February, Valentine Piñata and Birthdays

The shortest month of the year is more than half way gone now. I have always liked February because not only is it my birth month, but so many of my family also had their birthdays during this loving month.

Febrero loco, y marzo otro poco. That was often heard when I was a youngster. I think it referred to the weather, but some would tease us February children proclaiming that we were all locos, just like the weather.

To begin the month, my cousin Josie’s birthday was on the 3^rd, then my Dad’s was on the 7^th. My pretty cousin Esther finished the month by being born on the 28^th. But before her, my cousins, Olga and Tina come in the middle of the month. Then in the younger generation, we have Rolando and Valerie being born in the 1990s. The youngest February child is my handsome grandnephew, Jerry.

The photo that I have here was one that I got from Mom’s collection, and I did not make much of it. When I was digitizing many of the old photos, I considered cropping this one because the children should be the main focus of the picture. The outer parts of the picture are blurry, out of focus. But when I studied the picture I saw what surely was the piñata. It was a Valentine piñata, and it was my second birthday! So instead of cropping it out, I decided to color it.

My sister and I have tried to identify the children, but have only been able to remember about half of them. Sadly, about 5 or 6 who are in the photo have already passed away. The place of the party was the backyard of where the family resided at the time. I do not remember the place at all. I have been told that there were several small homes on Avenue A, across from Modern Pharmacy, where there was Polanco’s Bakery for many years.

My mom would refer to living “in those shacks” when she remembered her early married life. Robstown may have changed a lot, and yet stays the same innocent little town in my memory.

My Dad was a Recycler

Because of all my doctor’s appointments I had not been able to pack away all the Christmas decorations until now. I probably put too much packing in the breakables since there is little chance of them being moved before I unpack them next Christmas season. The packing material that I use primarily is old tissue paper that has been used in presents of Christmases past—the kind of paper that we used to call papél de china.

That got me to thinking of how my dad was a great recycler when it wasn’t even trendy.

The wholesale produce market was in San Antonio, and Dad and my uncle would go there about twice a week, sometimes only once a week. When my uncle was not working with Daddy anymore a driver was hired because Daddy never learned to drive. The bananas were bought by the entire stalk, not cut into bunches as you see in the produce markets today. Watermelons, cantaloupes, melons, and pineapples were also loose, not in big containers. To protect the produce in transit, especially the bananas, the material used was excelsior. Excelsior is old newspaper that has been shredded. Looks a lot like a newspaper run through the ubiquitous paper shredders in today’s offices. It was fun to play with the excelsior, but it was messy when the printer ink came off on our hands.

One other recycling that my dad practiced was the recycling of comic books. Comic books were the Nintendo of the 1940s and the 1950s. It didn’t matter if it was Superman, Katy Keene, Little Lulu, or my favorites—the love comics, the price for a new, uncirculated comic book was ten cents. Most of us could not afford to spend that much on a comic book. My dad would buy comics that were in good condition at two for a nickel, and then he would sell them at a nickel a piece. Great recycling and a great profit!

But the best recycling that I now realize was recycling was the use of used motor oil. There used to be a Texaco filling station next to our fruit stand in the early years (the early 1940s). They kept the used motor oil in a big drum and Daddy would either purchase or get the oil for free to mop the floor of our store. The first few days after the oil was applied, it was really messy. If the wooden floor did not soak up the oil after so many days, I remember that sawdust was used to soak up the excess. I never saw any other stores ever having oil-stained floors, and I never bothered to ask why he did the floors that way. But my brother has told me that he did, and that the reply was “so the bugs don’t get into the wood.” That makes sense now, since the weather of the Texas coastal bend area is friendly to termites, roaches, and other such.

Even after Dad no longer had the store, I remember he would save soda cans for my nephew to take to the recycling places.

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My pretty Mom and my Daddy are on the left. My Tío is on the right. Notice the stalks of bananas way in the back, the heater in foreground by Mom, and the oil-stained floor. This photo was probably taken in the late 1940s.

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My uncle was the driver of the truck. The building is the cold storage. It was elevated so that unloading could be done at the same level as the backside of the truck. During the summer months Dad and/or my uncle would send young boys into the barrio selling ice cream for a nickel a piece.

