It's been 44 years - 44 years of changing lives, one student at a time.
When the rain started coming down last week I thought to myself, "Great. Mud. Humidity. Bad hair days. Ugh." That was the extent of my complaints and annoyances. I was also bothered, because I knew it meant that Mary Frances would have rain on her field trip to the zoo on Thursday. She'd have to sit on soggy grass, trying to hold an umbrella with one hand and eat with the other. Then of course, I was also irritated with the fact that I would have to fight with my own umbrella trying to walk to my building at work, fighting the wind that was quite determined to turn my umbrella inside out forcing me to get wet; but while the rain brought me so many aggravations, it would take only one text message to change all that.
"...today may have been her very last day. She's ending her 44yr teaching career in a wheelchair." It was a text from my sister letting me know the results of my mother's MRI. An impacted fracture in the left knee; bound to a wheelchair for the next 12 weeks. This was supposed to be the grandest finale of them all. We've watched her struggle with the decision to retire for the last few years, and now, when she's finally ready, working at preparing herself for these final months, this happens. When I spoke with her, the frustration and desperation in her voice was almost more than I could handle, but I kept it together, for her. It was the least I could do; she'd done it so many times before for the rest of us. At that moment I was angry. Angry that for someone who does so much for everyone else wouldn't get her chance to "walk" away the way she wanted to. Angry that I wasn't their to sit with her. Angry that I lived so far. Angry that my sister could be there and I couldn't. But after only a few minutes of being angry, I realized I was wrong to feel that way; I needed to be grateful.
It was such a mixture of emotions for me. I knew I was being angry FOR her, but deep down I knew it was something that needed to happen. God has been trying to get her to slow down for a while now, but she refuses. Always taking on more than her share, always being the last one there, always putting everyone and everything else before herself...God had enough. I told her that the next morning when I called her. With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes I reminded her that this was God's way of saying He was gonna do things His way, not hers. I told her that He had plans for her, but that He needed her to be healthy. She understood, but through her own tears she admitted what I had suspected, that it was the "not knowing" that bothered her. The idea that she now had to depend on others when all the while she was the one being depended on. I'm sure you're wondering why I would be grateful over something that was causing my mother such sadness and despair...well, it's quite simple. Having her realize, even through force, that she needed to slow down gives me the hope that she'll be around longer. She'll have no more deadlines, or whiney students, or paperwork to do that would keep her up till all hours of the night, just the responsibility of taking care of herself; allowing others to be there for her. In a matter of 48 hours I aged 10 years. More than ever I realized I was no longer the child, but the adult. I'm completely grateful that the injury isn't as worse as it could be and that she'll only be in the wheelchair for 12 weeks, as opposed to 12 months, but what's heartbreaking is to see her feel truly helpless; phobic of having to be stuck in a chair. While this may be her reality now, what we see is something completely different.
My mother is a go-getter. A fighter who refuses to go down without a fight. I refuse to accept the idea that this is it for her and while she may not return to the classroom I still believe there's something more she will do. She has spent her life teaching so many...students, teachers, her family, the church and anyone who dared to cross her path. Regardless of the untimeliness, we will celebrate her accomplishments, her selflessness and the difference she has made for so many. I don't see last week's rain as such an annoyance now, instead, it was exactly what we all needed - wash away the old and begin anew. The rain may have made it dark and cloudy those few days, but the sun will rise and tomorrow is a new day and while we may not know what tomorrow holds for her, I'm just happy knowing that, God willing, she has a tomorrow, and another, and another...
Till next time...
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The House That Built Me
"It's a small town, south of San Antonio, just take I35 South, like you're on your way to Laredo, we're between Loop 410 and 1604 off 35"...some refer to it as the V.O., others say I live out in B.F.E., many joke they have to catch a flight to get there and some joke about having to stop at the rest stop before getting there. Regardless of the jokes, it's Von Ormy, the town I grew up in and where my home is.
A small house at the end of a dirt road and unless you know where to turn, you'll miss it. It's our secret, Torres Lane is known only to those who live on it. We are a family of six, my parents, an older brother, an older sister and my baby brother. I grew up next door to my aunt Yolanda and uncle Ysidro, who are like another set of parents to me, with my cousins, Frank, Danny and Rosanne, that were and, still are, like having two more brothers and another sister. My grandparents lived at the corner. I was blessed to have family surround me my entire childhood.
