What brings meaning to one's life?
Children?
Then what of those who have none?
Money?
Then what of the poor? The broke? Are their lives meaningless?
Success, then?
But how does one measure success? Is it not different for each of us?
To my mind, I've accomplished little in the course of my lifetime. And today, at the age of fifty-plus, I think something amazing still awaits me around any corner.
Are children an accomplishment? Most certainly, they are—if properly nurtured. And my two have been joys and wonders to behold throughout my past thirty-some years. Furthermore, money has been no stranger to me. I do not, however, consider these green-tinted pieces of paper to be anything but a nuisance. Therefore, I find myself believing there's something more—something else. Yet, I can't quite put my finger on what it is exactly. Perhaps, I'm simply searching for the reason I arrived on this spinning piece of rock over fifty years ago. Or, is there any explanation? Secondly, I believe there's more to the trials and tribulations I endured. And thirdly, does either hold the answer to the meaning of life—of my life?
My children are now adults. My eldest is raising a family of her own, while my youngest is in the career-making stage of his life. My money is gone now, and due to a long chain of choices, I forge a new link in Georgia—where I now live. As usual, the good and the bad go hand-in-hand, and I'm often uncertain which is which. In addition, the resurgence of an old flame—my first love, writing—disappoints me. I am at a solemn loss for words (And I usually have plenty to say. Ergo, this is uncharted territory for me) and haven't written for some time.
My husband of two years, a man who meets none of my past expectations, but embodies my entire future, casually mentioned putting my life to paper as an unconventional form of therapy. Funny, curing writer's block with writing never occurred to me. Unknowingly, with this one suggestion, he embedded a restless thought, implanted a churning ache, from which there is seemingly no reprieve. This reaction was not unlike that of boarding an amusement park ride and having one's stomach acids erupt as he or she thinks, "Why the hell did I ever get on this ride?"
Relief is all I seek.
"Never underestimate the power of words," I hear him say. I'm no Schleprock and this is no cartoon, however, real life mirrors fiction as his words form a disturbing cloud that storms overhead everywhere I go. It rains down on me during the most inopportune times, leaving me agitated and drenched. I've no doubt that it's the power of suggestion at work. And yet, knowing this does not part the clouds, stop the rain, and return the sun's rays for months. In other words, his input takes time to penetrate the darkness and return the light to my thoughts and ideas, which in return had me writing once more. Only after pondering, over and over again, if the details of such a story can truly reveal the meaning to my life do I begin recovering. I'm still not certain. And presently, I'm asking myself: Will I find a revelation of sorts to comfort me in the years that follow? Moreover, will I garner the fortitude to follow through with my first dream—my first passion—becoming a writer? But, his suggestion finally seizes my overcast mindset and heaves me into the sunny possibilities of such an undertaking.
It's a good thing that I'm an optimist. Otherwise, "seeing the forest for the trees" becomes rather difficult. And this forest has many trees, with numerous branches. The number of leaves growing on them is mind boggling. Therefore, my sight is impaired from time to time. Or, I get lost among the briars, which, most assuredly, prolongs a certain topic—a certain thought. In all probability, this "walk" takes me down a path for the second, third, or fourth time; which could lead to feelings of desperation and hopelessness—of being lost: Sensations with which I am quite familiar. And so, the question is: Will I find my way back again? Understand that these are but a few of the "lions, tigers, and bears" that follow me into these woods. There are many more. And I'm petrified.
So, then, where and when to begin?
In the fifties? When my father, after crossing the southern-most border of this Promised Land called America, married my mother, and I was born. This was a time when Father Knows Best and Leave it to Beaver took the lead in representing a typical American family as we all tagged along. Or perhaps, the sixties? When the forerunners of the hippie movement—beatniks—transformed The Cleavers into flower picking, free loving, tokin', acid licking, pill-popping, beer guzzling, Mad Dog drinkin', rock 'n roll antagonists fighting to change our ostensibly complacent world, and I was a child. Or possibly the seventies—when I was in my adolescent phase? A time when the youth of that decade drew a line that no one wanted to cross. In those days, it seemed as if teenagers were left to their own vices—for the most part—without so much as a "What are ya doin'?" or "What the hell were you thinkin'?" from most authority figures of the day. To my mind, "Live and let live" was the motto for this Discretionary Age. Daily experimentation with drugs, alcohol, and sex was very much the norm. And we liked it that way.
I suppose that any of the aforementioned decades would do. Any could cast some light on the person I am today, assist in revealing my significance (if there is such a thing), and, perhaps, have most rethinking their own daily trials and yearly tribulations. But how can I relay any of these junctures without acquainting the reader with this life's—my life's—first chronicle of love? The account of how I came to be.
