Remembering Sir Rafa

Today is the anniversary of my maternal grandfather's birth. He was an American hero, a family man, a storyteller. He would've been 99 years old today. His name was Rafael, and everyone called him "Ralph," (the grandchildren calling him "Ompa" - a version of the word Opa, meaning grandfather). But I always called him "Sir Rafa" (from a "fairy tale" I'd written about my family long ago).

I remember him at unexpected times - when I smell or taste spearmint (he always had spearmint gum), when I see a sunrise (he was always the earliest of risers), when I drink coffee (remembering that unlike mine, which I drink with hazelnut cream and a Splenda, he took his black, no sugar, because he said he was "sweet enough already"), when I get sucked into a good book or movie (he told the best stories). He almost always passed along nuggets of wisdom through telling us anecdotes.

He had the most contagious laugh. Today, that's what I miss the most.

 His "official" portrait when he was a Sergeant (E-5) in the US Army. 

 He and my grandmother posed with Andrew and me at our wedding in 2002. 

 He and my mom smile for the camera at the wedding reception. 

He's met baby Livie for the first time in June 2006; this was the day we arrived in El Paso.

This song's for you, Sir Rafa: 

On Missing Uncle Chino

This morning, I found out that my great-uncle, Uncle Chino, died this past week. He was my grandfather's (Sir Rafa) younger brother and they had so many great adventures together growing up. They both had a great (and similar) sense of humor. They were both Army veterans. Uncle Chino was a man who played Santa Claus for many Christmases. One Christmas, when I was a baby, he pretended to put me in his Santa bag! Oh, how I wish I had a photo of that!

 Here's a photo I found, which I'd taken at my grandparents' home in El Paso. It must've been around Easter in 2003.

Rafa on the left, Chino on the right (Andrew in the middle).

So in honor of my Uncle Chino, I'm going to repeat a post I'd written a while ago for a "Memory Lane Friday" post. It's from my grandfather's memoirs, from a section where he wrote about the adventures he and his brother had when they were young boys.

Here is a copy of my post from "Memory Lane Friday" on Friday May 27, 2011:

My grandfather, Rafael, was known as "Rafa" to his family. (I called him "Sir Rafa," but that's another story.)

Anyway, Sir Rafa's younger brother is Fidel. His nickname is "Chino" (which is also another story).

Here's a bit of background: Sir Rafa and Uncle Chino were newspaper boys when they were young, selling papers in downtown El Paso, TX. When they finished selling papers for the day, they'd occasionally treat themselves to supper before heading home: usually a couple hot dogs and one soda (in a glass bottle) with two straws. They'd use a few spare nickles and/or a couple dimes they'd earned from selling papers.

But once in a while, they'd buy a different treat. . . .

***

(This is an excerpt from a section of his memoirs he wrote in 3rd person. It's from a chapter called, "Chino and Rafa - Newspaper Boys".)

On the ground floor of the Gateway Hotel was a small, but very fancy bakery shop. The boys thought that everything sold there was very expensive, so the only thing they could do was to look at the goodies in the window display. Sometimes they wished they could buy something there, but they didn't dare go in there.

Chino and Rafa used to pass by there every night on their way home.

One day, Chino told Rafa, "Let's go into the bakery and buy a bag of 'pieces.'"

Rafa wanted to know, "What do you mean - 'pieces'?"

Besides, a place like that was very expensive. The people going to that shop [were very well-dressed,] and most of them drove up in big cars, so they must be very rich.

Chino then explained to his older brother that [broken cookies] weren't sold to the "rich" customers[. Instead,] they put the broken pieces in paper bags. These bags of pieces were for sale to anybody for ten cents.

So Rafa said, "Let's do it," and they walked into the bakery.

Since Chino knew about [the "pieces,"] he said, "a bag of 'pieces.'" The young lady behind the counter handed the boys a small bag full of pieces, and Chino gave her a dime.

On the way home, the boys ate most of the broken cookies, but left some for their mother, and a few pieces for Poppi, [their dog].

***

This is an old photo my grandfather (Rafa) gave me a number of years ago. Rafa is on the left and Chino is in the middle. Obviously, this was long before they were newspaper boys.

It's Too Soon to *Have* to Write Another One, but Here it Goes

This is for H.A.T.

Uncle, I wasn't expecting to write another one of these so soon (having written one last year for my grandfather), but here it is - my fondest memories of you. And since I feel like I'm now the official storyteller, the family wordsmith, I think this will be an appropriate way to remember you, with stories I want to share.

