Caedmon Comma

bisabuelos

My Son,

I suppose at some point I should tell you the story of us.

How we found ourselves here, wherever this is.

My mother's family came to Michigan from Texas. My grandparents were raised somewhere near San Antonio. Reyes and Maurillia were their names, and they will only be names to you, and stories. But, they are important because they are a part of who we are.

They were Mexican, speaking Spanish and struggling in an English world. They were a poor in wealth living rural lives. Annually, they would make the long trip to Northern Michigan to work in orchards during the Summer months. The allure of Michigan pulled them in, as it often does, and they settled down to stay.

My mother (Maria) was born in 1959. Her birth was preceded by six others. Her parents were getting older and, consequently, much of her upbringing was placed in the hands of her older siblings.

I don't know much of those early years. Grandpa worked driving truck, for the most part. He was a quiet man and it was Grandma that really ran the show. She was a large woman and not to be tangled with. But, there was a delightful gentleness about her and a contagious joy, a joy she found in her family.

Grandpa struggled, for a time, with drinking, until he was shamed into reform. He bravely changed his life, in the quiet way that was his. There are various versions of the story. But they all seem to revolve around the central fact that he made a drunken fool of himself in front of his family. The incident affected him powerfully, especially when he saw the reaction of his young granddaughter.

My son, we are all fools when we are drunk. Some people can not see their own foolishness, so they continue. Grandpa saw it. He saw it in the eyes of his family and it pierced him, changed him. Shame was certainly a huge motivator for his change, but I like to think of it as love. And maybe shame and love overlap in a family in ways that can change.

When I came along, years later, I would spend weeks during the Summer staying with Grandpa and Grandma. Those were almost always happy times. They were times full of a family that was close in a way that I never saw on my Father's side of the tree. To be certain, things could get messy, but always close.

I remember several occasions when Grandma would get after him loudly to do one thing or another. He would say to me 'See that, mijo? Grandma, she the boss, huh?' Then he would smile, wink, cuss a few times, and comply.

I have trouble conjuring a memory of Grandma where she is anywhere but the kitchen. She was a wonderful cook. And she maintained a certain gravity that pulled family activity to where she was - sitting, preparing, cooking, loving us in a way that was all her own.

Grandpa and Grandma buried three of their children.

Our family tree is certainly not an evergreen, son. It is flush with the beautiful foliage of a hardwood. But, from time to time, the Autumn comes, and our family tree will drop its once bright leaves onto the soft snow of winter.

Grandma left first. She passed from this life in the Summer of a new millennium. With tears, we gathered around her, a large family packed into a small hospital room - close.

Grandpa was never the same. He joined her five years later, passing from this world quietly and loved.

They are now among The Once Were and Will Be Again. Their leaves have fallen from the tree, while we remain here and struggle to remember and by remembering, we know they can Be and so can we.

Dada