Goodbye

The past two months have been a torment for you, but now you're finally in peace.



Thank you for your love and your generosity. Thank you for living such a beautiful, inspiring life. Thank you for some of the best moments of my childhood and adult life.

Thank you for everything. I love you.

Idea for a family photo album project

People usually organize their photo albums chronologically, i.e.,  first the pictures of one given year, then the next, and so on.

But a while ago I thought it could be done by age of the photographed subject, or simply by subject. For example, a collection of family pictures of babies. Or first school day pictures. Or wedding photos. Regardless of the year or the generation, but always the same family.

So far I've managed to collect one series of four babies.

 1920

 1950

 1980

2011.


Each baby is a parent of the baby in the next picture, except for the picture with two boys where it's the youngest who's the father (and grandfather) of the babies in the next pictures. These pictures give a hint of physical similarities (full dark haired heads, tiny mouths and rounded cheeks seem a pattern, although photography can be the ultimate lying device), of reproductive patterns (that 30 years loop can't be just a coincidence), fashions and... who knows? With time we'll get more clues to read series like this one.

By the way, there is a picture of all four of us at the same time. I think it just says how precious life is, and how strong family bonds can be.

And probably that we grow up to look only like ourselves, and nobody else.

Grandpa goes to Hollywood

This is my paternal grandfather, or at least this is how he used to look around the time he married my grandmother.

Enrique, that was his name, had many jobs but only one employer in his life, the meat packing factory Frigorífico Anglo of Fray Bentos. He was born in one of the ranches where the livestock was raised, son to the foreman - in that limbo of the ranks of power, not exactly a plain soldier but neither a gringo, but soon started working in the factory as just another worker.

The tales from the work at the plant are very interesting - for example, management wouldn't allow a trade union but tried really hard to keep their workers happy by giving them ample benefits. If a worker was found trying to create turmoil he (or she) would be fired immediately, but had the chance to be rehired at the lowest entry level. When the demand for the product was high, the cuts weren't particularly, ahem, what you'd call "selected". While accidents were unusual, probably one soldier or two may have found a finger in their rations. Oh well.

Everyday work memorabilia may be fading with the memories of their protagonists, now frail elderly citizens in a sleepy town. The memory of the star product of the company, the corned beef, however, will be harder to wipe off.

Bully beef and biscuits were the main field rations of the British Army from the Boer War to World War II, says Wikipedia, which means that the little oblong can with the red tag is a given in movies of British wartime, from that time or reconstructions. Canspotting, if there is such word, is almost a sport when I watch those films. 


In The English Patient, I believe it's a can of Anglo's corned beef that Ralph Fiennes' character gives to Kristin Scott Thomas' when he leaves her in the cave. There's also another little red one in Gallipoli, in the scene where Mel Gibson runs through the trenches. I'm certain that I've seen in many other times but unfortunately, IMDB doesn't allow searches for props like corned beef cans, and still pictures of those movies don't pay particular attention to them.


That doesn't really matter, because part of the fun, the rare fun still unspoiled by the Google almighty, is trying to collect such quick sights. And whenever I do, I say aloud to whomever might be hearing, "My grandpa could have been the one to pack that can". And it feels really good.

***
Corned beef picture from here.

How I got the news

How do you imagine you'd learn you're pregnant?

I had always envisioned this scenario: some 6 weeks after my last period, in the privacy of my bathroom, with a store bought test. I figured the anxiety of having to wait those 3 minutes, exchanging looks with my husband and speaking aloud the what if's that would cross my mind, and then maybe celebrating the positive result with a hug and a kiss.

Needless to say it didn't happen that way.

I hadn't had the chance to miss the missing period when I started feeling odd, on Christmas day last year. It was like a bubble on my left side which I hoped it would just go. It didn't go but got worse and when I couldn't move any longer (including deep breath or filling my stomach), I gave up and let my husband take me (haul me) to the emergency room. Given the fact it was cold - we were in Minnesota and last time I had experienced a similar symptom it was a mega kidney infection in the making, it just made sense.