In the morning when I'm getting my coffee fix, I will think of you, since I know you enjoy your morning cup of java as much as, if not more than, the next guy. We've even had discussions about coffee, and how perhaps Oma's was good because it was Oma's coffee in Oma's kitchen, but it was not as strong as you and I were accustomed to drinking in our respective homes, or in our offices . . .wherever it was that we drank our cup(s) of joe. Oma's coffee, though, went well with her huevos con chorizo, or even her pecan pancakes. And it went well with the company we kept back in the day on Mountain Walk Drive.

I sent you a coffee mug with a special photo on it - one of you and Baby Olivia while she was still a little thing, a gummy smile on her face before her teeth started coming in. You appreciated it and said it was one of your favorite mugs (if not THE favorite one). I sent it to you because of your coffee habit, and because it was a great photo of a great-uncle and his great-niece.

It is such a great photo of the two of you at Oma's house - it's a good pic to look at - to think of you with big smiles.

I love imagining the story about the "Scare in the Moonlight on Blue Ridge." You know the story. Long ago in El Paso, you and a buddy were hiding in the bushes in the moonlight when my mother got home from her nursing shift at the hospital. You thought you'd startle her and that it would be funny, right? But when she let out a scream, it scared you more than you expected; you'd planned on startling her . . . and then my grandparents came running out, scaring you even more. Not what you expected, was it?! Sure, my grandparents were very upset with you, especially Oma. As a matter of fact, you were not allowed to go back to your buddy's house to spend the night, she was so angry.

Yet, this is one story that makes Oma laugh hysterically - after so many years, she thinks of how you were so scared, your face was pale in the moonlight; while she was mad at you then, the memory of your face in the moonlight has become hysterically funny to her. She laughs so hard recalling this story, it makes me laugh uncontrollably. When I last asked you to retell the story to me yet again, you simply said, "Let's not discuss it anymore," with a sly smile on your face.

I know you said let's not discuss it anymore, but I will tell this story to Livie one day. It's good to keep the family stories going forward.  I know you would agree with me, even though this is one story you want hush-hush. And I will have to tell Marissa, too.

Maybe a day in the future, I'll have Olivia and Marissa with me, and I'll tell them about you, something especially funny. Like the time we were at my parents' house on Casady Drive. You were on the treadmill in the den. I was in there watching TV. You were running, deciding to take off your sweatshirt. But you didn't stop the treadmill. It didn't stop, but your feet MUST have - just for a moment as you took the sweatshirt over your head. Suddenly, whoosh . . . boom! You've been thrown against the back wall. We look at each other. With a sheepish grin, you say "Oops!" and give a laugh.

THAT is funny stuff that can't be made up. I know you think it's funny now. We laughed about it recently. It's stuff for me to remember to tell your great-nieces. Hopefully it will be as funny to them as it was to the two of us.

Speaking of laughing, remember the time when you and I were in El Paso at the same time and we watched an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie with Sir Rafa? It was Junior - the one where the Governator's character becomes pregnant and gives birth to a healthy baby. Remember that? Sir Rafa laughed so much, it made the movie that much more fun to watch. Especially when he loved that line the Governator says - something to the effect of "It's my body, my choice." Fun times.

Then there was that time we rented Dona Flor e Seus Dois Maridos . . . we were expecting to see that classic Brazilian movie in its original form, but little did we know it was dubbed in English. Remember how the voice of Flor didn't match her character? A good flick, but not quite so good in English as in its original Brazilian Portuguese. And then we were worried that Oma would come in - though it is a definite classic from the mid-'70s, it wasn't exactly along the lines of an appropriate "Oma" movie.

We've got so many memories from El Paso, don't we Uncle? Remember the time we were there for Thanksgiving, and Christine was with us, too? We had an awesome, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, complete with Oma's famous stuffing. To complete the whole turkey day experience, you, Christine, and I went to the Thanksgiving Day parade in the rain. Remember that? I know Christine does. She and I talked about it recently, trying to keep these awesome memories fresh.

That same weekend, the three of us headed to Juarez on the Border Jumper Trolley from downtown El Paso. We had fun being "tourists" that day and ate lunch at some Froggy chain restaurant. Christine recently asked me if I remembered the strength of the margaritas, to which I responded, "Oh, you mean the margarita-flavored tequila?" ;)

Again, that was another rainy day in El Paso over that same Thanksgiving weekend. I remember driving back to Oma's house in her little tan car, in the rain, with water rolling down the street. Oma was worried, but glad that I'd driven; she actually trusted my driving.

And since we're remembering a story including tequila, I have to admit: I think "Cin cin, Uncle," when I have a margarita or enjoy a shot of Patron Silver. It's good stuff and I know you enjoyed it.

