Tell The Stories...

 I was recently in Colorado for a wedding and reunion of all of my siblings with our mother. This was the first time we aere all in the same place in 10 years. As happens with big families, there was a lot of story telling. I love that.

During casual conversation, I began talking about my late husband's family history - what I know of it. It's interesting and I'm sad that the bit that I know may never be fully revealed for my children to know, My husband was first generation Cuban American. Like so many past generations,  his parents adopted America as home and didn't look back. My husband and his brother didn't ask questions and so much beautiful history has been lost. Here's what I know:

My late husband, Carlos Capote, is a first generation Cuban American. His father, Ramon Capote, came to the US as part of Operation Pedro Pan. This program began when Castro took power and Cuban families thought it would be short lived. My father in law, Ramon Capote, was 9 years old and his little brother Luis was 7.  

The many Cubans I know either don't know about this or won't talk about it. You see, Castro allowed letters from the children to come in, but letters from the parents were not allowed out. Many of these children thought they were abandoned, some were mistreated by their hosts, and never saw their parents again.   

 My husband's grandmother had some pull and was able to communicate with connections already in the US. Her grandfather Carlos De La Rosa Hernandez  - (I found this image online and, other than a NYT obituary, it's all I've got) was Vice President of Cuba before Batista came to power and the laws were changed to eliminate the role of VP. He continued as a senator in Cardenas. Her husband Carlos Ramon Capote was a rancher and didn't want to leave their beautiful home. Then a letter came from their son, who was in a Catholic boarding school, that he was considering becoming a priest,  His mother was not having that! She insisted to her husband that she was going to America - with him or without him. 

 My in laws did not talk about any of this so I don't know HOW they left Cuba. I know they first came to Boston because that's where the school was. There were some relatives or friends there. Once the family was all together again, they moved south the West Palm Beach. They settled in. At some point, my father-in-law fell in love with a Cuban woman named Lillian Tomeu. He joined the military, went to college, started a career in real estate, and had two sons (my husband and his brother Daniel). 

 My husband, his father, grandfather and great aunt have all passed. His grandmother is 97 and has all the stories to tell but I'm in Atlanta and she's in S. FL with Luis. I can understand some Spanish but don't speak it .Her sister Isabel and her husband Francisco Lluria lived in Miami and spoke English so I got all of the fun stories of Cuba from them, but none of the detailed history they've both passed so I can't ask any questions. 

 Obviously, Cuban records are guarded so I have been unable to find anything more than the bits and pieces I have. I'd love to be able to share the history with my daughters. I've told them everything we know about my family, but their Cuban side is a mystery. 

We all have roots.  It's important to water them so they continue to grow. Fortunately, my large  German family knows where we came from and tell the tales, so it's not a complete mystery. My sister-in-law suggested I contact Finding Your Roots and let them do the work.  I've tried that. So, Dr. Gates, if you're reading this  - HELP! It's possible that my husband's grandfather may have also had some political connections, but I don't know those answers either.

My point is: TELL THE STORIES! 

 

 

I Hear You Knocking...

 …But You Can’t Come In. 

OK, First things first: I’m not a hermit. I’m not anti-social. I’m very friendly and often go out of my way to greet strangers, to help anyone who needs it, and love my fellow human beings. If I’ve ever said to you “come by any time” I mean it. That said, I don’t like strangers in my space.

Growing up, countless teens walked into our house at all hours of day or night. That never bothered me, They were invited at some point by someone who lived there. No problem. My kids bring in tons of people all the time. That’s cool. I’ll even feed most of them. They’re guests.

When we bought our house in a very active neighborhood, we met many friends and neighbors. As a general rule, we talk to one another when we’re outside and see each other. We don’t go into each others’ homes. I like it that way. I think they do, too.

Over the years, the doorbell rings and there’s a sales person, a church person, or a political campaigner on the other side. I’ve always answered and politely send them away. When a kid is selling cookie dough or something, I’m a customer. That’s the society I grew up with.

I don’t know if it’s age, widowhood, or just being cranky but, at some point, I realized I’m not obligated to answer the door for anyone. It’s MY door, on MY property and I didn’t invite you. I don’t know you. I don’t have to respond to you. I don’t care if you saw my car and know I’m home. You’ve disturbed my peace, upset my dogs, and interrupted whatever I was (or was not) doing

The other day, my doorbell rang. My dogs barked. But I was sort of expecting a delivery so I decided to answer the door. I opened the door to a stranger who was holding his hand out for a shake. And he was asking about my kid. I put the pieces together and realized this guy was my kid’s boss at the job they’ve had for about a month. My kid asked for the day off a week ago, but this dude forgot and thought they no-showed and was expressing undue concern over their health.

I knew that this dude and his wife were new owners of a new franchise. My kid is a hard worker and has come home with stories about how intrusive they both are. They make inappropriate comments about their health (like stating “maybe you have a UTI” when they’ve gone to the bathroom for a second time during their shift). I brushed the guy off with an “I just walked in the door myself” – which was true – and said I’d tell them to call him. I shut the door and locked it. This dude sat in his car in front of my house for 40 minutes.

My (now grown) kids are self confident and strong. I don’t fight their battles. The reason my kid asked for the day off was to meet with a new employer. They intended to put in their 2 week notice that day. This guy’s behavior tossed that courtesy out the window.

That’s an extreme example of the reason I don’t open my door, but I wonder – is this what the internet has done to young people? If everything is openly announced by strangers - to strangers, have we lost the social buffer that I was raised with? I grew up understanding that we don’t talk politics, finance, personal issues, etc. with random folks that cross our paths. That’s still how I live.

