Remembering Mi Abuela

I was prompted by a post I saw on Facebook about growing old and being loved in spite of losing your hair and getting wrinkled. It was a quote that said: ""You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand." Margery Williams -The Velveteen Rabbit, 1922. William Nicholson, illustration." This post jolted me to ask, ' Who do I know who had become real?' I couldn't help but to think of my Abuela, known to neighbors as Doña Tinita. My Abuela didn't become real to me until I was thirteen, having been deprived of my only grandparent on my mom's side because of a great deal of miles and a big ocean. So when I did get to meet her, I wanted to hear her stories and ask many questions, but today I was able to remember how old she had aged and that she was special anyway. When I met her she had shed her youthful looks and had spent decades loving and struggling to bring her ten children up in the world. Her world was Naranjito en el Barrio Lomas, on a finca the size of maybe 60 cuerdas. Cuerdas are smaller than an acre, a measurement reminisce of Spanish colonial times. This Spanish root takes us down through the dirt to out roots, but I digress. I was talking of my Abuela. I remember loving my Abuelita, my grandmother, even though I hardly knew her. I remember she was a rather small women then though she had been taller once and in those few remaining pictures of when she was young, showed her standing squarishly with sturdy shoes holding her ground there next to her husband Don Pepe. I met her years later. She was now maybe four eleven with her small slender fingers and hands all wrinkled. She had long gray hair and white hair that almost reached her waist. It was thin and not that abundant, so she braided it into a long skinny braid which she would wrap into a small bun and pin to the back of her head. By the time I met her, she was into her eighties going into her ninties. Her age was somewhat a mystery to me. One time I heard she was 83 and a couple of years later she was in her ninties. It confused me but thinking about her now and I can be certain that physical beauty had no bearing on the love I felt for her. I find it so foolish now to be so concerned about appearances. Mi abuela era sabia she had gone through much starting her life in rural Puerto Rico in the late 19th century. Yet my grandmother was wise in a very gentle way and I was a bit feral then, not to mention unyielding. One of five kids, I was often neglected because my mom carried the load pretty much on her own, so having a relative willing to converse with me was actually a treasure. I took advantage of that and talked. How fortunate I was. I have already written about her stories though frankly I don't remember them all. I do recall her reciting a proudly a poem in English which was more a tongue twister than anything else, "The bee can fly? Can the bee fly? The bee can fly, " which she said so quickly it was a bit jumbled. it was memorized, repeated and barely understood. To this day, I haven't been able to find it in the annuals of google. Unfortunately, I got distracted soon after with High School, boys, dances, and adjusting to a new culture way stricter than anything I had ever experienced before. In the 70's in Puerto Rico, you could hardly go anywhere without a chaperone except for the Teen Club in Ft Buchanan nevertheless it wasm't freewheeling either since Titi Georgina was really strict with my cousin Evie. We always had to get back by ten and if not we got yelled at. That kept us out of trouble mostly. Anyway, I finished High School and went to college locally and abuelita became more of a background figure as she grew more amd more reclusive because of her aches and pains. I loved going on long rides with Mom on Sundays but she never wanted to go, not even to Naranjito, su pueblo, her hometown. Nothing could convince her, so I let her be but it bothered me. It was my ignorance. Years later, I can put two and two together. Abuelita had borne ten children. Pobrecita. When I went to get married, less than a mile away in a little church in Summit Hills, she would not go to the church or reception. So after the ceremony, I stopped by her house for her to see me. "Me viniste a ver, mija!" She was so surprised! She touched my face and the fabric with raised flowers which my aunt Sarita lovingly made me, " Estas preciosa!" and then she blessed us. " Dios los bendiga." I would have stayed longer but we had a reception to get to and pictures. I am so glad we stopped to see her. Soon after, I got pregnant and after ten months of marriage,I had my first baby. Abuela was starting to decline by then but I was able to get my picture taken with her and my little girl, Annie. What a sweet moment that was. I don't recall if she died that same year or the following but I visited her before she died. By then, I could only come in for a few minutes to say goodbye. My mom, my four aunts and five uncles had seniority so I had to figure things out from the whispers and occassional updates. She died peacefully at home surrounded by her children, circa 1977. There was nothing spooky about dying at home. It was peaceful, loving, and kind, with much honor. Sadly my mom is gone and I can't ask her about those last days. Time is so fleeting and ignorance abounds when you are young. Ask your million questions when you can because there is an end to those moments. When you do share time together you don't realize it then but you are trapping "time in a bottle," like Jim Croce said.