Remembering My Father, Pacifico Calleja

See: My Ancestors - House of Calleja - House of Caruana - House of Mercieca - Pacifico Calleja - Antonia Galea Mercieca - HMS Glorious - SS Ashbury - Victor B. Caruana - Pietru Caxaro - Theophilactus I - Arnulf of Metz - Words of My Mother and Father - Family Photo Gallery

I'd like to take a moment to share the memory of my father, Pacifico Calleja.

Pacifico Calleja (Pacik), was born on 17th April 1905 in the town of Mosta, Malta, to Annunciato (Lonzu) Calleja and Teresa Bugeja Calleja. He was the middle child in a family of five siblings—two older brothers, Giuseppe (Joe) and Carmelo (Carmnu), and two younger sisters, Maria (Mary) and Zarena.

He attended Mosta Boys’ School and completed the 6th Grade. At the age of 12, he left school to begin working alongside his father as a builder’s helper. For the next four years, he assisted his father and his brother Carmelo with heavy stonework and daily errands. His determination and strong work ethic were evident even then; when asked to fetch a single 90-pound bag of cement from half a mile away, he would carry two—just to save himself an extra trip. This remarkable display of strength earned him the nickname “Samson.”

My grandfather Lonzu and my grandmother Teresa received a letter from their son Giuseppe, describing the great opportunities awaiting them in America. Encouraged by his words, Pacifico and his father set sail in May of 1921 aboard the Empress of Asia. They arrived in Rhode Island on the 21st of June, 1921, and from there took a train to New York City.

Giuseppe (Joe), Pacifico’s older brother, was working at Childs Restaurant in New York and helped secure jobs there for both my grandfather and my father. Pacifico began as a pot washer but soon worked his way up to become an assistant baker. When the hard times of the Great Depression hit and many workers were being let go, the owner made the decision to keep my father on—a testament to his reliability and work ethic.

After nine and a half years at Childs, my father decided it was time for a change. He took a job at Woolworths as a short-order cook, a position he held for about six months.

Pacifico later decided to move to New Orleans, Louisiana, where he spent the next two years working for his uncle Lorenzo (Wenzu) Calleja—his father’s brother—who was a wine and spirit maker.

In 1933, my father Pacifico made the decision to return to Malta. He ordered two buses from Italy, which arrived in disassembled form, and hired a mechanic to help with their assembly. Once completed, he painted them brown with lead-based paint, in the traditional style of Mosta buses.

Together with his brother Carmnu, he established a construction business. In addition to their building work, they also ran a grocery store and a petrol station.

In 1939, as the Second World War began and the conflict reached Malta, daily life changed dramatically. Work became scarce, and the British government imposed strict rationing on the Maltese people. Gasoline was reserved exclusively for buses and trucks. In response, my father converted three cars into trucks and leased them to the British Army.

At the same time, he extended a helping hand to friends in need by giving them opportunities to work—allowing them to drive supply runs for the British troops stationed in Malta. As a driver himself, my father, Pacifico Calleja, played a vital role as a civilian driver for the British military in Malta during World War II. He undertook the solemn task of retrieving the fallen, while also delivering essential food supplies and artillery shells to various military posts across the island.

These missions were fraught with danger, often carried out amid relentless attacks from German and Italian fighter bombers. Yet my father remained steadfast and resolute, drawing strength from his unwavering faith in God. With courage and determination, he successfully fulfilled his duties, making a meaningful contribution to the defense and survival of Malta during one of its darkest chapters. We will never forget my father's bravery and devotion.

In January 1942, during the height of the war, Pacifico met Theresa Caruana, who had taken refuge in Mosta with her family after fleeing war-torn Qormi. Their bond quickly grew, and on the 11th of January 1942, they were married at the Rotunda in Mosta, Malta.

Pacifico and Theresa began building their family shortly after their marriage. Their first child, Annunziato—affectionately known as Lannie—was named in honor of Pacifico’s father, Annunziato Calleja. Tragically, Lannie passed away just thirteen months after his birth, a heartbreaking loss that remained with them for the rest of their lives.

Their second child, Carmena (Carmen), was lovingly named after Theresa’s father, Carmelo. Then came Teresa (Tessie), named in tribute to Pacifico’s mother Tereza. Their fourth child, Victor, was named in memory of Theresa’s mother, Vittoria. Each name carried deep familial meaning, honoring those who had shaped their lives and values.

When their next daughter arrived, they named her Annunziata (Nancy), once again paying tribute to Pacifico’s father. Mary, their youngest, was named after Pacifico’s sister, continuing the tradition of preserving cherished family ties through each generation.

After the war came to an end, Malta faced significant economic hardship, and work opportunities were scarce. Determined once again to provide a better future for his growing family, Pacifico made the courageous decision to migrate to the United States for a second time. In 1951, he set sail aboard the Neptunia and crossed the Atlantic, arriving for the first time at Ellis Island in New York on April 2nd.

Pacifico headed west. His eldest brother, Joe, was working as a foreman at Goodman Lumber in San Francisco and had secured a job for him there. With his trademark determination and tireless work ethic, Pacifico began a new chapter of his life in America, ready to rebuild once again for the sake of his family.

In 1952, my mother Theresa, determined to reunite the family, took it upon herself to push the immigration paperwork forward. Once everything was in order, she sent a telegram to my father Pacifico before their departure to let him know they were on their way. On June 27th, 1952, she and the children boarded the Nea Hellas and set sail from Malta, arriving at Ellis Island in New York on July 10th.

Upon receiving the telegram, my father quickly prepared for their arrival. He secured an apartment on 3rd Street in San Francisco and, for the first time in his life, flew on a DC-3 airplane to New York to meet his wife and children. Once reunited, they made the long train journey back together to San Francisco, finally beginning the next chapter of their lives as a family in America.