Like every other time I went to the ER I got tested for a slew of conditions including pregnancy, and unlike every other time they made us wait like for two hours in those dirty seats, looking either at an aquarium with monster sized fish or a TV with awful programming.

It seemed forever but they finally called my name and we were taken to one examination room, where two people in a row asked exactly the same questions I had been asked already. One senior female nurse asked me repeatedly if I thought I might be pregnant and if there were chances of it, and how would I take it, and then broke the news.

I was stunned. I didn't celebrate, I didn't kiss or hug. I didn't do or say anything, maybe said, oh.

Then, they started trying to find out what was causing that bubble thing. They ran a lot of tests I don't remember, except for the sonogram to see if the embyro was nested in the right place. It was hardly noticeable, just two weeks old, and yes, it was in the right place. We didn't have to wait the 3 minutes to see if the test gave positive, but those seconds searching for the tiny spot were stressful. Later that night I was discharged with a "come back in 24 hours if you don't get well", which I did because I didn't get well. There, 36 hours after the first sonogram, I had a second one done... the difference was remarkable.

Amazing.

I'll never know what was wrong with me. After a painkiller's effect wore off I got a little woozy (as been told), threw up and got well. Miraculously.

A belated Christmas present if I ever got one.

Unexpected

The best unexpected thing about parenthood is wanting to be best possible person, just because the child deserves it.

The worst, making loved people feel questioned by making other parenting choices.

Would you still believe I had a happy childhood even if I don't want the same things for my child?

Inexorable but permanent

On the evening of Thursday the first of August 2002, I went out on a second date with a young man. The evening ended in my apartment, and I could say that the date was long and had just one small intermission to go to work on Friday noon.

That Sunday morning, still in the company of that same young man and so used to his clean head and blue eyes that I was startled when the mirror gave me a full haired head and black eyes, I seriously thought that the weekend would never end. Like it was impossible, in spite of logic and experience that weekends, no matter how good, always come to an end.

While I have proof that the first weekend of August 2002 effectively ended, something of it didn't end. The young man stayed and still does, his clean head and blue eyes the first thing my eyes see every morning when I wake up, always the last thing my heart kisses goodnight.

September 2010 has found me with that feeling of everlasting time. My newborn daughter, as old as the month itself, is both a novelty in the house and a statement as if she had always been there... first as an absence, now as a presence.



I know for sure, something of September 2010 will always stay with me.

Birthday

Today is a day my aunt Marga (or Marge) has been anticipating for years. Today she's 90 years old.

Along with her sister with whom she shared the birthday - though not the birth year, they are two of the relatives that influenced me most.

When I was a child I wanted to be like her, organized, decided, relentless, generous, elegant, cultivated and intelligent. I wanted a house like hers, with a fireplace and a green patio and that incredibly homey smell, although I thought her husband was a tad aloof and intimidating and I'm not at all fond of dogs. I always found captivating the alluring mystery of a loving adult who at the same time, refused to discuss certain matters with me without being condescending.

Her husband died in 1989, and the couple had only one son who's had many relationships with women but never wanted to have children, so she doesn't have any grandchildren. My sister and I filled that void and looking back I can say that it was a great honor. I find it amazing that she knows exactly who I am, and in spite of the 60 year gap she now treats me like an adult and speaks about things she never wanted to say before. In return I treat her like an adult too, which is not how people usually react with an elderly person.

Next December it's going to be 10 years since my grandmother, her best friend, passed away. Ever since, or maybe it started before but I couldn't detect it, her health has declined. It's something in her brain that wrecks her balance and mobility and her ability of speech. She keeps a routine, dresses up every day, wears make up and worries about her hair looking good. She also makes decisions on what to buy at the groceries' store (even if she forgets the names of about half the products she wants to order), plays chess against the computer (she can't go to her chess club anymore), and reads the newspaper.

Sometimes she remembers one particular thing of her past, sometimes it's another. She was one of the first female graduate architects and when she was a teenager, she volunteered with the Spanish Republican army committee in Montevideo; she once owned a car and she has always been fiercely independent, so her anecdotes are extremely interesting. She might forget names of people, of places (like Uruguay!), or nouns, or verbs, and sometimes it's a whole verb tense so she may speak only in present, so it's hard to jump on a wagon of her train of thought. It's worth the effort, though.

