This article was originally published on November 27, 2019.

By Victor Leal

My Dad, Hector Jesus Leal, grew up during the Depression in abject poverty in the small town of Mercedes in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas.

He narrowly escaped death at least three times. Once when he was bitten by a black widow spider while relieving himself in an old outhouse. Another when his appendix ruptured, forcing him to have emergency surgery. And he slept through some pretty massive bombing while serving in Korea as a Corporal in the Army.

He suffered hunger and began leaving home during the summer months at ten years old to become a migrant worker. He picked tomatoes in East Texas and cotton on the South Plains.

If he was a victim of racism in a time when many Hispanics were, we never knew it. He never spoke about it.

My Dad had a way of leaning into life that he summed like this: " Nobody owes you a thing. Work hard and be thankful for everything and to everyone."

I remember the rare occasions when we'd eat out as a family. Dad would embarrass me my tipping the server at the beginning of the meal when they brought the menus to our table.

"You are doing a great job!" he'd tell her.

"Dad, all she did was bring us menus," I'd whisper. I wanted to crawl under the table.

We didn't know until after his death ten years ago that Dad regularly tipped the mailman. Our carrier for over twenty years told us that many times Dad would meet him at the door and slip him a ten or twenty dollar bill to thank him for his service.

Several of us family members gathered at my Mom's house in Muleshoe a couple of weeks ago. We were making preparations for the holidays and clearing out several old boxes stuffed with mementos she had accumulated over the past sixty years. We found old trophies and pictures and news articles from our time playing Little League baseball and football and participating in the many extracurricular activities growing up. We came across old menus from our little cafe, back then located in a small tin-metal building on the East side of town. We laughed and cried over pictures of staff and guests from our very modest beginning to the present day.

As I laid in bed one night, in the same room I had grown up in, a pleasant nostalgia bathed over me. My thoughts lingered on all the incredible people who have played a role in our lives. I reminisced about my coaches and teachers and my friends and family. I remembered fondly all the coworkers who helped us during the past sixty years. I thought of the countless volunteers who gave generously and selflessly of their time and talent and treasure that we might have youth sports and Scouts and Vacation Bible Schools.

Before falling asleep, the words my Dad drilled into me resounded in my mind and deep in my heart, and tears welled up in my eyes: "Nobody owes you a thing. Work hard and be grateful for everything and to everyone."

It was then it struck me. When we don't go through life feeling entitled to anything and choose to believe everything we have and everyone who comes to us is a great gift, we naturally acquire an attitude of thanksgiving.

As the season approaches to reflect for what we are thankful, I would say I am eternally grateful for growing up in a community where I greatly benefited because so many people gave of themselves without counting the costs.

I would add I am forever grateful for my Dad. He taught us to stay focused on all the good that comes to us each day. He taught me that life is a great gift, and thanksgiving is the only proper response for it.