 

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Dad liked to wear white shirts and his white apron when he was at the store. My kid brother enjoyed playing on the watermelons. Mom enjoyed soda pop—even if it ruined her teeth. This photo was taken in the mid to late 1950s.

My Turkey Trotter

Busting my buttons, proud as punch and tickled pink! I could probably come up with a few other clichés, but I'll just say that Daughter never ceases to please me with her accomplishments. She is back to getting fit and what she enjoys is running. Yesterday she finished in the San Antonio Turkey Trot. Not bad for an asthmatic kid.

Here she is around two years old. Although I remember mostly a healthy child, she did have the scary moments. One that I recall now is when she was around two or three years old, and had trouble breathing. I called the doctor's office and besides ordering medication, the nurse gave me the suggestion to get in the bathroom, run the hot water in the shower so that the whole room would fill with steam. The steam should help clear the bronchial tubes.

I followed the instructions, and Daughter and I sat in there. I knew she was scared because I could feel her little body shaking. I thought it was because she was having a difficult time breathing. I just held her in my lap, trying to comfort her. Maybe it was the medications and/or the steam treatment, but she did recuperate from that asthmatic attack. It was not until many years later, when she and I were recalling that episode that she told me the reason she was so scared was not because she had trouble breathing. She thought I was going to make her take a steaming hot shower! A good lesson to always communicate with your children.

The Beach Scene

Although summer is almost over, we are still experiencing warm days and sometimes even scorching days.

Last July when our grandson came to visit, he was treated with a day at the beach by my niece who lives walking distance from the Pacific Ocean. By report, I learned that he enjoyed the water, but not the sand. 

Then a few weeks ago, hubby and I attended a talk by a doctor on the subject of skin cancer. The doc gave us the message we all know. Protect yourself from the sun. Lather yourself in sunscreen, etc. He said that even if we protect ourselves now, the non-protection we experienced in our childhood could come back to haunt us.

That statement brought memories of marvelous days at North Beach in Corpus Christi. More than a handful of times we went there as children, and played in the sun and water. In the days before surfboards, one could rent those floating devices. I don’t recall that we did much play in the sand, although we did like to collect shells. As a matter of fact I never liked the feel of sand between your toes. The main thing we looked out for were the Portuguese man-o-war jellyfish. We were really scared of them. We heard stories that the sting from the jellyfish brought great pain and/or death.

Still, many happy hours were spent in sun. The picture below was taken in 1947.

In the photo we find Rosita from Tampico on the left. She was probably in her late teens or early twenties. She came to visit us one summer and delighted in telling my sister and me fantastic stories. One that I remember to this day was that there was a girl she knew who had a bug crawl inside her body and there the bug grew and grew in the poor girl’s belly. Sis and I (she was 8 and I was 6 ½) never questioned any of her tales.

Next to Rosita is Daddy. The beauty next to him in that two-piece swimsuit is yours truly (didn't fill out that bra then, and still don't). The baby is Sammy who passed away in 1987. He was around a year old. Sis is the one holding on to him. She adored that baby (foretelling what a great mom and grandma she grew up to be). Sis has her eyes closed—don’t know if she got saltwater or the sun was too bright, but she did not let go of the baby. Last one on the right is my pretty mom.  I don’t remember that her hair was that long or that she wore it down.I don't remember who took that picture.

Those were sweet, carefree days of summer and of my childhood.

Lady of Spain Comes to Visit

What a delightful surprise! Our Lady of Spain hits this area with a day’s announcement, and is here for only three days. We were lucky to get together for lunch.



Back in the 1990s, Assumpta came for a one-year program to teach mathematics at the same school where hubby was teaching. He and other members of the math department provided Assumpta assistance, and she has many times expressed her gratitude. She is a lovely lady.

Outside the restaurant we paused for a photo before saying, “Hasta la vista.”


The memories part for me goes back to January 1998 and a marvelous trip that my daughter and I took to parts of Europe. One of our favorite cities was Barcelona. That is the place we still want to keep going back to. Although we were very cold, we enjoyed the sights, particularly with Assumpta as our personal guide.

That is me and Assumpta on the roof level of the Gaudi Museum, and on the right, are daughter and Assumpta in the same place.

Assumpta showed us her apartment in Olot.

We were warmly greeted by her own family.

