Grandma Ramona

Grandma Ramona was never a squeaky wheel in the world of attention-getting grandmas.

She was pretty near to perfect, and maybe because she never riled anyone up, she rarely got the more positive fuss she deserved.

Grandma Ramona didn't have "vast" acreage and multiple havens like our other Grandma (Rosa) did. She didn't drive a car and couldn't take you anywhere you might want to go, and she didn't even have the nature to easily let a grandchild out of her sight for more than a few unaccountable minutes.

Grandma was one to thoughtfully measure her words, and always say them kindly. I don't know that she ever uttered a mean-spirited statement, or that any of us ever heard her raise her voice--I know I didn't.

When you were with Grandma, you were WITH Grandma. A widow for all the years I remember, she hosted the occasional grandchild with a nurturing focus, but not obtrusively. She enjoyed your company and you knew it, but she also carried on with her usual routines so that the natural thing to do was tag along and help her if you could.

When Grandma tended her flowers, you learned a little something about how to get the "rosiest" rosebushes and what bugs should not see the light of the next day. When she cooked, you learned to brown your rice in a little oil before adding liquid, and that you can boost flavors by not having that liquid just be water.

Grandma was one little bundle of ethnic diversity. A curious blood-mix coursed through her veins; she remained true to many customs of her native Mexico but gravitated toward achieving American "milestones" in her very simple life. She learned to speak English as well as almost any "American", and although she most often prepared the essential meals of a traditional Mexican household, she owned and often referred to her copy of "The American Woman's Cookbook."

Meals from that book must have been for her pure adventurism, not traitorous and maybe even a little patriotic toward her new homeland. She tried many of the book's recipes and some became customary. From this I know at least one of her daughters (my mother) could prepare as good a meat loaf as she could a pan of enchiladas. And her (my mother's) daughters after that!

When that cookbook made its way into my own mother's possession, I was a budding cook myself. I remember using the book often and being amused at Grandma's markings on a few of the pages--especially that she highlighted a recipe for "croquettes." Although the dish made use of leftovers, it was putzy and a little ambitious, with a French connotation at that. I've often wondered: did she really try to make croquettes? I like to think of myself as a (somewhat) venturesome cook, but I've never tried making a croquette.

Grandma tended a small courtyard of roses and geraniums outside the front door of her bungalow. I can still conjure up the sensation of the freshness there--the morning mist (or Grandma's watering) buzzing the foliage and urging away bursts of fragrance that filled the morning air. Her watering ritual always ended with a far-reaching and final tug on the hose to more flowers at a backyard arbor, a trellis-y adornment that separated her yard from one belonging to my aunt and uncle and cousins.

The cousins didn't wander over to Grandma's much during my sleepovers, but I'm sure they were often good company to her. I remember that she mentioned them often and that I always peered through the arbor wondering if they were home.

All my cousins, siblings and myself were "represented" in Grandma's little cottage in a sweet and unique way. Near a corner of her sofa an end table with a top shelf held a collection of small porcelain angels--each cherub in its own pose bearing near or its bottom the name of one of her grandchildren. Every time I visited her I would look for the angel with my name on it, as I suspect each grandchild often did. When I recall that dear collection of hers I marvel at such a precious idea and tradition. Few grandchildren that I have, it inspires me to go out and find three porcelain cherubs today! And I wonder why I haven't done it sooner. (Update: I have, since writing this!!)

According to many a modern woman's view, our Grandma Ramona lived a very "small" life. If she didn't drive she couldn't get out much, but somewhere along the line she walked into a popular, higher-end department store (the Broadway) and got herself hired as a gift wrapper. When you think of my other Grandma (Rosa) who stubbornly never learned to speak English but somehow stubbornly learned to drive and then own a car, you have to give Grandma Ramona her due credit for landing herself an English-speaking job and getting herself to it (bus, walking?) on a routine basis. 

A time I know for sure Grandma got herself to a bus was when she rode with my two younger siblings, Judy and Nancy, all the way to Colorado. Ramon and I had moved there adventurously, almost within the first year of our marriage. Grandma wanted to travel, and we were as good a "destination" as anywhere. 

Grandmas are not meant for comparing, and I remember both mine for different traits and talents. My Grandma Ramona spent her later years creating beautiful handmade gifts for all the people she loved, and Grandma Rosa's legacy is probably best thought to be (with her other family members) the establishment of a successful, family-operated Mexican restaurant. My two grandmothers couldn't have been more different from each other, but both made lasting impressions that I treasure and remember again and again.

My Grandma Rosa's "vast" acreage (and her willingness to let us roam) may have furnished a little more on the side of adventure, and her own "nature", shall we say, drew more attention. But neither Grandma ever strived to do anything but live their American lives as happily and best they could. Both lived true immigrant experiences that dramatically helped to smooth the path for their very appreciative descendants.

