The Shop on Dixon Street

At 506 E Dixon St, under the open bay doors of Sandoval’s Diesel Repair, Sandoval built more than a shop. He built a place where work had dignity, where a handshake mattered, and where a truck leaving with a strong idle meant a family could breathe easier that month. He believed in care without theater, in fixing the cause—not just the symptom—and in telling the truth about what was needed and what could wait.

Listening As a Craft

If you ever watched him at the fender—head tilted, listening—you saw what respect for a craft looks like. He taught that a good mechanic listens more than he speaks. The rhythm of an engine tells a story if you’re patient enough to hear it. He passed down the naming of things—fuel, air, timing—as if they were elements in a prayer. He knew torque by feel. He knew when to stop and explain, even on the busiest days, because knowledge was part of the service.

Sandoval didn’t start with much. He started with faith, family, and tools that had seen better days. He brought to the workbench a quiet stubbornness—the kind you learn from long weeks and tight budgets—and the memory of mentors who once gave him a chance. He returned that chance a hundredfold. He hired people who needed a first break or a second one. He taught the younger techs to mark their bolts, to clean as they go, to leave the bay better than they found it.

The Neighborhood That Remembers

Dixon Street remembers him. The neighbor who sells tamales on Saturdays does too. So do the fleet drivers who stopped by for a quick check and stayed for a conversation; the independent owner-operators who came in with worry and left with a plan; and the kids who watched from the sidewalk, eyes wide at the clang of tools and the rise of trucks on lifts, learning that there’s a kind of music in making things work.

Latino-owned wasn’t a label for Sandoval—it was a promise. It meant the door stayed open to the community, that Spanish and English coexisted with the cadence of compressed air and the hum of diagnostics, that fairness guided the estimate and dignity guided the repair. It meant that when someone walked in apologizing for not knowing the right words for what was wrong, he’d smile and say, “Honesty is the only word we need.”

A Church With Tools

Sandoval believed a shop is a kind of church with tools: you come in carrying something heavy; you leave a little lighter. He celebrated a clean pass on emissions like a graduation. He treated a same-day turnaround like a small miracle. He knew what a missed delivery could mean, and he knew what it meant to keep a promise.

He loved his family the way he loved good workmanship—completely and without shortcuts. The best part of his day wasn’t a tricky diagnosis solved or a stubborn bolt finally yielding. It was locking up, sweeping the floor in long, even lines, and going home to the people whose names lived on his lips even in the long stretches of concentration.

To his friends, he was steady. To his customers, he was trusted. To his team, he was both teacher and shield. To his family, he was a harbor.

The last lesson he leaves is about time. He spent his giving other people theirs back—getting wheels turning so paychecks could be earned, routes could be finished, plans could be kept. The miles he returned to others are the testament to his life.

In memoriam details:

• Name: Abraham Sandoval

• Legacy: Founder and owner of Sandoval’s Diesel Repair, Dixon Street, Compton

• Known for: Integrity, mentorship, bilingual community care, and a craftsman’s ear

• Survived by: Family, friends, and a community of drivers and technicians who carry his lessons forward

Ways to honor Sandoval:

• Keep your promises. He’d like that.

• Do the job right the first time—even when no one’s watching.

• Tell the truth about what’s needed and what can wait.

• Leave every workspace better than you found it.

• Listen first; then fix.

• Give someone their first break—or their second.

• Be fair on your worst day, not just your best.

For directions to the gravesite, open Apple Maps or Google Maps.

More Than We Knew

Most of you think you know who Dad is. All of you are here today because you shared something special with Dad. For that, I will be forever grateful, and I thank you all sincerely. But, I am here to tell you that whatever you thought you knew about Dad, there was more to him.

In recent days, I’ve seen Dad described as humble, a family man, loving. All this is true. But he was much more than that—much, much more.

I know some of you might be saying, “How well could you know him if you have been in Oregon for the last year.” It’s true, I recently moved to Oregon, but I spoke to Dad every day. I knew him as well as any man can know any other man. I’m here today to fill in the missing pieces about him. To ensure that Dad’s story is written the way he would have wanted.

Simplicity, Integrity, and What He Valued

Picasso once said simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

Dad was the most sophisticated man. He was no puff, no frills. He was a doer. He led by example. He wasn’t distracted by the haters and didn’t waste time trying to keep appearances. He didn’t care about luxury cars, or fine clothes, or fine dining. What he did care about was the stuff that truly mattered.

He cared about people. He cared about authenticity. He cared about academics. He cared about storytelling. He cared about history. He cared about courage. He cared about honor. He cared about philosophy. He cared about winning. He cared about doing what was right even when nobody was watching. I want to hone in on these last two points. Winning and doing what’s right even if nobody is watching.

Or integrity.

In the end, Dad succeeded in this journey we call life, not because he gained at others’ expense, not because he was the loudest, not because he was the most aggressive, not because he earned money, but because he was able to preserve his integrity in the face of mighty challenges and formidable foes. In this day and age, that makes him nothing short of a hero.

Eyes That Saw the Flame

When it came to people, Dad was a visionary. He saw what few others will ever see. When you met him, you knew. You could feel it. There is something special about this man. This man is not like the rest. He’s different. He’s cut from a different cloth. Why? How? Questions abound. Well, I have the answer. The reason is because Dad looked into your eyes when others would look away. And when he did, he could see the burning flame reflecting back.

From that point forward, you had an ally in Dad. He was your greatest champion in times of triumph. Your consigliere in times of turmoil. He did all this; he invested so much of himself for you, not for self-gain, not because he wanted something in return, but because he saw a potential in you that you didn’t even know you had. And he wanted to do everything he could to see that that potential was not wasted.

Dad was a genius. Having spent my entire life in academics and attended some of the finest universities, I don’t use the word lightly. The evidence? It’s this. Dad understood what few others in academia or elsewhere will ever realize. That who you are as a human being is defined not by your status at birth, not by who your parents are, not by titles, or how much money you make. Who you are is a direct and proximate result of your actions.

Every day, in his work life and home life, Dad applied this philosophy in its purest form. He didn’t just talk about it. He lived it. It was his North Star. And he never lost sight of it. Dad strived to ensure that the fruits of his labor were spread as far and wide as possible. He gave so much of himself for others because he wanted as many people to benefit from his presence on this planet before it was time to go.

Carrying the Torch Forward

When great men pass away, they pass on the torch. It’s up to each of us whose lives Dad touched, not just to carry the torch forward but to keep it burning bright along the way.

So, as you carry the torch forward, I urge you not to settle for mediocrity, not even in the little things. I know I won’t. The little things. Dad cared about the little things because he knew that one day, on a day not unlike today, those little things would become the big things.

Finally, I want to end with this. Dad wasn’t a role player. Not by a long shot.

He was a star.

So, Dad, I want to make one final request of you.

Because I know you’re watching.

Take a bow.

You were triumphant.

• Viewing: 12-8:00 PM

• Forest Lawn, Hollywood Hills

• 6300 Forest Lawn Dr,

• Los Angeles, CA 90068

Friday, November 17, 2023

• Mass: 2:00 PM

• St. Finbar Church

• 2010 W Olive Ave, Burbank, CA 91506

• Burial: 3:30 PM

• Forest Lawn, Hollywood Hills 6300

• Forest Lawn Dr, Los Angeles, CA 90068