But daughter and I could not leave Barcelona without visiting the monumental church of the Holy Family, begun by Antoni Gaudi so many years ago. Hubby and I had visited Barcelona some 30 something years earlier. At that time the church was a mere shell and the laborers were skilled but their tools were "low tech" in comparison to what we observed in 1998. I would like to return to see the progress during this century.





This is one of the many, many pictures we took of the spires. Believe it or not, I actually climbed one of those spires, but did not attempt to go to the highest point allowed for tourist--but daughter did. The view from up there is breathtaking, literally.











This last picture is one that I took because I saw the box with numbers. I was thinking of hubby and daughter and how they are mathematicians. At the time I was in too much of a hurry to figure out what the numbers meant, but have since figured them out. Can you?

It's May!

It’s May, it’s May the merry month of May. And I have not blogged since March.

Last Friday I discovered an archival site that still has my first attempt at having my own webpage back in 1997. It was such a primitive site in comparison to what we see today. It was great to see some of the photos that I had included there because it had one that I have somehow misplaced.

The photo is of my mother, my sister and me. When my sister and I were at St. Anthony’s School there were two clubs for girls to join. One was Hijas de María and the other Las Teresitas. I may not have the correct recollection, but it seems that the first one was for the older girls, and the latter one was for the younger ones, like us. One Sunday a month, we would wear our Teresitas uniform, sit as a group in church, and go to Holy Communion during the Mass.

But the month of May was particularly a great month for us. Maybe this is one of the reasons I especially like flowers and gardening. The month of May was dedicated to Our Holy Mother, Mary (La Virgen María), and one way of celebrating was by offering flowers in the evening during the recital of the rosary.

On the Sunday before, Father Dunne would read out the names of the mothers who were responsible for providing flowers for each evening of the coming week. I think that Mom’s turn didn’t come until sometime during the third week. To hear Father read Mom’s name was like when your name appeared in the Robstown Record. It brought a smile of pride to my face.

The younger girls—maybe first and second grade Teresitas—dressed in white, including a head cover of either lace or net, carried a bunch of flowers and formed a double line down the center aisle of the church. At the break in the rosary after ten Hail Marys, we would joyfully sing alabanzas, raising our flower-holding arms. Then we marched toward the altar and give the flowers to one of the two older girls—usually a girl from Hijas de María.

What carefree days of our childhood! We might worry that our bouquet of flowers was not big enough or that someone else’s bouquet might have prettier flowers.

Amarillo Had a Snowstorm

Hubby brought to my attention today that Amarillo had a blizzard this week-end. The snowstorm brought more than 10 inches of snow to parts of the Texas panhandle.
You can see a slide show of the snow storm at the newspaper website.

This brought some memories of how I got to Amarillo to begin my teaching career in the first place. I was fresh out of the University of Texas with a life-time teaching credential and a bachelor’s degree in Education with a major in English and minor in Spanish.

The education recruiters who came to Austin that summer of 1962 were looking for native speakers to teach foreign languages. I don’t remember going to too many interviews, but I had narrowed my choices to either Deer Park of Dallas or Amarillo, way up north in the Texas panhandle.

Somehow the Amarillo job sounded more exotic since it was so far from home. In the months before going to Amarillo I had to buy a car and find my way to that far off city. The farthest north I had driven was San Antonio. I had driven to Laredo and even to Monterrey, Mexico, but I was going to drive into unknown territory. That sounded both scary and exciting to this sheltered, naïve girl.

I knew that Tío Miguel had been to northern Texas, so I asked his advice on how to get to Amarillo. He gave me some instructions, although I do not remember just what he said. Mom was to be my navigator and little brother was along to give moral support.

I guess we had a map of Texas with us, but I mainly remembered the sequence of towns we were to cross on the way to Amarillo. I don’t remember the number designations of the highways where we traveled. I remember that most of the towns had directional signs to either the next town or toward a larger city. I mainly guided myself by watching for those signs. My mom was not the best navigator (I can say that now that she is no longer here to deny it).

At that time the highways were mainly two lanes. The lanes were divided by a single white line, but sometimes there was also the yellow line. The yellow line was sometimes solid, sometimes broken and sometimes on one side of the white line and other times on the other side of the white line. I quickly figured out that the yellow line was to guide the driver when it was safe to pass, especially in the hill country.