My father worked tirelessly—seven days a week, often putting in 16-hour days. Even on Sundays, he worked eight hours, but always made sure to be home in time for Sunday dinner with the family. His primary job was at a lumber yard, but he took on additional side work building fences to help support us.

Every morning, he would rise early, attend church, come home for a quick cup of coffee, kiss my mother and us children, and then head off to work. He followed this routine faithfully for 17 years without ever taking a single sick day or vacation. During those years, our family continued to grow with the births of Joyce, Joe, Rita, George, and Anthony.

My mother, Theresa, was the first to rise each morning and the last to go to sleep each night. Her days were spent mending, cooking, and cleaning—quietly and tirelessly caring for her family with unwavering love and devotion.

My father was a deeply generous man, always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need whenever he could. Whether it was offering work, sharing what little he had, or simply being there for others in difficult times, his kindness and compassion left a lasting impression on everyone who knew him.

In 1959, my parents proudly purchased their first American home at 457 Somerset Street in San Francisco. In many ways, it was our castle—a place filled with warmth, laughter, and countless cherished memories that would shape our family’s story for years to come.

In the summer of 1963, my father sent my mother, my sister Rita, my brother George, and me on a three-week vacation to Malta. It was a memorable journey—our first time meeting our maternal grandmother, Nanna Vittore, as well as our Uncle Tony (Ziju Ninu), and many other uncles, aunts, and cousins. Though the trip was short, it was an incredible and unforgettable experience. During our stay, my mother also took the opportunity to explore potential property options in preparation for my father’s eventual retirement.

In 1967, my father Pacifico began thinking seriously about retirement and started making plans for the family’s return to Malta. On the 22nd of February 1968—a date made even more special as it was both my mother’s and my birthday—he sent my mother, along with five of my siblings—Mary, Joyce, Joe, Rita, George—and me, back to Malta to begin the next chapter of our lives. Upon our arrival, we were welcomed with a joyous and emotional reunion at my grandmother Nanna Vittore’s house, surrounded by family, love, and the warmth of home.

My parents rented a home in Lija while waiting for the completion of our new house in Birkirkara. My father officially retired on his birthday, the 17th of April 1968. Just one week later, he boarded a plane with my sister Carmen and made the long-awaited journey back to Malta to reunite with us and begin his well-earned retirement.

Living in Malta back then felt like stepping back in time—life was slower, simpler, and deeply rooted in tradition.

In August 1968, the family moved into our new home in Birkirkara—a stately villa that felt like something out of a dream. The house was a true architectural gem, with ornate ironwork gracing the front and a decorative parapet lending it a distinguished elegance. Inside, the villa featured gleaming marble floors, rich mahogany doors, and sparkling crystal chandeliers. The spacious living room, complete with a fireplace, flowed into a formal dining room, two well-appointed kitchens, five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a cozy sitting room, and a welcoming reception room—each space thoughtfully designed with its own unique charm.

In the back garden, an arbor covered with vietnamese rose vine offered shade beside a large, flowing fountain with goldfish and a grotto waterfall, where a statue of Our Lady of Fatima stood serenely, casting a tranquil rhythm over the space. Two small, private side yards provided quiet corners for rest or reflection. It was more than just a house—it was a sanctuary, a place where cherished memories would begin to take root.

Both of my parents were entrepreneurs—they invested in land, built garages and apartment buildings, and owned a local favorite, Tony’s Bar and Grill.

I remember a story from the summer of 1969. It was a Saturday afternoon, around 2 p.m. I was in the parapet, playing with a few of my Matchbox cars. My father was nearby, reading the Times of Malta and enjoying a cup of coffee.

Out of the blue, a police officer walked up to our gate. I looked up and said, “There’s a police officer at our gate.” My father calmly replied, “Let him in.” So I did.

The officer came in, sat down near my dad, and they had a quiet conversation while I went back to playing with my little cars. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

About a month later, around 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, my father woke me up and asked, “Do you want to go to Mass with me in Valletta? Afterwards, we’ll go to the Premiere for breakfast.” I said, “Sure.”

I got ready, and we began our walk toward the Birkirkara Bus Depot. About halfway there, my father suddenly said, “Let’s go through the field and take the longer way around to the depot.” I asked, “But that’s the long way.”

He simply said, “Never mind—I’ll explain later.”

Once we were on the bus, he leaned over and said, “Do you remember when the policeman came over to our house?” I nodded, “Yes.”

He continued, “I loaned him some money. His daughter needed an operation in England. I saw him walking up the road this morning, and I know he can’t pay me back. I didn’t want to put him in the position of having to explain.”

In the 1970s, during the summer months, my father would often go for long afternoon walks. My mother would sometimes wonder where he went. One day, I asked if I could join him, and he said yes.

What I discovered on that walk stayed with me for life—my father had a quiet, steady devotion to helping those in need. That day, we visited an elderly, bedridden blind man named Censu. My father bought him some fresh oranges and gently sliced them so Censu could eat and get some nourishment.

It was a simple act, done without fanfare, but it revealed so much about the kind of man my father was—compassionate, humble, and guided by a deep sense of love and service.

As my older siblings came of age, they began returning to the United States one by one. Eventually, only my parents, my sister Rita, my brother George, and I remained in Malta. On the 7th of November, 1974, the five of us left Malta bound for San Francisco, California, to reunite with the rest of our family.

We made our home in the Avenues, nestled in San Francisco’s Sunset District. My parents lived there for eleven years, until 1985, when they moved into a custom-built home in Federal Way, Washington.

My father passed away on May 2, 1993, at the age of 88, and was laid to rest at Gethsemane Cemetery in Federal Way, Washington.

He was my closest friend, and his passing left an emptiness in my heart that has never truly healed.