Writing Project, Part 11. Remembrances.
I remember Mr. Zecca—My Sophomore English teacher. His sense of humor was razor sharp and God, there's that damn Alf puppet (with pasted on mustache...to look JUST like Mr. Zecca). Tom Petty's Free Fallin'. Zecca used that song to awaken a love of lyrical poetry in his students. He missed his daughter so much. I think one of the other teachers found him that day.
I remember Cheryl Bradshaw. Wild hair and caring heart. A big personality squeezed into such a tiny woman. Her office—Jenn and I dubbed it the black hole. The insurance company refused to keep her in the hospital. She was gone soon after.
I remember my dark-skinned Tio Goni with snow white hair and
my wrinkled great-grandfather, Aparicio, who smelled dusty. Goni served in World War II. Under Patton. Tata Aparicio had 12 kids. His wife had 6. His mistress had 6 more. He's the reason why we asked about family history before we dated anyone. My Tia Carrie almost dated her cousin. Goni and Aparicio were gone before I got to high school. Long before I had realized the importance of my family history. Two historical treasure troves gone before I had the chance to learn from them.
I remember Dona Aurora. The wrinkled old seamstress. She made my girl scout uniform. The finest uniform the brownies ever saw. I marveled at the quickness in which she measured and cut. She sewed on an old Singer. Mom told me about her passing. Nana said a novena for her.
I remember fair-skinned Christina. My friend. She loved the color blue. It was a car accident. Right before that year's graduation. Alex and I wrote her a poem and I sang the Our Father at her funeral in the high school gym. I think it was the saddest funeral I'd ever been to.
I remember Mila and her beautiful smile. She loved to run. She had a brilliant soul. Her real name was Milagros. I read about the car accident in the paper.
I remember Armando. He dated one of my friends in high school. He was also my friend Charlotte's best friend. He was nice looking--fair skinned and had beautiful eyes. Puerto Rican. He was shot in front of his brother...by an insane man in Northern Arizona.
I remember my Nina Della—oh, she was a tough lady. Loving in her abrasiveness, a gentle understanding in that booming laugh of hers. She chopped off my hair because she hated it long. She caught pneumonia and her body was too tired and worn out to fight it. She was my mom's age.
I remember my Mama Nina. Scary old lady. My great-grandmother. She evoked visions of hellfire and brimstone. She appears every time I smell lemon. Lemon halves, the homemade "hair gel" she used on me. I can feel the crunchiness of my hair already. She said she wasn't stupid. She bled like she was a young woman again. She died of uterine cancer in Mexico.
I remember Amy, vaguely. She was in my jr. high school class. She had a very hard time breathing. I met Becky at Saint Mary's, she had CF, too. Becky sang in the choir. She had to stop teaching, eventually. Dr. Menk went to the funeral and told me about it later.
I remember Helene—my tiny Hungarian angel. She carried an oxygen tank almost as big as her. She warned me about smoking and told me never to start. She brought us Pepperidge Farms chocolate cake. Father saw her at the supermarket buying things for the food pantry on Saturday. Later that week, after neighbors hadn't seen her in a while, the firemen kicked in the door to her apartment. She was on the floor. Already gone. I sang at her funeral.
I remember Cecil. A gentle man. Soft spoken and sweet, and so very funny, even at the very end. Alzheimer's took him.
I remember Thad. "Ted." He shuffled along and never stopped smiling. He joked that we should only stuff every other bulletin with a flyer…only half of the congregation read those darn inserts anyway. He could always make me laugh. He fell down the basement steps. He was too frail to recover.
I remember Scottie. How could I forget him? My Everyday Angel. The "Super Volunteer." Grew up on a farm. Went to a one-room schoolhouse in rural Indiana. Married his childhood sweetheart. Maryvon. She died years ago. He missed her so very much. Scottie, my sunshine. He sipped his coffee in the parish office and I basked in the glow. My days were always brighter after he visited. He gave perfect hugs. Maryvon came and took him. He died in the ambulance on the way to the Memorial. I sang at his funeral, too. The office doesn't glow half as brightly anymore.