It took us pretty much the whole day to get to Amarillo. We had packed food, and stopped only to get gas and the potty stops were only at gas stations in those days. There were no fast food places yet, and no rest areas--how did we do it, then?

When we got to Amarillo we went to the school district office, and the school secretary helped us find a place to stay. It was a small rental apartment in the back of a house in the north side of town. All three of us slept there for a couple of nights. While Mom and brother were still with me we found the local Woolworth and bought a couple of plates, forks, spoons, and I don’t remember what else. I might have even bought a skillet or pan.

Then it was time for them to leave. I drove Mom and brother to the Greyhound (or was it Trailways?) bus station. I stayed there until it was time for their bus to depart for Robstown. That’s when it really hit me! I was alone in a strange city, starting a position I was not experienced with, and I had to rely on no one but me!

I watched the bus pulling out of the depot and waved at my kid brother who was sitting by the window. I was trying to control my emotion of the moment, but when I saw my eight-year old brother crying as he waved good-bye, I began to cry, too. I walked to my car, sat there, and, knowing there was no reason for inhibition, just bawled out loud.

I did not stay in that apartment that was behind a house. When we had our teacher orientation the next day, the French teacher and I decided we should share rent on an apartment. When I went to pick up my things at the first apartment, I paid the lady for the couple of nights and settled for my teaching assignment at Tascosa High School. I think she might have asked for $10 for both nights.

And that brings me back to the snowstorm in Amarillo. Four or five months after the school year began I experienced my first snow. I recall the morning after we'd had a snowfall in the evening. I went from window to window to window in our small apartment. I was in awe of the beauty of that white blanket. It was a joyful new experience for me. Yes, this year was when I experienced a lot of firsts. Snow was just one.

Wildflowers

I was back in the garden pulling weeds today. I do not have exotic plants, but rather like the plants that can tolerate abuse. Maybe that is why I like the roses, geraniums, nasturtiums and others that I can rely on not to die if I leave for several weeks on vacation.

But I got to thinking about some of the weeds that are beautiful.

Living in California, we celebrate the California poppy. About thirty years ago we took a weekend trip north of Los Angeles just to view the hills that were orange. Although it was springtime the day turned cloudy, cold and windy. The children were great troopers, though, posing amid the poppies. The flowers were not opened because they only open for the sun. But the smiles on the faces of son and daughter were enough sunshine for me!



When I was in high school in Robstown (more than 50 years ago!), a small group of us took a field trip to San Antonio with our sponsor, Mr. Porter. The club was called something like the Junior Historians. We toured the missions and museums and took photos. Only three of us students went, so we all rode in Mr. Porter's car. The first photo was taken at the San Fernando Mission and I am the one with a pony tail; Celia and Ellen are the other two. The second picture was taken at some museum and shows Ellen Celia and Mr. Porter.

There was no I-37 at the time, so the street that took us out of town toward Robstown was South Presa Street. We were almost out of the city limits when we sighted a field of beautiful wildflowers. The wildflowers were right by the side of the road. I guess some of the flowers must have been bluebonnets, but I remember other colors, too. We stopped and all of us picked flowers, including Mr. Porter. I gave my flowers to Mom, of course. Later I thought how sweet that Mr. Porter had joined the students in gathering flowers for his loved one.

The photo below is of a bluebonnet field, but not the field of more than fifty years ago.

 

Going further back in my memory bank, the earliest wildflower I remember is the Mexican primrose. My abuelas called them amapolas. When I was in Robstown last month, I chanced to go by the house where my grandmother lived. My dad’s house (our house) was in the lot where that old house is barely standing. But, those lots were deep and as a kid I used to run in that backyard and enjoy climbing trees. Around this time of year there were always amapolas that grew way back in the yard, far from the house and far from any water source other than rain.

 

Mexican Primrose

To this day one of my favorite songs is Amapola. I remember Mom casually singing that song. Today, I especially like the rendition by Andrea Bocelli, but Placido Domingo does it great justice, too.

It is the Last Day of 2008

It’s the last day of 2008. Looking back on the year I continue to be an optimist. We had our 401(k)s go down the drain, gasoline prices went to heights never imagined, fires in California were devastating, etc. But, as little orphan Annie sang, “Tomorrow, tomorrow is a day away.”


2009 will start with grandson’s first birthday on the 8th of January. He visited with us for a week during Christmas, and we miss his not being here. He is such a charmer, not yet walking, but can crawl faster than his abuela can keep up with him.

