Unsung Heroes (Excerpt #2: Remedios)

Unsung Heroes (Excerpt #2)
Remedios (Maternal Grandmother)

Your husband died at 40, leaving you to raise seven children alone.

But not before your eldest, hardest working son, Juan, had

Drowned at sea in his late teens while working as a fisherman to help

You and your husband put food on the table.

 

You lost a daughter, too,

Toñita, also in her early teens, to illness.

Their kind, pure souls found

Their way back home much too soon.

 

Later in life you would lose two more sons to tragedy, Paco (Francisco),

An honest, hard working man whose purposeful penchant for shocking

Language belied a most gentle nature and a generous heart. He was electrocuted by

A faulty portable light while working around his pool.

 

And the apple of your eye, Sito (José), your last born and most loving son, who

Had inherited his father’s exceptional looks, social conscience, left of center

Politics, imposing presence, silver tongue, and bad, bad luck, died, falling

Under the wheels of a moving train, perhaps accidentally.

 

In a time of hopelessness and poverty, you would not be broken.

You rose every day hours before the dawn to sell fish at a stand.

And every afternoon you placed a huge wicker basket on your head and

Walked many, many miles to sell even more fish in other towns.

 

Money was tight, so you often took bartered goods in

Exchange for your fish, giving some to those most in need,

Who could trade nothing in return but their

Blessings and their gratitude.

 

You walked back home, late at night, through darkness or

Moonlit roads, carrying vegetables, eggs, and perhaps a

Rabbit or chicken in a large wicker basket on your strong head,

Walking straight, on varicose-veined legs, driven on by a sense of purpose.

 

During the worst famine during and after the Civil War, the chimney of your

Rented home overlooking the Port of Fontan, spewed forth black smoke every day.

Your hearth fire burned to to feed not just your children, but also your less

Fortunate neighbors, nourishing their bodies and their need for hope.

 

You were criticized by some when the worst had passed, after the war.

“Why work so hard, Remedios, and allow your young children to go to work

At too young an age? You sacrifice them and yourself for stupid pride when

Franco and foreign food aid provide free meals for the needy.”

 

“My children will never live off charity as long as my back is strong” was your Reply.

You resented your husband for putting politics above family and

Dragging you and your two daughters, from your safe, comfortable home at

Number 10 Perry Street near the Village to a Galicia without hope.

 

He chose to tilt at windmills, to the eternal glory of other foolish men,

And left you to fight the real, inglorious daily battle for survival alone.

Struggling with a bad heart, he worked diligently to promote a better, more just

Future while largely ignoring the practical reality of your painful present.

 

He filled you with children and built himself the cross upon which he was

Crucified, one word at a time, leaving you to pick up the pieces of his shattered

Idealism. But you survived, and thrived, without sacrificing your own strong

Principles or allowing your children to know hardships other than those of honest work.

 

And you never lost your sense of humor. You never took anything or

Anyone too seriously. When faced with the absurdity of life,

You chose to smile or laugh out loud. I saw you shed many tears of laughter,

But not once tears of pain, sorrow or regret. You would never be a victim.

 

You loved people. Yours was an irreverent sense of humor, full of gentle irony,

And wisdom. You loved to laugh at yourself and at others, especially pompous fools

Who often missed your great amusement at their expense, failing to understand your Dismissal, delivered always with a smile, a gentle voice and sparkling eyes.

 

Your cataracts and near sightedness made it difficult for you to read,

But you read voraciously nonetheless, and loved to write long letters to loved ones and friends. You were a wise old woman, the wisest and strongest I will ever know,

But one with the heart of a child and the soul of an angel.

 

You were the most sane, most rational, most well adjusted human being

I have ever known. You were mischievous, but incapable of malice.

You were adventurous, never afraid to try or to learn anything new.

You were fun-loving, interesting, kind, rambunctious, funny and smart as hell.

 

You would have been an early adopter of all modern technology, had you lived long

Enough, and would have loved playing—and working—with all of my electronic

Toys. You would have been a terror with a word processor, email, and social media

And would have loved my video games—and beaten me at every one of them.

 

We were great friends and playmates throughout most of my life.  You followed

Us here soon after we immigrated in 1967, leaving behind 20 other Grandchildren.

I never understood the full measure of that sacrifice, or the love that made it

Bearable for you. I do now. Too late. It is one of the greatest regrets of my life.

 

We played board games, cowboys and Indians, raced electric cars, flipped

Baseball cards and played thousands of hands of cards together. It never

Occurred to me that you were the least bit unusual in any way. I loved you

Dearly but never went far out of my way to show it. That too, I learned too late.

 

After moving to Buenos Aires, when mom had earned enough money to take

You and her younger brothers there, the quota system then in place made it

Impossible to send for your two youngest children, whose care you entrusted

Temporarily to your eldest married daughter, Maria.

 

You wanted them with you. Knowing no better, you went to see Evita Peron for help.

Unsurprisingly, you could not get through her gatekeepers.  But you were

Nothing if not persistent. You knew she left early every morning for her office.

And you parked yourself there at 6:00 a.m., for many, many days by her driveway.

 

Eventually, she had her driver stop and motioned for you to approach.

“Grandmother, why do you wave at me every morning when I leave for work?”

She asked. You explained about your children in Spain. She took pity and scribbled a

Pass on her card to admit you to her office the next day.

 

You met her there  and she assured you that a visa would be forthcoming;

When she learned that you made a living by cleaning homes and washing clothing,

She offered you a sewing machine and training to become a seamstress.

You thanked her but declined the offer.

 

“Give the sewing machine to another mother with no trade. My strong back and hands

Serve me well enough and I do just fine, as I have always done.”

Evita must have been impressed for she asked you to see her yet again when the

Children had arrived in Buenos Aires, giving you another pass. You said you would.

 

You kept your word, as always. And Evita granted you another brief audience,

Met your two youngest sons (José and Emilio) and shared hot chocolate and

Biscuits with the three of you. You disliked and always criticized Peron and the Peronistas,

But you never forgot Evita’s kindness and defended her all your life.

 

You were gone too quickly. I had not said “I love” you in years. I was too busy,

With school and other equally meaningless things to keep in touch. You

Passed away without my being there. Mom had to travel by herself to your

Bedside for an extended stay. The last time I wrote you I had sent you a picture.

 

It was from my law school graduation.

You carried it in your coat pocket before the stroke.

As always, you loved me, with all of my faults that made me

Unworthy of your love.

 

I knew the moment that you died. I awoke from a deep sleep to see a huge

White bird of human size atop my desk across from my bed. It opened huge

Wings and flew towards me and passed through me as I shuddered.

I knew then that you were gone. I cried, and prayed for you.

 

Mom called early the next day with the news that you had passed. She also

Told me much, much later that you had been in a coma for some time but that

You awoke, turned to her without recognizing her, and told her that you were going to

Visit your grandson in New York. Then you fell asleep for one last time.

 

I miss you every day.

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez.

For more information about me or my you can visit my Amazon Author’s Page here.  You can also visit my personal web page with links to my main blogs at victordlopez.com.