way, I plan to share stories and personal memories of some of the many people, place places and events that have helped to shape my lifelong happy and continuing struggle as an artist and a man to unite the will of the spirit with the work of the flesh. I also hope to explore poetry as a powerful form of expression and communication by proxy, as it were, and how poetry is such a vital and necessary component of our spirituality and our public discourse. And from time to time, uh, I’ll invite friends, fellow actors, poets, scholars and family members to join our pilgrimage and discuss what inspires their artistic journey. And so, friends, let us begin.
Martin Sheen: My father was a very complex man. He was scrupulously honest and a lifelong faithful Catholic as well. He was 53 when my mother died suddenly in 1951, leaving him with 10 children, nine boys and one girl to raise on a factory worker’s salary in Ohio. He owned one suit, two hats, and he ironed his own shirts daily. His only jewelry was a wristwatch and his wedding band. But for a glass of wine at Christmas, he never drank. He loved a good cigar when he could afford one, but he always settled for whatever he could afford, in all things, without complaint. He was a self-taught carpenter, plumber, bricklayer and house painter. He learned how to repair shoes and cut hair as well. Yet he never learned to drive a car, and he never owned one. He was born in a tiny village in Galicia, Northern Spain, on July 2, 1898, the very day the US declared war on Spain. He was the oldest of five boys and one girl. His father died when he was 12 and his mother supported the family as a seamstress.
He immigrated to the new world in 1917, first to Cuba, where he worked in the sugarcane fields for three years, then came into the US and settled in Dayton, where he met my mother, an Irish immigrant. They became naturalized citizens together, and they married in 1927. She taught him to speak English, his fourth language, along with Spanish, Portuguese and Italian. Together they had 12 children. Ten survived, I was their seventh son. And while he was not always physically affectionate, his love was clearly evident in his presence alone, which was as constant as the North Star.
His name was Francisco Estevez, and nearly all my childhood memories of him are fond ones. But one in particular stands out and is newly remembered here.
It is a cold, early Saturday morning in the fall of 1948. I’m eight years old, waiting with my father for a bus that will take us to the city limits. Our destination is a rural farm owned by two sisters, friends who work with him at the factory. They always invite him to hunt on their property during hunting season, which has just begun. My father is carrying a double-barreled shotgun in a case with his hunting license pinned to the back of his plaid jacket. I’m wearing long johns under baggy pants, a small corduroy jacket, and a red cap with earmuffs. At the bus stop, my father and I share a comfortable silence in the pre-dawn stillness. He rarely speaks outside the home. Shy by nature, he’s just not comfortable with how he sounds. When he speaks English, his Spanish accent is so thick you have to listen closely to understand what he says. When my father talks to strangers or even to people he knows at church or the grocery store, it’s always yes ma’ am or no sir. Although he can talk up a blue streak at home, his public persona is that of a man of carefully selected words.
Now he puffs slowly on his cigar as we wait for the bus. When it arrives, we take our seats in the rear, but the cigar is still positioned between his index and middle fingers. Pop, I say. There’s no smoking on the bus. He doesn’t seem to respond, so I don’t know if he’s heard me or not. Pop, I say louder. You can’t smoke on the bus. Still no response. Pop, I almost yell, but he cuts me off with a stern look and holds up the cigar so that I can plainly see the tip has been doused out. I’m nota smoking, he says with a definitive tone and a sly smile. And with that we returned to a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride, which lasts nearly an hour and a half as several early morning passengers came and went. Pop and I are the only ones left at the end of the line and though the sun has risen by the time we disembarked, it was still quite chilly and we still had a three mile walk ahead of us. But I didn’t mind a wit because this was all a rare gift of time to spend alone with him on this extraordinary adventure.