Grandson--all boy!

For the first time in several years we were able to bring our entire California family together for Christmas day. We did our traditional toast before sitting down to enjoy a repast of ham, turkey and all the sides, salads and trimmings. I am always afraid that there will not be enough food, but, of course, there are always many left overs—glad to have two refrigerators for these occasions.
 

 

 Our California Clan

So tonight, New Year’s Eve, we will quietly watch the new year come in on television as we have done for many years.


I remember when I was a child that Mom and Dad always looked forward to celebrating New Year’s Eve by going to some dance in Corpus Christi with a big-name band from Mexico or from the US. Since my dad did not drive, they always got together with one or more married couples. My sis and I would stay home with my grandmother or great grandmother. When Mom and Dad would get home from the dance I would already be asleep, but in the morning we would find the party hats and noisemakers that had been distributed at the dance. What confused me was that in the movies people always made lots of noise as the new year came in, and my sis and I could not make noise even with the newly acquired noisemakers because Mom and Dad were still asleep. Even if I went outside to play with the noisemaker, I could not get excited that it was a new year.

Great To Be Back--Christmases On My Mind

I am feeling so out of it because I have not posted since Hubby's birthday almost a month ago. I was not well since the day after Thanksgiving, but thankfully I am on the mend. I am certainly looking forward to Christmas because Grandson comes to visit us.

I have done most of my Christmas shopping. Gift giving this year will be modest--the economy being what it is. We have been to several Christmas parties already, and it was great to see and visit.

The Retired Public Employees Association Chapter in Orange County collected toys to be distributed to the children of the encarcerated. This is the second year we do this. Our president is a former policeman who works with the charity St Vincent de Paul in organizing the gift-giving event for the children.

The program Ability First had their Christmas party last Saturday afternoon. The menu was pizza from Costco. I joked that pizza from Pizza Hut was better, but I don't think the organizers thought I was being funny, until I revealed that Son works at Pizza Hut, and has worked there for over 18 years. We left that party before Santa arrived. Two and a half hours of loud music had given me a headache, and we needed to get "refreshed" for the next party.

 

Hubby and Son at Ability First Party

Hubby has been retired since 1997, but the math department teachers have stayed in touch since before his retirement. One of the math teachers (who retired several years earlier than Hubby) has been hosting a potluck for the math department teachers and spouses for at least 12 or 14 years on the second Saturday of December. Our group may be diminishing, but we hope to keep the tradition going for as long as we can.

 

Our gracious hosts!

I have been working on our Christmas newsletter this past week. There are still some I cannot reach by email, so I printed thirty copies to snail mail. Most of the others on my list are on my email address book, so hopefully they were able to read what I sent. Hubby  and I have been Mac people since day one. Although we tolerate Windows, we do not really do Windows. My first attempt at sending my newsletter did not go well. My choice for a font was probably not the easiest to translate to Windoz and then I probably had too many photos. Anyway, instead of sending the newsletter as a Word document, I saved it as a pdf file, hopefully everyone has Adobe Reader. If you are still having trouble reading my newsletter, please let me know. The central figure in our year of 2008 was, of course, our handsome Grandson.

As I think back of Christmases past, I think one of my favorite ones was when Sis and I were attending parochial school at St Anthony's in Robstown. For "Misa de Gallo" (literally the Mass of the Rooster--because of the wee hours) we were angels in costumes of white and glitter. We were two of about twenty girls, but I felt so special in my halo and wings. We walked up the aisle to the altar where the nativity scene had been mounted. The entire church smelled of cut trees that my dad had donated for the altar.

I remember the ritual of kissing the icon of the baby Jesus. Father Dunne held the baby and we all lined up as if to receive communion. Father had a napkin or handkerchief that he wiped the last person's kiss before the next one came to kiss the baby's leg. Were we fearful of transferring germs? We never gave it a thought. Our faith was so sincere that such ideas never crossed our minds.

After Mass we went home on Avenue D. I think we all walked home. Everyone used to walk everywhere--neither Mom nor Dad drove a car. Since it was after midnight, Sis and I discovered that Santa Claus had visited our house. We each got a pair of roller skates. Have I ever mentioned that my sister and I always received identical gifts, and we wore identical dresses all the time? Mom's idea of being fair was to be identical. Later, in our teens, Sis and I decided equal did not have to be identical.