Our house was small, simple. It wasn't anything lavish or over-the-top, but had all the makings of a happy home. Do you remember our room Loretta? Two twin beds on either side of the room, with the yellow flowered bedspreads, your stereo in the middle and a dresser in the far corner next to the way-to-small closet. We were years apart in age, but we still shared a room. I remember watching my sister get ready for school, in her brown plaid skirt and white Oxford shirt that, I too, was destined to wear one day, standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair singing whatever song was on the stereo, whether it was REO Speedwagons' "Can't Fight This Feeling" or Journey's "Faithfully". To me, she was cool, and fun and everyone liked her and I wanted to be just like her. I still do.
My older brother is even a few years older than my sister is, sorry Joey, but what I remember of him growing up in our house is his love for Star Trek and always looking good in a suit. He still does. I remember the red radio he gave me one Christmas and how excited and grown up I felt. I had my very own radio. I could play any cassette I wanted and listen to any station I wanted to. I could record my favorite songs off the radio. It was blissfully awesome! My brother's room was on the other end of the hallway, smaller than our room. It had the dark brown wood panels with the little grooves between them that were perfect for thumbtacks to pierce through to hold up whatever poster he had up. We had the same kind of panels in our room, but of a different color. I used every bit of those grooves on my side of the wall for my Bop Magazine posters.
By the time my younger brother Billy graced us with his presence, Joey had already moved out and shortly after Loretta would follow and the two would be roommates in a house up the road. Billy did everything an annoying little brother would do, pick fights, tattle on everything little thing I did, even put a live salamander in my hair. We fought, sometimes more than we needed to, and sometimes it was ugly. But, he's still my brother and I love him. I remember a time when he did something wrong that really upset my mother, and she was getting ready to spank him..yeah, my mom is hardcore old school, wooden paddle and all! I remember hiding around the corner of the kitchen on the phone with my sister, crying, telling her, (sobbing)"Mom is gonna spank Billy with the paddle and he's crying and crying..." I knew there wasn't anything Loretta was gonna be able to do, but it was at that moment that I realized I would be the one to protect him, to defend him. Now, don't get me wrong, if he messed up, then I'd be the first one in line to call him a dumbass, BUT, unless you lived in that house on Torres Lane, you couldn't say anything about my brothers or my sister. You still can't.
Our house was witness to all our fights, our happy moments, our struggles and triumphs. We each have our favorite memories and the things we remember the most about living at home. For me, it was the hallway that made a perfect "U" in the middle of the house. It was one of my favorite places. Before central air and heating, we had wall units. One air conditioner unit was in the front room and the other in my parent's room. We also had a wall heater unit. During the winter, I remember waking up a little earlier than everyone else just to be able to lay down right in front of the heater. I'd take my pillow and a small blanket and fall asleep nice and toasty on the floor. Of course, I'd wake up to my mother yelling at me because I either overslept or I was getting the blanket too close to the heater and she was accusing me of trying to start the house on fire.
So many memories were made in our house and so many traditions created, from leaving our shoes out for St. Nicholas to leave us a present to making Easter nests so that the Easter bunny knew where to leave our baskets. Birthdays were never forgotten; but they did get smaller as we got older. I remember for my 21st birthday, a monumental moment, I came home with some of my girlfriends from the Lake because my mother insisted she see me that night before I went out. I walked in to my aunt Yolanda handing me my first official, and legal, drink as a 21 year old, a margarita on the rocks. Those of you that know my mother, know that she doesn't drink, but she toasted with me anyway to my special day. I can remember endless late-afternoons in the winter, when I was in junior high, walking up the sidewalk with my dad, coming home from a long afternoon of basketball practice. Before we could even get to the end of the sidewalk and walk up the steps, which was surrounded by a black wrought iron railing, my dad and I could already smell the tortillas and beans cooking inside. We couldn't get in there fast enough. I could go on and on because the memories are endless and are always present, but I'd be typing forever (too late, I know).
What's important to know is that it was my mother and her never-ending efforts to keep us a family, to remind us how important it is to love one another, to be there for each other and that we would be nothing and have nothing without God in our lives. She is the backbone to our family. The rock we all come crashing against when things get rough...unexpected pregnancies, car accidents, divorce, a night in jail and all the things we're never ready for in life. She's the encyclopedia of advice, whatever the concern or worry, she always has the right words, even if it isn't what we want to hear; but she always reverted back to her faith and the belief that with God all things are possible.