He relit the cigar as we walked side by side in the center of a two-lane country road surrounded by the full force of autumn. The wind blew multicolored leaves from the trees on both sides of the road and showered us like confetti. We never saw another soul or any cars as we passed remote farms displaying tractors and plows, bright orange pumpkin patches, fields of cornstalks, and Halloween displays on some of the many roadside mailboxes. The only sounds came from our shoes on the pavement, the wind and the trees, and the constant barking from a myriad number of unseen dogs at a safe distance. Thank heaven. The straight road gently rose and fell as we trudged along for nearly an hour until we reached a one lane dirt road leading to a lone farmhouse in the middle of an open field about 100 yards away. Well, Ramon, my father said as we headed toward the house, here we are. And those were the first and only words he spoke since he thanked the driver when we left the bus.
I cannot remember the names of the two sisters who owned the farm, but I’ll never forget their kindness and warm hospitality that began with a breakfast of hot coffee and buttered toast. They prepared ham sandwiches for us with apples and pears and a large thermos of coffee for lunch as well, and by the time we left the house and headed into the fields, the sun was shining, the sky was a clear blue, and I was walking on the sweet country air.
By and by, my father led the way, strolling through the brown grassy fields with purpose, looking this way and that, his shotgun at the ready. I followed close behind, carrying a lunchbox and a large thermos with a rucksack for game slung over my shoulder. It was warm enough now to unzip my jacket and tuck my cap into my back pocket, and there was a constant smile on my face, when suddenly my father froze in place a few yards ahead. Ramon, he whispered loudly. Do nota move. What? I say, wondering if I had just missed something important. Do nota move, he says again as he raises the shotgun to his line of vision. Then kaboom! An earthquake erupts on the spot. The ground shakes, the air cracks, my ears ring, and a scream escapes my mouth. From the bushes just ahead, a rabbit appears, flailing around and hopping in the air. Shoot it again, Pop! Shoot it again! I shout in terror, as if this mortally wounded wild animal is attacking us. My father paused and looked at me as though he had never seen me before. Then he smiled broadly and started laughing. And then I realized the joke was on me. I was so humiliated I began to envy the dead rabbit, and I started to cry. But almost immediately he put his hand gently on my head and said, it’s okay, honey. It’s okay.
Soon we sat together on a fallen tree and ate our lunch in another comfortable silence. Afterwards, he bagged another four rabbits for the rucksack before we headed back to the farmhouse, where he offered several of them to the sisters, who politely refused because they were so full of buckshot they were useless. The irony was not lost on any of us. To wit, if it is not necessary for survival, hunting is only a sport.
Meanwhile, I discovered something I had not noticed that morning. The sisters had a television! It was a tiny screen encased in a dark wooden box, and at the present moment it was broadcasting an Ohio State football game in black and white, and I was completely captivated. But the sisters also had a car, and they were preparing at that same moment to drive us back to the bus stop. I begged my father to let me stay and watch the game, but he said we had to leave now in order to make it back home before dark. And so, of course, we did.
Sons absorb messages about manhood at their father’s side, much of it through osmosis. And while I observed my father closely whenever I could, I never got closer than that Autumn Day in 1948. It was the only time in my life I ever went hunting, and it yielded an abundance of cherished memories that rushed back with the image of an extinguished cigar, a long bus ride, a magnificent autumn day in the countryside, the terrifying sound of a shotgun, the ringing in my ears, the tears in my eyes, and that very gentle response, but above all, the long, comfortable silences shared with that very complex man who I simply adored.
I hope to add more reflections and stories relating to my father in future podcasts, but for now I’ll end with this old Irish proverb, we never get over our fathers, and we are not required to do so. I’m fine with that. I think he would be too.
Born July 2, 1898, in Galicia, northern Spain, Francisco Estevez died in Dayton, Ohio, on October 26, 1974. He was 76 years old.
We’re going to take a little pause here, but please don’t go away. There’s a lot more to come. Welcome back.