Or the next time I open a bottle of my New Mexico wine - I'll do a "Cin cin for The Uncle." Andrew and I have already done a few toasts "For the Uncle," so it's already started. And with coffee, too.

So . . . on to more memories: I was looking through my address book the other day and was looking under the Ts. I saw your familiar handwriting, with your name, address, e-mail, and cell info written down. I stopped and smiled, realizing I had something written in your own hand in my possession.

In my cell phone, as I scrolled through the saved phone numbers, I saw the one labeled HAT. That number will never again be in service, but I can't seem to erase it out of my phone.

It'll remind me of you when I scroll through my phone. I will think of more stories when I see those initials.

Like the times we'd discuss Tony Hillerman's books, set in the southwest, our wonderful, beloved, bronze, dusty, turquoise-filled Southwest. And how Joe Leaphorn, the Legendary Lieutenant, didn't believe in coincidences. How there are no such things as coincidence.

I will think of one of the last communications we shared on Facebook. I'd told you I'd picked up Anne Hillerman's book Tony Hillerman's Landscape and how Tony himself had written the intro before he passed away. And you figured I'd already finished zipping through the book, signing off with your usual "UH".

Or the time I sent you an article about Tony, and you said it was a fine piece, and asked if it inspired me to write more? Yes, that's your way of telling me I am the storyteller. I have a lot of stories to tell. I will write them.

I'm just glad that over our final visit together in December, I was able to talk to you about The Hummingbird's Daughter, by Luis Alberto Urrea. You knew just what I meant, when I felt like I was actually a part of that story, I was IN the story, I was experiencing it firsthand. The tortillas, the huevos con chorizo, the scents, sights, sounds, the feelings. I was enveloped in that story, and it was like home. And you knew just what I meant when I explained how I was swallowed whole by that story. Now that is what a story is supposed to do. What I also feel about all those Hillerman novels I've read and loved . . . like I've met the Legendary Lieutenant, or Jim Chee, the Navajo Tribal Police Officer who is also a shaman-in-training.

And I will think of you when I write my own stories of the Southwest and aim to evoke those same feelings into a new set of readers - that they may feel a part of my stories, as though I'm writing their own personal stories, through their own eyes. I'm sure I'll have stories set in other locations; I have lived in so many other places. But like the state motto says, I was definitely enchanted by "The Land of Enchantment." I will write something about New Mexico, my home for a mere year, and your home for decades, the place that captured me with beautiful landscapes, the way it did for Tony Hillerman so long ago.

The Southwest as a whole, including El Paso, Tucson, Vegas . . . I love it all. I will have to find a way to include it all.The places I love, as well as the family we must remember and keep close.

I will be The Storyteller, Uncle. I will. Not to worry about that. I have lots of words in my little gray cells, and I love using them, lots of them - words, that is. And little gray cells, too.

Ate logou, Tio.

Mmmmm . . .

I sure do love Mexican food. Real Mexican food. In particular, homemade Mexican food. I have no problem eating it on a regular basis - that is, if I had it readily available on a regular basis. In fact, authentic Mexican food is what I craved when I was pregnant with Olivia - especially authentic tamales, fresh guacamole, my grandmother's tacos.

Today I had the treat of walking into my mother's house and smelling homemade Mexican food - Spanish rice, enchiladas, homemade red sauce. It's making my mouth water just smelling this cooking food's deliciousness wafting all through the house.

See, my mother hired a wonderful lady, Candi, from El Paso, TX. Candi came up to my parents' house to take care of my ailing grandmother since she's here now, permanently. My grandmother has Alzheimer's and my mom is her legal guardian; it's much easier for my mom to care for her when she's not hundreds of miles away in Texas, so she's here in Iowa. Plus, she gets top notch medical care.

Anyway, Candi's here and she is making these enchiladas and Spanish rice. It smells SO good, and I'm sure it will be equally tasty.

And since I love Mexican food so much, it will be a treat to eat a homemade meal.

The only thing better than walking into my mother's house when it smells like Mexican food, is walking into my grandmother's house (her former house in El Paso where she lived for so many years with my grandfather) when she was cooking something, such as her homemade tacos, the very ones I craved when I was pregnant.

Yes, the smell of homemade Mexican food takes me back to El Paso and Mountain Walk Drive, where my grandparents lived for so long. Not only does it make me really hungry, it makes me feel that all too familiar feeling of saudade, remembering all the wonderful (and occasionally not-so-wonderful) times in that home, and knowing that it will never be that way again. Except in memories, and those of us storytellers, who keep the memories alive.