Nevermind what comes and goes, she always makes a point of being "almost ninety", or "one year three months shy of ninety". Being ninety years old has been a goal in itself, and I'm curious of what she's going to do next. Knowing her like I do, I'm sure she'll dive in it with all the purpose and energy in the world. And I'll be with her.

That's what granddaughters are for.

Grandma doesn't live here anymore

When I was six years old, my maternal grandmother returned to Uruguay after some years spent in Europe and Central America in political exile. We had already met once but she had always been a presence in our home with letters, pictures, presents and phone calls. It wasn't until that moment that I learned what she did for a living, though. She was a French teacher.

She had always loved the french language. Nobody in her family spoke it nor did she have any French ancestors, but she won a complete scholarship and made good use of it. One day she told me that it was with great sacrifice that her parents spared the tramway fare, so she would walk when the weather was fine. There was hardship but like two of her sisters, she got a long way down the path she chose.

She passed all of her exams with honors and she became a teacher at 18 years old. Pictures of the time show a slender young lady, with decided features and a sunny smile. It was really her. I've met men, elder men, who recall her and her two sisters. Those sisters were so intelligent, so interesting, they always say and I'm surprised they don't mention beauty.

She met my grandfather, they got married, they had children. She was the French instructor of many classes in Uruguay, Switzerland, Andorra and Mexico.

When she and my grandfather came back from exile, all her grandchildren were already born and old enough to learn so she tried hard to pass on her love for this beautiful language. I was the only one who was interested, who made some effort. When she passed away fifteen years later I kept all her french books, those of grammar and linguistics she had especially given to me but also any book written in french I happened to find among her stuff.

Obsessively I treasured those books all these years even if I never read them, even if they were yellowing paperback editions. But one day I changed my mind.

Because I realized that grandma doesn't live there anymore.



Too bad, cause I still miss her.


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This post was originally written in French, for exam practice. You can read it below.

Grand-mamman n'habite plus ici

Quand j'avais six ans, ma grand-mère est retournée en Uruguay aprés quelques ans dans l'exile. Je la connaissais déjà, et sourtout, elle avait été toujours présente chez nous avec des lettres, des photographes, des cadeaux et des coups de fils. Mais ce n'était qu'à ce moment là que j'ai apprit ce que ma grand-mère faisait, quelle profession elle avait. Elle était professeure de Français.

Elle avait toujours aimé la langue française de toutes ses forces. Personne dans sa famille le parlait et elle n'avait des ancêtres français non plus; mais elle avait gagné une bourse pour l'étudier et elle en profita. Elle me racconta un jour que c'était un grand effort pour ses parents le payer le tram tous les jours donc elle faisait la marche à pied quand il faisait beau. Mais comme deux de ses soeurs, elle allât loin le chemin qu'elle choisit.

Elle réussita à tous les examens et elle devint professeure aux 18 ans. Les photos de cette époque montrent une jeune femme mince comme un fil, les traits décidés, le sourire limpide. C'était bien elle. J'ai rencontré des hommes, des vieux hommes, que se rappellent toujours d'elle et ces deux soeurs. Qu'elles étaient des femmes interessantes, dissent-ils toujours, et je suis étonnée qu'ils ne parlent pas de la beauté.

Elle a rencontré mon grand-pére, ils se mariérent, ils eurent des enfants. Elle fut la professeure de Français de beaucoup de générations d'étudiants, ici en Uruguay, en Suisse, en Espagne, et au Mexique.

Quand elle retourna, tous ses grands-fils étions nés et grandits, et elle essaiya de nous transmettre son amour por cette belle langue étrangére. Je fus la seule à m'en interesser, à faire l'effort. Quand elle mourut, quinze ans aprés, j'ai gardé tous ses livres de Français, ceux qu'elle m'avait confiés mais aussie n'importe quel livre français.

Obsessivement, je les ai conservés pendant ces ans même si je ne les ai lus, mais j'ai changé d'idée. Parce que je me suis rendu compte que grand-maman, elle n'habite plus ici.



Dommage, car elle me manque encore.