At this time, I’m pleased to present something very special. When I was writing the story about my father, my daughter Renee, who is also the producer of this program, happened to share a story she had written about me and a remembrance from her childhood. I was so deeply moved by it, I asked her to read it here. So now from Renee, Holly Park Closing
Renee: In October 2009, an article ran in the LA Times about the closing of Hollywood Park Racetrack. Developers were drooling over the possibilities of turning the vast acreage into a shining star of the Inglewood neighborhood, what with failing attendance at the park and the dwindling revenues, the facility could barely sustain itself in the current economy. For many years they’ve been threatening to tear it down. But I knew this new announcement was not a threat. It was a promise. The playground of my youth was destined for memory, and I suddenly felt deeply nostalgic. I dug through my old photo books until I found it. 1975. Me at seven and a half years old, in my best polyester ensemble of yellow shorts and white top, blonde ponytails coming undone, posing in the grandstand of Holly Park as a herd of horses charged over the finish line behind me in the background. I can barely remember a time in my childhood when my father and I weren’t playing hooky at the racetrack. Santa Anita was reserved for special occasions like the Breeders Cup, but Holly Park was our regular stomping ground, and his invitations came in the form of a surprise visit to my school, St. Augustine’s by the Sea, at lunchtime. I was 10 years old and in fifth grade by then. Life was exciting and unpredictable with my father. I was always thrilled to see him. To me, he was more handsome than most people on the face of the earth. And he came swaggering into the tiny campus like James Dean, all smiles and charm. The teachers smiled back sweetly and they never questioned him as he led me by the hand from the schoolyard to the front door of Bob Burns restaurant around the corner. There in the dim light and red leather booths, I enjoyed a charbroiled hamburger while my father smoked his cigarette and tapped his fingers to the live piano music. He naturally seemed restless and a bit preoccupied. I’d slowly eat my lunch and wait for the invitation. And right on cue, it came. We could make the second race at Holly Park if we left right now, he offered. To a young girl who hated school this invitation was magic. Poof! Drudgery be gone and an afternoon of fun belonged to us and with it the possibilities of winning big and returning home the conquering hero. So, we drove at breakneck speed in his 69 red convertible Cadillac to our dreamers destination.
I’ve never seen my father move so fast as when he was at the track. From the moment we left the car with the valet, I put my hand in his and we flew through the ticket booth turnstiles, purchased our freshly printed programs and ran up the huge sweeping stairwell to the open grandstand. The whole place was thick with excitement and tension. Our first stop was to check out the enormous tote board in the infield as it flashed the changing odds for the next race, and below those numbers, the exotic potential payouts that baited the crowds and fed our enthusiasm. The buzz of a thousand talking voices melded into one familiar cacophony. It was an ongoing chorus and I knew the song by heart. We then turned our attention to a teller’s window and headed there like a heat seeking missile. My father pulled me along to the sour scent of mustard and ketchup and cheap hot dogs, the occasional waft of popcorn and buttered flavoring, the mingling of spilt beer on asphalt and cologne so strong and hung in a visible fog in midair. I tried my best to dodge the mounds of losing tickets strewn on the ground. Sometimes my father’s hand would slip from mine and I’d be swallowed in the madness, but only temporarily. I made it a point to always memorize what he was wearing that day and was often standing beside him again before he even knew he lost me. And if the crowds were overwhelming, he’d find a bench seat to park me while he rushed to place his bets. We missed the daily double, he would shout and hand me a pen, but I can get you an exacta in the second. Who do you like? I flip open the program and take in the various names of the horses, the jockeys, the weights, and the stable info. Barely were the words out of my mouth then he would be gone. Have your pick 6 numbers ready when I get back, he’d say over his shoulder.
Sometimes he’d make it back before the race began, and other times I waited alone, lost in a mob of screaming people rising to their feet and blocking my view. And when he did come back, I knew exactly how well his hunches paid off. If he won, he came back, slapping the program in his hands and laughing. Still, he was relatively quiet. He thought it vulgar when folks openly gloated about having a big win. And if I didn’t see him for two or three races, he was busy losing his shirt.