Now, get off my lawn!

 

Just A Baby...

 

I remember our country’s bicentennial celebration fondly. To my kid mind, 200 years felt like forever. In Baltimore, where much of the struggle for independence happened, the day was taken seriously.

All over the city, fire hydrants were painted in the likeness of the men and women who made it all possible. I remember the parades and celebrations that fueled everyone’s inner patriot. That Halloween, it was very important to me that my costume would turn me into Uncle Sam. My amazing mother made it happen. It seemed like everyone I encountered was expressing their love of America.

People have come from all over the planet to settle in the USA because they knew that they’d be welcomed, loved, and live with freedoms and rights they didn’t have back home. Truly, almost all of us got here the same way. My own ancestors came on boats that arrived in New Orleans and went up the Mississippi River. They came to escape extreme poverty and landed in the land of plenty. My husband’s family came to escape political turmoil. Many of my friends’ families were fleeing terrible regimes. All taking different routes, but all seeking the land of promise that America offered.

Now, 50 years later, I realize what a young nation we are. Obviously, I learned history and observe the people around me, so that kid in an Uncle Sam costume makes more sense than I knew then. When I turn on the news – or just leave my house – I see the reality of this promised land of the free. Freedom is available conditionally. If you have the right complexion, the right finances, and worship the same way they think you should, you’re welcome to the party, Everyone else should go sit in the corner.

It seems that the Sam that I knew and loved, was actually a toddler who would rather stick out his tongue, grab the treats, and throw a loud tantrum when things don’t go his way. I know that there are grownups around. Do they not realize that he needs a spanking and a nap?

July 4^th has always been a fun time to celebrate the America we aim to be. Until the toddler in chief is sent to his room, his friends are sent home, apologies are doled out so we can get back to being the welcoming, loving land of the free. I’m not in the mood for a party.

Might I recommend leaving your neighborhood, greeting someone you don’t know – maybe someone who doesn’t look like you – and join them at their table? Or invite them to your own? Tell stories, tell jokes, listen to music. Appreciate how beautiful it is that you all came to be in each other;s presence. THAT is what the UNITED States of America is supposed to be. We’ve still got a lot of growing up to do. Until we can care for ourselves – let’s start with proper healthcare and child care and go from there – let’s accept that we aren’t there yet and work towards the goal.

Also, blowing crap up in your driveway is not very patriotic. It’s annoying and my dogs hate you. Stop it.

Quality Over Quantity...

 

 

My husband has been gone for five years. I miss him every moment of every day. But the sadness of missing him is always taken over by beautiful memories.

When we were dating, I pushed him away because it felt too risky. My heart was too involved, too fast, I kept looking for reasons to let go. How could a person with such a large and wide circle of friends not have anything bad said about him? I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But he held on tight until I accepted that he was worth the risk. And, as it turned out, there were no negative stories because he truly was honest and lovable, so I handed my heart over.

When we got engaged, I didn’t see the point in wasting time. He proposed in February, we pulled out the calendar and tried to gauge the best time to get all of our loved ones together for the event. Labor Day weekend made sense, so that was it. The months between were spent planning a party. And what a party it was!

I wore the dress that my grandmother wore to marry my grandfather in 1935. They were, in my eyes, the greatest measure of a couple to follow. My beloved told me there was no way he had 70 years left in him. He was a funny guy, so I laughed. And we went ahead and promised each other forever in front of a bunch of witnesses.

Moving forward, life happened. There were losses and sadness and moments of worry like every other  human has. We went on, eyes looking ahead, and kept marching, hand in hand. I don’t know if we knew that our time together had an expiration date, but our unspoken agreement was that we’d LIVE every moment together – for and with each other.

Certainly, we had our own activities and interests and gave each other space to do them, But we made the best of every moment we had. I’m sure it sounds cheesy to anyone else, but we made a decision to be happy. We didn’t fight – if we disagreed about something, we talked about it and let it go. When kids entered our picture, they were part of the equation – part of the team. That’s how people knew us, but they knew our children, too. I know that’s not typical, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Over time, I felt myself morphing into an annoyingly positive version of myself. I dropped all the pessimistic layers and sprouted genuine sunshine and rainbows that got me through the hard stuff. When we learned that he’d need a kidney transplant, I offered mine up. He worried, but I trusted. That bought us more time together. More adventures, more fun, more beautiful moments as a team. Life went on. Together.

When the pandemic came along, and took him away from us, we hung on and waited for him to come home. After nearly a year of being in and out of the hospital with little to no contact, I felt stripped of life as I knew it. Then when he came home for the last time, we were able to look into each other’s eyes and reconnect, It was a brief moment, but it gave me back the ME that had been missing. It restored my strength so I could keep moving on.

Life on the other side has been harder than I ever could have imagined. But I wake every morning, grateful for a new day, and appreciate the life we built together, He is still a part of every decision I make. His sensible ,realistic buzzkill side always balanced my Pollyanna sunshine and rainbows side. I promised forever and meant it. I’m sure that at 21 and 18, our kids don’t fully appreciate the priceless gift they had but I hope that, one day, they’ll see it. We had quality over quantity.

I can’t know what the rest of my life will look like, but I know I made the most of it so far and that whatever tomorrow brings, my chosen teammate will be in my heart, holding my hand and guiding me through the scary parts. I will always save him a seat.