Thank you, Grandma Rosa and Grandma Ramona!

                                              Grandma Ramona's dress for my daughter                

The Sunday Drive

It might have been any day of the week, but I remember it as a Sunday--the kind that spurs you to just get into a car and start driving.

Or riding. My Grandma Rosa was doing the driving, and my cousin Ralph and I were her passengers. Just a while earlier we had hopped into her 1950's gray-blue sedan, following her mysterious "Get in the car, we're going for a ride" order.

Ralph lived with Grandma, and at about ten years old he understood her better than anyone--both in the Spanish-only language she spoke and in the somewhat "trying" personality she was known for.

Depending on the source, Grandma could be cold and insensitive, unreasonable and unyielding, even insulting and mean. Somehow "warm and fuzzy" adjectives never quite made it as words of description for Grandma, but about this I have to say I sometimes puzzled.

Each time I stayed a night with Grandma, I was ready to soon stay another. I can't say she elicited every opposite of the adjectives she was always accused of, but the vibes between us were pretty darn good. She watched out for me, made sure I knew where the extra blankets were and always welcomed me warmly to the food in her cupboards.

She sometimes even ran a bubble bath for me in her big old-fashioned bathtub, and a really special image between just the two of us is of the time she parked in front of an ice cream parlor and coaxed me across its threshold.

You wouldn't think I would need to be lured into the place, but if I spoke all-English and Grandma spoke all-Spanish--and she didn't usually indulge in Americana like this--I guess I needed a little convincing that Grandma knew what she was doing.

Her smile told me she knew exactly what she was doing. We settled at a table and were presented with a menu, and Grandma motioned to me that I should order for the both of us.  I was about seven years old at the time, and I gotta say the word "parfait" was new to me, too. But the menu photos gave me the gist of things and so I shyly ordered one for each of us.

It literally couldn't have gone sweeter, or better. Grandma was like the proverbial child in a candy (or ice cream) shoppe over that parfait. We savored every creamy layer of our treat and saved the cherry for last, and even in my little girl-ness it wasn't at all hard to imagine the little girl my grandma used to be.

My grandma had her pensive moments, and on the day of our Sunday drive I caught that vibe also. I didn't suspect we were driving to an ice cream parlor at all, and soon enough saw this was a much more serious mission. Peering out the back seat window of the cavernous sedan, I saw that we were threading our way through a hilly neighborhood of newer homes, but that Grandma wasn't intrigued with the houses at all. Instead she pulled over at the rise of an as-yet open field, not filled with housing but taken up in use as a cemetery, one overgrown and neglected.

Stopping the car, Grandma said a few words to Ralph. The two exited and I followed, no questions asked. The three of us walked up the hill, with my grandma beginning an evident search through high weeds and straw-like grass, and dozens of grave-sites abandoned and weathering. Ralph stayed close to her, and I in my puzzlement looked about and wandered nearby, wondering what the search was about.

After a few moments Ralph approached me and said quietly, "She said she had another boy and that he died when he was a baby. He was buried here." (My dad was her only son, as far as we had known) "She thinks they're going to use this spot for more houses, and she wants to see his grave again."

With a little understanding now, I searched also, but even Grandma wasn't sure what to look for. She had become a widow when my dad was just five years old, and this child had evidently had a pauper's burial. There were few stones in this cemetery, and all the wooden crosses and markings had deteriorated beyond  recognition.

I don't know what my grandmother hoped for from that visit, but I remember the excursion almost as if it were yesterday. Did she think she could do anything to preserve the memory and the remains of this lost child? It seems bizarre to me now that she did not, as she seemed willing to do for other matters, seek the help of her grown daughters and son.

So there we were, this odd trio, and when we wrapped up the search Grandma hadn't found anything she was certain of. What did seem certain was that she had completed her mission and that whatever happened now was best left alone. I imagine her thoughts might have been along the lines of other pioneers who went to foreign lands and felt they had to leave some things up to the graces of God.

These remembrances were brought to mind recently when, for a sister's birthday, I posted a favorite story from our childhood on social media. Most of our siblings were not a direct part of my particular story, but they loved it because it gave new history and insight to our family dynamics. Their reactions to that and others family stories in this blog made me realize: we all have stories that were unique to our own experience. My cousin Ralph is gone now, but I feel certain he would remember our visit to the graveyard, and would even have more to say....how many more true stories and perspectives are there out there, untold and destined to a graveyard of their own? Stories untold are like stories unlived--if you have them, tell them!! With discretion, of course!

Note: I've told several stories about my dad's mother and his side of the family in this blog, and I realize also there are untold stories about my Grandma Ramona. Grandma ROSA was for some reason the "squeaky wheel that always got the grease" but Grandma RAMONA was amazing too, in her own way and for reasons related to her own unique life experience. She deserves a turn, next!