I can't.
So, then, let us go back. To the beginning…
A LOVE STORY
My father's upbringing was an austere one to hear him tell it. He was born to parents who had no concept of positive nurturing. Discipline left its mark via flung lamp cords and hurled furniture. Harsh words were considered a mild form of punishment for childhood indiscretions. And there were plenty of those thrown around. Be that as it may, my father rarely relayed any details of his youth to me, or my siblings. This alone was enough to surmise the sheer repulsion for his formative years that lay hidden beneath his gruff exterior. But add to that, the empty look in his eyes, his bland features, and curt tone of voice when speaking of such things, and one could easily sense the loathing therein.
Originally, five children were born to my paternal grandparents. But the eldest died from meningitis at the age of nine. And no one knew why the youngest died at six months old. My grandfather insisted that feeding him sour milk was the cause. On the other hand, my grandmother affirmed that he died from someone stepping on him as he lay on the floor. The dearth of furniture had the family sleeping on blankets rather than beds, which is how she arrived at such a conclusion. Naturally, my father was not the one who informed me of said incidents. It was my Uncle Lupe, my only living uncle. Perhaps, recalling the unpleasantness of it all was too much for my father to bear without sinking back into his sea of disdain. Perhaps, he merely wanted the past left in the past. I'll never know.
I do know, however, that my grandmother's Mexican born and raised father, fearing Pancho Villa's raids, sent his daughters to America. Forget the "Robin Hood Story" cited on the many websites I visited, there were no similarities. As my uncle stated, "He was a power-hungry bandit who raped the women in the small Mexican villages where he 'recruited' his army." I imagine it was relatively easy to enlist an "army of thousands" by threatening to rape the women and children of his fellow countrymen if they didn't comply with his demands. He stole from the rich and the poor alike. Therefore, out of desperation and fear, in the early 1900's, my great grandfather sent his daughter (my grandmother), along with her sisters, over Mexico's northern border into the United States. Once there, they settled in Kansas. And this was where my grandmother met my grandfather—where they eventually married.
While in Kansas, the first child in this line of the Talamantes family was born: Federico (Lico). My aunt (Tia Belene) was born in Minnesota; my father (Gonzalo) in Illinois, and my Uncle Lupe (Guadalupe) was also born in Minnesota on a return trip. Grandpa traveled quite often. He was only home three months out of every twelve. My uncle had no idea what he did for a living; only that due to his nomadic behavior, the family frequently moved from one state to another. Consequently, rearing the five children was mainly my grandmother's responsibility.
My grandparents noticed my father's advanced aptitude in mathematics and an exuberant thirst for knowledge early. In fifth grade, Gonzalo solved high school level equations. And it was my grandparents' hope that he would attend college someday. To my knowledge, no one else in his immediate family ever went to college—very few finished high school. But money was scarce in those days, and college educations weren't free for the taking as they are today. My father wanted the higher education—needed one as far as my grandparents were concerned. Plus, I'm certain that he grasped the concept of what a good education could do for him. In all likelihood, he knew it was his ticket out of the impoverished life into which he was born.
Years later, during World War II, my uncle was drafted by the United States Army. And he sent most of the salary he received from Uncle Sam back home to his mother. It was this money that made my father's college education possible. Gonzalo was sent to Mexico City's university, and when enrolled he diligently studied, receiving an engineering degree with honors after his four-year stint. It was during his final year there that he met my mother.
Call it destiny, good fortune, or chance, for my father was not looking for a relationship. And my mother was already engaged to be married. Yet, neither fact prevented the following events. Proving that no matter how consciously determined we are to achieve certain goals; our subconscious may have other objectives.
Our instincts and intuition push through our brain matter and become conscious thoughts, while the once conscious thoughts become hidden in our subconscious. Perhaps this is human nature. Perhaps not. But this never-ending cycle begs the question: Shouldn't our suppressed intuitive thoughts be heeded most? Aren't they the ones that serve us best in any given situation? It's food for thought, at any rate.
Nevertheless, my mother and father followed their instincts—their intuitions—over fifty years ago. And as a result, I exist.
Picking up where I left off, then…
During his years at the university, my father didn't have enough money to rent an apartment near campus. He settled for a room in a boarding house located near the outskirts of town. And as it just so happens, a family member of my mother's was the proprietor of said establishment. Around 1948 (the year comes from deductive reasoning, which one will soon see), my mother planned a vacation in Mexico City. Though the purpose of her visit was a holiday of sorts, she assisted with the various chores around the house. And on the first day, as she descended the staircase, she noticed my father, and fell in love. One look was all it took.