Neither my sister nor I ever had a bicycle. Even though there were "girl" bicyles, Mom assured us that bikes were not ladylike and therefore, not for us. We were happy with our skates, but the street was unpaved (had caliche top), and our front yard had a narrow sidewalk about 15 feet long, at the most. The skates were the kind that had a key to tighten around the sole of your shoe. We learned to skate anyway in our carefree days.

Today is Hubby's Birthday

 

This cute chubby baby was born in Gainesville, Texas a few years back. His grandmother, holding him and known to him as Mammaw was born in Tennessee, married in Oklahoma when it was still Indian Territory, and passed away in Texas when she was nearly 90 years old. My Hubby comes from good stock.

Even though this is Hubby's birthday, I thought I would write about his Mammaw Zettie. I met her shortly before I was to marry into the family, and I knew her for a very short time, but we hit it off right away. She was already about 87 years old, but wanted to give us a wedding present. 

So she took scraps of yarn and covered coat hangers. We still have and use these coat hangers, and remember Mammaw's loving hands. The picture has only a sampling of the "yarned" coat hangers.

 

The Good and Bad Tamales

You can tell the holidays are here because El Pollo Loco has tamales on their menu. It must be the proverbial optimist in me that each year surrenders to the temptation of the seductive picture on the menu. Every year I have been disappointed. Well, this year was not an exception. I tried the single tamal on a small salad and a splash of sauce on top. I could not even eat half of it. It was too spicy and there was hardly any chicken. Maybe next year will be different.

One of my very earliest childhood recollections is related to my negative experience with tamales. I don’t know how old I was, but probably a toddler. It must have been Christmas eve or at least Christmas season. I remember being at my grandmother’s house (we lived right next door). It was Mama Mere who handed out tamales to us children, and then she went back to the kitchen, I guess. As I now know, tamaladas were social occasions to gather and chat with the other women while tackling the labor intensive chore of making tamales.


Anyway, I tried to bite the tamal that had been given to me, but it was too tough. I did not even like the feel of this tamal in my mouth, so I decided to take it back to the kitchen. I announced to the women in the kitchen, “A mi no me gustan los tamales con hoja.”


Everyone broke out in laughter. Of course that made me feel worse, but it was then that I learned that the tamal needed to shed the hoja—the cornhusk cover—before consumption. Mama Mere then showed me which was the proper way to attack the tamal.

Growing up, I know I must have heard this story of my experience with tamales over and over again. I know Mom used to repeat it to me anytime that tamales came up in the menu or conversation.


Funny, though, I found the question on how to eat tamales on the web. Several years back, I did find myself at a party where Mexican  food (including tamales) was being served, and I sensed that some of the guests did not know how to eat tamales. So, I try, with utmost diplomacy, to instruct on the removal and disposal of the covering.


Probably the worst tamales I have had were some that were wrapped in paper. I don’t even remember where they came from, but they were not good. It might have been in high school cafeteria or summer music camp, or some other such institution. Bad.

The tamales that I do like are the variety that I grew up with. They were not too big, nor too spicy. The masa was moist, but not extra greasy. Because tamales are usually steamed in large amounts, I remember that Mom always kept extra ones in the freezer for warming later. Not that Mom ever made tamales, but she would purchase them by the dozen, several at a time. She usually had friends who made tamales and they would sell them to her or give her some. I can remember having tamales for breakfast, lunch, and/or dinner.

Maybe I need to go back to South Texas to get a tamal that I like. Although I did take a class through adult education about twenty years ago where we made tamales as a class, I don’t think I am going to make tamales myself. There are plenty of recipes available out there, but I am only interested in eating a few good tamales!

The Heiress, the play

We went to South Coast Repertory last night to see “The Heiress.” I don’t know why it is one of my favorites because I usually like happy endings. The ending of this play can’t exactly be called happy, maybe avenged. The cast at the Costa Mesa theatre proved very professional, and the audience heralded a few ‘bravos’ and ‘bravas’ at the actors during curtain call.


