John Puente

I have sad news to share. Many of our friends knew our dad—John Puente. He passed away unexpectedly Saturday. Our family is stunned and sad, but we know dad’s in a better place. We’ll find peace among this sadness. Our dad will no longer suffer. He died at 70. Our dad was one of a kind. He lived life to the fullest — even after health problems from serving our country destroyed his body. He became a double amputee after he retired from Ford Motor Co. He spent 33 years as a supervisor in foundries in Michigan and Cleveland. Since 2002, dad walked through the raging infernos of hell and back multiple times. He fought with vigor. He went the distance. Lesser men would have thrown in the towel or wouldn’t have answered the bell. Dad did. The fourth of five children, dad was born to Saturnino and Carmen Puente on April 1, 1950. He grew up in blue-collar neighborhoods in Southwest Detroit and Allen Park, alongside Mary Ann, Frank, Bob and Chuck. He met our mother Karen at Melvindale High School. He graduated in 1968 and soon left for the Vietnam War. Our parents raised me and Eric in a blue-collar neighborhood on Harman Street. As young kids, we watched dad toil six or seven days a week in the foundry, while our mom worked in a nursing home and juggled classes to earn a nursing degree. With two rambunctious sons, our dad was stern. He didn’t mess around when we pushed limits. I’m grateful for those hard-knock lessons. But cherished memories outweigh the sternness. In the 70s, dad bought a Ford van with mag rims and bubble windows in the back. Of course, he decked it out with carpet, a booming stereo and a CB radio to tool around Detroit. One year, he and his pals drove to Kentucky to buy an enormous amount of fireworks. When the cops came to break up the fun on July 4, he grabbed me and sprinted away. I recall asking, “Dad, why are we running from grandpa?” (My grandpa was one of the cops.) Our dad was a jokester. Early on, it was obvious he was a sharp dresser. During the disco days, he wore the glitzy shirts with giant collars, bell-bottom pants and the shinny shoes. Our parents and their best friends often gathered at our house before heading to the discos. He always blasted songs from Saturday Night Fever. He and his buddies once got afros in that era. Me, Eric and our friends shook our heads and laughed. Meanwhile, as soon as they pulled away, we blasted his 36-inch speakers with 8-Tracks of Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Roll on Down the Highway” and “Takin’ Care of Business.” My mom and dad rocked the dance floor, but we rocked the windows and neighbors doors for hours. Dad dressed to the nines to meet people at simple restaurants or any other venue. We always called him “shooter.” He loved his gold jewelry. When Eric and I were younger, we called it his Mr. T starter kit. Watching my dad struggle to walk sometimes in the last 18 years took me back to my childhood. The image I kept was that of the indestructible man who finished multiple Detroit Free Press Marathons. We cheered him at the finish lines. He trained like Bill Rogers racing in the Boston Marathon. Wearing blue silk jogging shorts, a mesh tank top and New Balance shoes, he often challenged us and our friends to races around a city block. We pedaled bikes. He sprinted and won. When he wasn’t running, he lifted weights religiously during the era of the Rocky movies. He hung a speed and heavy bag in the garage and blasted “Gonna Fly Now.” That was our dad. He could fight his way out out of a corner like a heavyweight in the 15th round. Throughout his life, he loved nothing more than gathering around a table with family and friends to tell decades-old stories. He lived for those days and cherished the moments. He was always on the phone connecting with people from throughout his life. I took many calls that started like this, “Hey boy, I need you to find somebody for me.” He’d then call back to tell me how great it was to reconnect. We owe our work ethics to our parents. Ford Motor defined dad’s life after my grandfather got him a job. Our dad took pride working in the heyday of American manufacturing. Our dad was a voracious reader of military history. He read every newspaper he could find. After moving to Brunswick in 1982, he often drove 20 miles to a Cleveland newsstand to buy the Detroit newspapers on Sunday. He hooked me. During our teenager years, dad earned the nickname “Tan Man.” He went to a tanning bed quite often. He had the complexion that people pay for. He’s the only Mexican I know who visited a tanning bed. We shook our heads. During the Miami Vice years, he wore pink and red tank tops, white shorts and drove an orange convertible Fiat. It backfired often, and kids at the bus stop hit the ground. Here’s a few Johnisms: —Dad always wore a fancy watch, but he was an hour late for every function. —Dad always ran the gas to nearly empty in every car and always joked he had plenty of gas. He ran out many times. —Dad never fared well with home-remodeling projects, but he could supervise every manufacturing line in a foundry, with his eyes closed. Even with disabilities, dad refused to let that stop him. He walked with two prothetic legs. He dismissed canes and other walking aides. He had more pride than a battalion of warriors. He amazed us. When he got his first prosthetic leg, he went dancing with a friend. He fell. Bystanders screamed. His body went one way; his foot the other way. He grabbed his leg, pulled it out and raised it in the air. He laughed the loudest. The other dancers didn’t know he was disabled. That’s our dad. In recent years, he helped care for our grandmother each day. He was proud to do that. That’s the toughest part of this. Our dad didn’t know the slow lane existed. He charged in the fast lane until the end. He never sat still. Thankfully, my brother, Ryan and I are grateful we could say goodbye in the hospital. I believe he knew we were with him. Dad leaves behind daughter-in-laws Laura and Mimi; grandchildren Kevin, Keith, Ryan, Alexis and Olivia. He also leaves behind his girlfriend Nancy, who helped him and my grandma immensely in recent years. Besides our mom, he also leaves behind his former wife Cheryl. Siblings include Mary Ann, Frank and Bob. Dad will also be missed by nieces, nephews, an aunt, two uncles and lots of cousins. Many, many people called dad their friend. He was a social butterfly. His special niece was Natalie, who often put him in his place. Natalie also helped my dad in recent years. We are forever grateful. At the proper time, we will honor our dad with the military honors he earned and deserves. We’ll ask friends and family to share John stories. In the meantime, if so inclined, raise a glass with us to toast him. He’d smile and love that. I can envision his grin. We’re gonna miss you forever, dad. Rest easy knowing that we’re going to roll on down the highway and continue to take care of business. We know you’re gonna fly now. Be free. We love you, dad. Contributions in memory of John's life may be made to the Wounded Warrior Project.