As my mother relayed this story to me, it was at this point that I let out a cry of disbelief. No way was the man I knew as my father attractive enough, or mystifying enough, to warrant "love at first sight." Surely, she was exaggerating. Surely, she had lost all her senses. My mother assured me, however, that that was exactly how it happened while she opened her bottom dresser drawer retrieving a handful of photographs. Skimming through them, she came across one that was more faded and worn than the rest. She pulled it from the stack, handed it to me, and said, "This is your father." The creased corners and brownish hues accompanied by a golden haze furnished it with a dreamlike quality. Standing next to an enormous statue was the man who was supposedly my father. The man in the photograph seemed tall, my father was short. This man was rather good looking; my father was balding, and had no eye-catching features to my mind. Nevertheless, the longer I gawked at the 4 x 6 image; its resemblance to my father was undeniable. I was stunned, to say the very least.
Continuing with her story, and ignoring my deer-in-the-headlights expression, my mother stated that my father hadn't even cast a glance her way on that fateful day. This troubled her greatly. Therefore, after retiring to her room for the evening, she devised a plan to attract his attention. She would lower the neckline of a dress and increase its hem, revealing more of her figure: An easy task for such an outstanding seamstress as my mother. Her talents in this area well exceeded most her age—twenty-something—due to assiduously practicing this art since childhood. Her unique designs filled the closets of family and friends. Paper turned to gold in my mother's hands. Meaning that the patterns she designed could put the would-be tailors in the popular children's tale The Emperor's New Clothes to shame. She would have saved the ruler much humiliation had he seen her wares first. He would have remained clothed instead of naively naked.
With the proper sewing techniques, you can create anything you imagine, she often said (In Spanish). And I remember her mesmerizing me with action-figure hand puppets and Cinderella gowns to wear. She could easily create the grandest curtains, table cloths, wedding dresses, and much, much more from mere scraps of material. My mind's eye frequently sees her sitting by the light of her sewing machine till early morning.
Oh sure, I was a child then. Amazing me was no great feat in those days.
But now, as an adult, I finally realize that through each finished product, my mother gave me the gift of possibilities. My belief that anything is achievable if we put our minds to it; if we work hard enough; if we want something bad enough, must stem from my mother's direction. Learning to sew from this woman must be the sole reason I have any potential. And I am amazed, once more.
"For it is the doom of men that they forget" comes to mind. Our success and wealth are better served by remembering our humble beginnings. And if we are born with silver spoons in our mouths; someone, somewhere, toiled greatly to put them there. If we are destitute, then recalling what our ancestors endured inspires confidence and strengthens self-reliance. Does it not? How can we truly appreciate who we are, and where we are, if we do not value those who came before us; if we do not acknowledge their importance—their significance; their teachings?
This is surely something to contemplate—perhaps later. For now, let us return to the story.
Where was I?
Oh yes, the dress…
The next morning, wearing the altered dress, my mother descended the stairs; her eyes searching for the man she had seen previously. Within minutes, she located the well-dressed figure and neatly-combed, wavy, dark hair that caught her eye the day before. She innocuously strolled by him. And nothing happened. Not one word passed between them. She walked by him again. And still nothing. She did this throughout the day to no avail. Frustrated and near disillusionment, after retiring for the evening, she lowers the neckline of another dress, but by a few more inches this time, and increased its hem more than before. The evening passed and the third day of her stay began. Again, she descended the stairs. Again, she sought the man who had unknowingly captured her heart. And again, she walked by him.
Before I finish this thought, I must remind myself that my mother was a demure woman. Ladylike doesn't begin to describe most of her behavior. She's courteous, kind, humble, and reserved. When she speaks, people are enchanted. There's a lilt to her voice that I've never heard in anyone else's. Additionally, it is often said that my mother never meets a stranger. She makes friends easily and within minutes of an introduction—lifelong friends. In photographs of her at this age one sees a beautiful, long-haired, statuesque woman with blondish brown hair, golden skin, and strikingly blue eyes. And in those days, a chaperone escorts her anywhere outside of her home, which was delightfully challenging to most men.
As she walked by my father on that third day, he said nothing. He did nothing.
By this time, my mother was skirting almost every man's attentions in the boarding house except for my father's. And I'm almost certain, that she wondered why. My mother never claimed to be beautiful. She was too modest for that. But she was. And although in her mind, she was ordinary, plain, and simple; she turned many heads in her day.