It was during this alone time that I learned the finer points of how to read the Daily Racing Form and how that odd list of letters and numbers below a horse’s name were its history and its future. Where he ran, when he ran, who rode him, the conditions of the track, post position. Was he a mudder? Was he a prissy barn baby afraid to mix it up in the quarter mile? Did his bloodlines have the savvy to see him through a sloppy claimer race? Did his carried weight vary? Injuries, layoffs, toe grabs, blinkers? Lasix? Was he a pacer or a stalker? Did he swing wide at the top of the stretch and miss his ride? Or did he have what it took to go under a heavy whip and fight for a win? Sport of kings? This was the sport of handicappers, and I had become one and didn’t even know it. Not only was I accustomed to getting unwarranted advice from strangers with alcohol on their breath or being accompanied to the bathroom by any woman my father could hail down outside the ladies’ room door, I came to understand what a superstitious bunch gamblers could be. And when my father and I hit a losing streak, we attributed it to the spot we were standing on and had to move.
Sometimes we’d go to the infield and sometimes the paddock area. And sometimes, for no reason at all, we’d go to the paddock just to see them saddle up. My father never got an argument from me about that. I was a horse crazy young gal. I’d have crossed a burning desert to be close to a horse. To me, those thoroughbred colts and fillies were beyond beautiful. They were magnificent, mesmerizing. The grooms that led them in could barely control and keep them at a walk around the circular dirt pen. Of course, they didn’t want to walk. These horses were bred to run and they wanted to get at it. They pawed at the ground and snorted and gnawed on the bit, white foam dripping from their mouths. Their nostrils flared and their eyes widened in fear and anxiousness. I stood with my father at the paddock railing, nothing but a flimsy wood post separating us from all that swirling power. And I found something better than any perfume I had ever known. That distinctive musky hprse scent. These were the most pampered horses in the world. Dutifully scrubbed, coats and hooves, polished faces shaved and preened. And still their true nature came through.
After the horses came the jockeys. Their silks were shiny and new. The last race was ancient history. The only thing that mattered now was the next one. We watched them as they smiled and greeted the owners and trainers standing in that prestigious center of the pen. But behind their smiles, their faces were taunt and as anxious as their mounts. Occasionally we called out to the jocks, you’re on a winner now. Or simply, good luck out there. These men may have been small in stature, but they were giants in this world. And we watched as the best of the best saddled up at Holly Park. McCarran, Pincay Jr. And first and foremost, Willie Shoemaker or The Shoe.
Those early years at the track with my father were an odd mix of happiness and disappointment, glorious memories, followed in time by a mellowed outlook on reality. It wasn’t about the horses. No, it took me years to realize those highly trained animals were anything but pets. They were professional athletes, sadly disposable, mostly forgettable. And it wasn’t about the jockeys, a half-starved group of ununionized men struggling more for a living than glory. But somewhere in the middle of a remembrance of the only kind of childhood I have ever known or can relate to, is an uninterrupted time spent with my father in a place where we shared the same dream.
Martin: I invite you to delve further into the works of the poets I shared with you, and I hope you seek out writers and poets whose work speaks to your hearts and minds with the power to inspire. You can find a complete list of the poets and titles of their poems that I’ve chosen at our website, themartensheenpodcast.com
I want to thank the people who make this podcast possible. Our producer and research assistant, Renee Estevez, who assures me that the internet is a real thing and a safe place if not used off label. And our sound engineer and editor, Bruce Greenspan, the man behind these rich and seamless recordings. And to his dog Gracie, our studio mascot, who snores in perfect pentameter.
And so, friends, we part with the prayer from Tagore.
Where the heart is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
Into that heaven of freedom (my Father) let our country awake. Amen
The Martin Sheen Podcast all rights reserved. No part of this podcast may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written consent of the author and TE Productions.
The story A Comfortable Silence by Ramon Gerard Estevez, AKA Martin Sheen, is included here by granted copyright permission.