This play was based on a Henry James novel and was first staged in New York in 1947, but it was the movie of 1949 that I remember. In my youth I probably saw every movie that was shown in my hometown. But in 1949 I was really too young to appreciate the drama—musicals were more my liking. My dad was not one to give ratings to movies, but I recall that after he saw this movie, he declared it “really good.” I was only impressed that Olivia de Havilland looked sort of plain. Of course she won an Oscar for that role later on.


Fast forward to my years at Laredo Junior College. Since during high school, I had been in the class plays both my junior and senior years, I became involved with the drama group at LJC. I did not make the casting when Mr. Kielson announced the play was to be The Heiress. I did volunteer to work backstage, and was given the job of assistant stage manager.
My work in high school plays had been light fare, so I expected the students at LJC to be about the same level. I was truly surprised, when I watched the rehearsals and the girl named Rosina in the role of Catherine Sloper was literally crying real tears! She was truly great in the role. I have at times wondered if Rosina continued to exploit her thespian talent. I don't recall her last name, nor do I know what has become of her.

Tía María's Passing

 

This is picture of mom and Tía María at the Senior Center of Robstown. I think it was probably Tía's birthday because she is wearing a corsage. I don't know the year of the photo, but I know it was after 2001.

It is with great sadness that I write about one of my favorite aunts. Tía María (also known as Tía Mary and Aunt Mary) was the wife of my grand uncle, but we never made great distinctions when my sister and I were growing up. We regarded all “in-laws” as part of the extended family as if they were true blood relatives and cousins.

Tía María was born 96 years ago in San Diego, Texas. She passed away Monday, November 3, 2008. She was of my mom and dad’s generation. Memories I have of Tía Mary are that sometimes she was a mediator during family’s disagreements. Much like my mom, she was often the peacemaker. I also remember her as the crafty lady, long before arts and craft became popular. She enjoyed working with her hands, and was a good seamstress.

It was not unusual to walk away from her home without a gift in my hand. She always tried to find something to share from her crafts. When I would be back home visiting with my parents or my sister, I would always make an effort to go visit Aunt Mary. The custom is just to say hello and catch up with family news.

The last time that I went to “saludarla,” Tía María was in a nursing home. That was a little bit more than a year ago. Sis and I went together because it was Aunt Mary’s birthday. We each took her a birthday card. Since she had lost some of her hearing, we had to raise our voice each time we talked to her. I introduced myself first, and she just nodded, unsurely. Then my sister introduced herself and clarified who our parents were. Tía María again just nodded, still uncertain of who we were. However, about five minutes or so later, her eyes lit up, and she beamed a smile at us. She stated, “son las de Tina,” pointing her finger at us. She remembered my mom’s name. Recollection of that moment brings tears to my eyes.

Tía María, may you rest in peace. You will now join your husband, your first-born son, all of your sisters as well as your mom and dad. I am glad that you were part of my family. God bless you.

Happy Birthday, Son

Forty-one years ago: I remember this day very well, forty-one years ago. It was the week-end that we change time, so the nurses at the hospital were grumbling about having to work an extra hour. California fires were raging and our cars were covered with ashes and soot, although the fires were not that close to populated areas. The Santa Ana conditions made the temperature hot and there was little to no humidity. But in all this negativity, we were just overjoyed that our son was born. He was a big baby (almost nine pounds), and it was not the easiest delivery, but the pain is soon forgotten when that newborn is placed in your arms. We welcomed our sweet bundle of joy on this day around one o'clock in the morning.

Today, my little baby boy may have grey hair and grown to be over six feet tall, but he is still a sweetheart. His dad baked this cake and I iced it. Chocolate cake is still his favorite. For a gift he received a CD of Enrique Iglesias hits. We already played it, and enjoyed it.

 

A happy, happy birthday fellah!

Day of Dead Presentation

This afternoon I did a presentation at the Buena Park Public Library. The topic was El Dia de los Muertos - Day of the Dead. This is the first year they have had this, so we had no idea how many people to expect or who our audience was going to be.

We got to the library about an hour before the scheduled start so that I could set up an altar and set up the computer and projector, etc. Here is the table just starting to set it up for the altar.

 

Next is the table set up. I didn't think the table was going to be this big, so the ofrendas had to be spaced out a little bit. But otherwise, I think it worked out okay.

 

Here is the section for Mom and Dad:

 

This one is especially for Dad. American flag and the fresh produce.

  

This one is for Mom. Figs, Pizza Hut pizza, and behind her picture is Chocolate Mexicano.