While I give much credit to my mother, my dad is just as important. I'm not gonna lie, I'm a daddy's girl, always have been. He can make anyone laugh at the drop of a hat, he's the Hispanic version of Bill Cosby; at least that's what my mom says, but we all agree nonetheless. My dad is simple and loveable and strong and forgiving and loves unconditionally, all at the same time. As Johnny likes to call him, he's the "Don" of Von Ormy, a lookalike to Paul Sorvino, and the President of the white t-shirt club...but he's still my dad. I smile when I think about all the times I remember him walking into the kitchen, where my mother would be cooking something, in mass quantities of course, and he'd simply turn her around and they'd start dancing to whatever tejano song she had blaring on the kitchen radio. He was at every one of our sporting events, from Joey's all-star baseball game in Mexico City to my basketball tournaments in Victoria to Billy's golf tournaments, even Loretta, as uncoordinated as she was to play sports, no one twirled a wooden rifle better than she did during the half time show for Holy Cross....no really, no one else did because she was the only one, but he was there for her too. :) He was there for all of us. When my dad wasn't working night shifts at Kelly AFB or playing golf, he was at home with us, with his family.
Our house was our security blanket, and now, even as adults, it still is. It's where we run to when we think we've had enough of life and need to be reminded of what it is we have and what we should be grateful for. It's where I go when I need a break from city-life and take in the simplicity of all the small things I grew up with. Where dinner starts out with just four of us, and by the end of the night, there are ten of us there and we've danced in the kitchen and aunt Yolanda has made us a cazuela. A house where everyone walks in a friend and leaves as family.
Now, as a mother and homemaker, I stop and wonder if I'm making my house a home for MY children. Will they look back and say, "My mom and dad did it right. This is our home." I hope so. I hope that my girls will continue to love each other and be there for one another as I am for my brothers and sister. I hope that the friends and family that have come through my doors have felt the same kind of welcome as my friends and family did walking into my parents' home. I hope that my family is as proud of me as I am of them, because it was our house, our home, that built us all.
Till next time...
A small house at the end of a dirt road and unless you know where to turn, you'll miss it. It's our secret, Torres Lane is known only to those who live on it. We are a family of six, my parents, an older brother, an older sister and my baby brother. I grew up next door to my aunt Yolanda and uncle Ysidro, who are like another set of parents to me, with my cousins, Frank, Danny and Rosanne, that were and, still are, like having two more brothers and another sister. My grandparents lived at the corner. I was blessed to have family surround me my entire childhood.
Our house was small, simple. It wasn't anything lavish or over-the-top, but had all the makings of a happy home. Do you remember our room Loretta? Two twin beds on either side of the room, with the yellow flowered bedspreads, your stereo in the middle and a dresser in the far corner next to the way-to-small closet. We were years apart in age, but we still shared a room. I remember watching my sister get ready for school, in her brown plaid skirt and white Oxford shirt that, I too, was destined to wear one day, standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair singing whatever song was on the stereo, whether it was REO Speedwagons' "Can't Fight This Feeling" or Journey's "Faithfully". To me, she was cool, and fun and everyone liked her and I wanted to be just like her. I still do.
My older brother is even a few years older than my sister is, sorry Joey, but what I remember of him growing up in our house is his love for Star Trek and always looking good in a suit. He still does. I remember the red radio he gave me one Christmas and how excited and grown up I felt. I had my very own radio. I could play any cassette I wanted and listen to any station I wanted to. I could record my favorite songs off the radio. It was blissfully awesome! My brother's room was on the other end of the hallway, smaller than our room. It had the dark brown wood panels with the little grooves between them that were perfect for thumbtacks to pierce through to hold up whatever poster he had up. We had the same kind of panels in our room, but of a different color. I used every bit of those grooves on my side of the wall for my Bop Magazine posters.
By the time my younger brother Billy graced us with his presence, Joey had already moved out and shortly after Loretta would follow and the two would be roommates in a house up the road. Billy did everything an annoying little brother would do, pick fights, tattle on everything little thing I did, even put a live salamander in my hair. We fought, sometimes more than we needed to, and sometimes it was ugly. But, he's still my brother and I love him. I remember a time when he did something wrong that really upset my mother, and she was getting ready to spank him..yeah, my mom is hardcore old school, wooden paddle and all! I remember hiding around the corner of the kitchen on the phone with my sister, crying, telling her, (sobbing)"Mom is gonna spank Billy with the paddle and he's crying and crying..." I knew there wasn't anything Loretta was gonna be able to do, but it was at that moment that I realized I would be the one to protect him, to defend him. Now, don't get me wrong, if he messed up, then I'd be the first one in line to call him a dumbass, BUT, unless you lived in that house on Torres Lane, you couldn't say anything about my brothers or my sister. You still can't.