I remembered thinking at this point in her story: Aren't ordinary and plain people worthy of dreams that come true? And by the look in my mother's eyes, I guessed that the same thought crossed her mind all those years ago. I was eleven or twelve with horn-rimmed glasses, choppy hair, and scrawny legs when I heard this story for the first time. If my mother considered herself a five on a scale of one to ten, then I was definitely at rock bottom. If landing my father, so to speak, was difficult for her; then what was in store for me? No one? Nothing? Silly thoughts from a silly child, I know. But at that time, they were anything but ridiculous. No Grimm's fairytale was scarier to me. Neither being eaten by witches, nor having my eyes pecked out by birds, nor even being split in two by stomping my foot on the floor in a fit of rage scared me more than remaining ugly for life.
So, I hung on my mother's every word hoping for the happy ending. Paradoxically, it was as if I didn't know the ending, but did. Yet, oddly enough, as a child, while caught in the thrill of the moment, and stuck in "dreams can come true" mode, this never occurred to me. Instead, perplexed and taken aback, I waited for the witch to cast her spell; for the birds to come swooping out of the sky; or the floor to burst open and swallow my mother whole. In other words, I waited for the part of the story in which someone or something kept her from her "happily ever after?" all the while holding my breath and clenching my teeth.
Would my mother give up and go home, or stay and fight?
Oddly enough, giving up never even occurred to my mother. She winked at me and chuckled while she said: "What could I do, but try again (Obviously, again in Spanish)." That evening, yet again, she sat at the sewing machine. This time, there would be no overlooking her womanly attributes—she told herself. This time, the neckline would plunge below the beginnings of her bust. This time, the hem would be sewn to expose the treasures above her knees, which up until now lay buried underneath layers of cloth. This time, he would notice; this time, she would get his attention.
In the morning, she slipped on the "new" dress, and once more descended the staircase to the first floor. My father was in the main dining room eating his breakfast and making conversation with the other men who occupied the rooms in the boarding house. When my mother reached the midpoint of her descent, my father looked up. And her heart leapt.
"He looked up!" she said, "at last."
Her surprised tone had me wondering why she was so astounded, and I asked: "You said he would pay attention, right? You said he would look at you. Why were you so surprised that he did?"
At the naïve age of eleven or twelve, I expected an entirely different answer than the one I received. "I didn't know that he'd looked—I only hoped that he would," she said. "At times, if you tell yourself you'll succeed and put [the correct] effort into doing so, you'll achieve your goal." As she answered my question, I'm certain my expression was one of bewilderment. And I'm just as certain that my eyes flashed a "What the fuck are you talking about?" glare as she concluded with "Someday, you'll understand what I mean."
And now, now I know precisely what she meant. I can even imagine being in her exact situation for I believe I've experienced that of which she spoke many times over. It's amazing what an additional thirty years on this ever-perplexing planet can do to one's perception.
I apologize for the digression. Let us return to my mother's shocked phrase: "He looked up!—at last."
Not only did he look, she said, but his eyes stayed on me as I took the last step onto the wooden hall floor, as I entered the room, and sat down. He watched her—discreetly, of course—while she ate her breakfast. And later that morning, he approached her.
Somewhere in their conversation, he requested that she accompany him to dinner (Naturally, with her chaperone). And she accepted.
With a mere three days left, they didn't waste any time. Of this, I am certain.
And although I don't know any of the particulars of those three days, I know that they were inseparable. I also know that by the time my mother returned home, leaving my father in Mexico City; she professed her love for him, and he for her.
Soon after, my father accepted an employment offer from The Chrysler Corporation in Detroit, Michigan and my mother called off her prior engagement. And for four years they wrote to each other—almost every day. Letter after letter, my mother waited; anticipating the next time she'd see the man who had stolen her heart.
Finally, after forty-eight grueling months, the letter she waited for had arrived. Neither of my parents ever told me what was in that letter, but whatever it was, I have no doubt that it was amazing. So much so, that my mother left her family and friends; the comfort of the home in which she grew up; and traveled to a faraway land where nothing or no one was familiar. She left everything behind and came to America—to my father.
They were married in a little, white-steepled church in downtown Detroit on November 7, 1952 (I counted back four years to deduce the year they met). My mother was twenty-seven and my father thirty-one.
After knowing each other for only three days, and attempting to discover the rest through innumerable letters, they spoke their vows. I often wondered how one makes such a choice without thoroughly getting to know the other person. Then, I remember what my husband said: "Never underestimate the power of words" and I understand.
For the next seven years my parents lived with my paternal grandparents in a little gray house on Vinewood Avenue in downtown Detroit.
I was born during their years there.
And so, my story begins…
(To be continued)