 

 And here I am trying to get everyone interested in finding out about their ancestors and doing family history.

 It was fun building an altar to honor my parents and my grandparents. It is the first time that I built one, and what I have learned is that anything goes. If this set up hadn't been at the library I probably would have included live plants and lots and lots of candles. Maybe more food items, also. As it was, I was glad to have my two greatest helpers, Hubby and Son, carry all of these ofrendas.

The  staff at the library was just great, but the best were the audience. They were genuinely interested in the topic. We had about 100 people, more than half were children. After the talk about the altar, there was a high school group dancing folkloric numbers. The children and parents then painted masks and enjoyed refreshments that included Pan de Muertos.

When we finally got home, Hubby and I were literally exhausted, but it was a good tired, a satisfied tired.

National Disability Employment Awareness Month

I just today found out that October has been designated as National Disability Employment Awareness Month. This is the first I hear of it. Or, if I heard of it before, I had forgotten because there has been little fanfare given to it. It seems that this designation was given a few years ago. One good thing that I must congratulate the Bush administration for. Check out the two websites.

http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2008/10/print/20081001-12.html

http://www.dol.gov/odep/

My favorite employer in this world is Pizza Hut because they have employed our developmentally disabled son for more than 18 years!

 

Here he is in the walk-in "cooler" transferring pizzas to be placed in the "warmer" so that the dough will rise.

Remembering Sam's Words

I got a phone call today from a member of a genealogical society. The caller maintains their website. He was interested in posting parts of the book which my brother and I put out a few years back containing Dad's memoirs. I was agreeable to the idea, but that got me to thinking about my Dad's life. He never did talk to us, his children, about his early life. He would say, "¿Para que quieres saber?" Even Mom was not aware of his childhood experiences until she found his little red diary--a year and a half after his death. Well, that call sent me back to  the book and to memories of Daddy.

I have several favorite photos of Dad, but tonight I have chosen two:

This first one, I titled At the River. This photo was taken in the earlly 1950s, and Dad and Mom both look healthy and happy. Dad was demonstrative in his affections, hugging and kissing Mom all the time. I guess that's why I am always hugging people, too.

My other favorite photo of Dad was taken when he was a teenager working for Western Union.

 

Here are Sam's own words from his little book:

"Mostly every day at noon and after school, about three or four of us boys from the Catholic school would go and flirt with the pretty girls from that little school (in those schools, no mas
chicanos).
 
A year later, I went to public school. My teacher’s name was Mrs. Borum.  In that school it was nice, ‘cause there was the regular system. But again, after one year or so, I had to quit
school to go to work. This time as a messenger boy at the ‘Western Union.’

At $30.00 a month. The rush of telegrams was in winter, at least six to eight months. I enjoyed my job, especially when I received tips. I worked one year and then I had to quit that job, ‘cause $30.00 was not enough. I cried when I quit that job. Then I had to go work in the fields picking vegetables.
 
Again, it was something new for me. I didn’t make enough for my lunch, and it was rough, cause it was cold and rainy or really hot sun, we had to work. Y como dije antes, no ganaba ni para el lunch. "

Trees got staked.

Yesterday morning while the temperature was in the 90s Hubby decided we had to stake our new trees because he had to return the stake pounder later that morning.

 

It was hard work especially for people our age with replaced knees, arthritic joints, etc. But I think he did a fantastic job. His hands and joints were sore last night and today, but there is a great sense of achievement. Now we just have to remember to water wisely. We are still in a drought here in California. 

This is one of our trees with the stakes, but that trunk is still very small. Hope it gains girth before the Santa Ana winds start this month.

Apple, apple, apple cobbler

On the south side of our house we have had two apple trees for about eight years. Last year and this year we have had a bountiful harvest of apples. We do not do very much in taking care of these trees as far as pruning or fertilizing. We do try to keep them watered, so they have somehow survived our years of neglect.

The picture below is of the bigger, sweeter apples, the Pettingills.

 

The smaller apples below are the Fuji.

But the best part of these beautiful apples is the consumption. This year we have given away some of the apples, and eaten some fresh, too. But tonight Hubby made his own delicious concoction, and called it sort of a cobbler. Whatever he wants to call it, I call it scrumptious. And it is disappearing fairly fast.