Our house was witness to all our fights, our happy moments, our struggles and triumphs. We each have our favorite memories and the things we remember the most about living at home. For me, it was the hallway that made a perfect "U" in the middle of the house. It was one of my favorite places. Before central air and heating, we had wall units. One air conditioner unit was in the front room and the other in my parent's room. We also had a wall heater unit. During the winter, I remember waking up a little earlier than everyone else just to be able to lay down right in front of the heater. I'd take my pillow and a small blanket and fall asleep nice and toasty on the floor. Of course, I'd wake up to my mother yelling at me because I either overslept or I was getting the blanket too close to the heater and she was accusing me of trying to start the house on fire.
So many memories were made in our house and so many traditions created, from leaving our shoes out for St. Nicholas to leave us a present to making Easter nests so that the Easter bunny knew where to leave our baskets. Birthdays were never forgotten; but they did get smaller as we got older. I remember for my 21st birthday, a monumental moment, I came home with some of my girlfriends from the Lake because my mother insisted she see me that night before I went out. I walked in to my aunt Yolanda handing me my first official, and legal, drink as a 21 year old, a margarita on the rocks. Those of you that know my mother, know that she doesn't drink, but she toasted with me anyway to my special day. I can remember endless late-afternoons in the winter, when I was in junior high, walking up the sidewalk with my dad, coming home from a long afternoon of basketball practice. Before we could even get to the end of the sidewalk and walk up the steps, which was surrounded by a black wrought iron railing, my dad and I could already smell the tortillas and beans cooking inside. We couldn't get in there fast enough. I could go on and on because the memories are endless and are always present, but I'd be typing forever (too late, I know).
What's important to know is that it was my mother and her never-ending efforts to keep us a family, to remind us how important it is to love one another, to be there for each other and that we would be nothing and have nothing without God in our lives. She is the backbone to our family. The rock we all come crashing against when things get rough...unexpected pregnancies, car accidents, divorce, a night in jail and all the things we're never ready for in life. She's the encyclopedia of advice, whatever the concern or worry, she always has the right words, even if it isn't what we want to hear; but she always reverted back to her faith and the belief that with God all things are possible.
While I give much credit to my mother, my dad is just as important. I'm not gonna lie, I'm a daddy's girl, always have been. He can make anyone laugh at the drop of a hat, he's the Hispanic version of Bill Cosby; at least that's what my mom says, but we all agree nonetheless. My dad is simple and loveable and strong and forgiving and loves unconditionally, all at the same time. As Johnny likes to call him, he's the "Don" of Von Ormy, a lookalike to Paul Sorvino, and the President of the white t-shirt club...but he's still my dad. I smile when I think about all the times I remember him walking into the kitchen, where my mother would be cooking something, in mass quantities of course, and he'd simply turn her around and they'd start dancing to whatever tejano song she had blaring on the kitchen radio. He was at every one of our sporting events, from Joey's all-star baseball game in Mexico City to my basketball tournaments in Victoria to Billy's golf tournaments, even Loretta, as uncoordinated as she was to play sports, no one twirled a wooden rifle better than she did during the half time show for Holy Cross....no really, no one else did because she was the only one, but he was there for her too. :) He was there for all of us. When my dad wasn't working night shifts at Kelly AFB or playing golf, he was at home with us, with his family.
Our house was our security blanket, and now, even as adults, it still is. It's where we run to when we think we've had enough of life and need to be reminded of what it is we have and what we should be grateful for. It's where I go when I need a break from city-life and take in the simplicity of all the small things I grew up with. Where dinner starts out with just four of us, and by the end of the night, there are ten of us there and we've danced in the kitchen and aunt Yolanda has made us a cazuela. A house where everyone walks in a friend and leaves as family.
Now, as a mother and homemaker, I stop and wonder if I'm making my house a home for MY children. Will they look back and say, "My mom and dad did it right. This is our home." I hope so. I hope that my girls will continue to love each other and be there for one another as I am for my brothers and sister. I hope that the friends and family that have come through my doors have felt the same kind of welcome as my friends and family did walking into my parents' home. I hope that my family is as proud of me as I am of them, because it was our house, our home, that built us all.
Till next time...
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