I remember my Tata Gamez the most. My hero in a straw hat. White t-shirt and khakis. Old leather shoes, worn, almost soft. Caked with earth. Large hands like leather. He taught me to harvest nopalitos without getting spines in my hand. He sent me climbing the trees to send down the figs he couldn't reach. He made jam out of them. Together, we gathered flowers and offered them to La Virgen. He taught me to pray and showed me what faith could do, until Alzheimer's took him from me. He forgot who I was. Forgot where he was. Cried for his mother. Asked where his horses were. Wandered the neighborhood. Confused. Scared. In the nursing home, he bit a nurse who tried to beat him. I laughed. She got what she deserved. Stupid Bitch. He may not remember much, I thought, but he remembered how to fight back. He had a heart attack. They took him to the hospital. The place stunk of sterility. I hated it. Miraculously, he became lucid. Said his goodbyes to my Nana. Apologized for the trouble of caring for him in his state and begged for forgiveness. He told her he loved her. He loved us. He was unconscious again. I sat with him and he flatlined twice. He always came back. I knew death was near. I held his hand and told him I loved him. I kissed him on the forehead. I had to go. Fr. Bruce took me home. Dad came into my room fifteen minutes later and told me Tata was in heaven. He died right after I left the hospital. Mom and Tia Irene were in the room when it happened. Mom told me years later, when she thought I could handle it, that she'd held Tata's jaw closed before rigor mortis set in. She was afraid that if his mouth was open they'd have to break his jaw to close it again. She didn't want them to break his jaw. Not her father's strong, distinctive jaw. At the wake, I kissed his forehead one more time and placed a red carnation in his hands before they closed the coffin. I read at his funeral. I don't remember anything else.
I wish I could remember more.
I look at a sepia toned picture I took from my Tata Alvarez's house. This family portrait. Nearly one hundred years old.
My great-great-grandmother, my great grandmother, great-great uncles, cousins…a family. MY family. I see Tio Goni, 5 years old. Little dark kid. Deeply set eyes. Dark eyes. Dark hair. I knew him as an old man, so long ago. Dark eyes. white hair. Nothing like this mischevious looking little boy in threadbare overalls. Barefoot. Straw hat. I never even met the other people in the picture. They look like me.
I wish I knew more. I wish I had asked.
There are stories I cannot recall and there are people I was born to never meet.
They are a part of me, all of them. Always will be.
If I want to see them again, I need only look in the mirror and smile.
Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead)
Traditional Mexican bread for Dia de los Muertos.
Recipe from The Global Gourmet
Ingredients:
* 1/2 cup butter
* 1/2 cup milk
* 1/2 cup water
* 5 to 5-1/2 cups flour
* 2 packages dry yeast
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1 tablespoon whole anise seed
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 4 eggs
In a saucepan over medium flame, heat the butter, milk and water until very warm but not boiling.
Meanwhile, measure out 1-1/2 cups flour and set the rest aside. In a large mixing bowl, combine the 1-1/2 cups flour, yeast, salt, anise seed and sugar. Beat in the warm liquid until well combined. Add the eggs and beat in another 1 cup of flour. Continue adding more flour until dough is soft but not sticky. Knead on lightly floured board for ten minutes until smooth and elastic.
Lightly grease a bowl and place dough in it, cover with plastic wrap and let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1-1/2 hours. Punch the dough down and shape into loaves resembling skulls, skeletons or round loaves with "bones" placed ornamentally around the top. Let these loaves rise for 1 hour.
Bake in a preheated 350 F degree oven for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and paint on glaze.
Glaze
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 1/3 cup fresh orange juice
* 2 tablespoons grated orange zest
Bring to a boil for 2 minutes, then apply to bread with a pastry brush.
If desired, sprinkle on colored sugar while glaze is still damp.
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