Grandma

There’s a certain kind of magic that lingers in the tales of those who have come before us—a delicate thread connecting generations, woven from laughter, sorrow, and the steady pulse of perseverance. My grandmother’s life is a tapestry of such magic: a story both singular and universal, shaped by the tides of history and the quiet heroism of everyday acts.
She was born in a time when the world seemed to shift beneath people’s feet—a period of both promises and hardship. She often told me about her summers, when she and her sister would help their mother prepare dinner while their father and brother worked in the garden. Their house, built of logs, had settled into the earth so that the back portion was almost buried. It could only be warmed by the wood-burning oven, which the whole family took turns tending. That same oven was used to heat water for their weekly baths. She laughed when recalling how everyone would fight to be the first in the tub.
When school was in session, they would all ride together on horseback until they reached the river. There, her brother would ferry her and her sister across one at a time before continuing to school. Every day, the household relied on her and her siblings to complete their chores, as it was the only way their home could run smoothly.
As she recalled her childhood, I noticed a flicker of sadness in her eyes—a quiet reflection on what once was and how life has changed. The woman I have grown to know rarely shared these memories with me before, or perhaps she did, and I simply never listened as closely as I do now. She was once a young girl, just like me, navigating life’s uncertainties, enduring hardships, and creating cherished memories with her siblings and family. Now, at 86 years old, she has lived an extraordinary life—raising four children, nurturing twelve grandchildren, and delighting in the laughter of many great-grandchildren.
She told me stories of her and my grandfather, and how they spent countless weekends working hard on their land, shaping their yard into the beautiful place it is today. Their front yard features a charming fountain that flows into a small stone-lined ditch, set in concrete, with a wooden bridge my grandfather built connecting the back porch to the wide grassy area on the other side. Stone bordered the road leading to the house, and rose bushes lined the grass along the left-hand side. The spacious back patio became the heart of family gatherings; a place filled with laughter and love.
I can still remember running across that bridge, back and forth, playing tag with my brother and cousins, and chasing frogs late into the summer evenings. My grandmother always kept pigeons and peacocks, their calls echoing across the yard, and her house was filled with the warm, comforting scent of homemade tortillas and beans. I loved that smell—and even more, I loved sitting down to her incredible meals of red chili, beans, and soft sopapillas and tortillas.
She told me how my grandfather would sometimes feel guilty about drinking a beer while they worked in the yard, and how she would reassure him that he had earned it—that he worked hard to buy that beer and deserved to enjoy it. She remembered how he would come home after a long day’s work, always with a new joke to share, his humor as much a part of him as his quiet strength.
I try to hold on to the memories I have of my grandpa, who passed away when I was seventeen. It might seem like I had plenty of time to know him, but the truth is, I didn’t. Back then, I was self-absorbed, caught up in my own world and my own problems. When he became sick, I wasn’t there for him the way I should have been because I was too focused on myself. Still, I remember his constant smile and the kisses he always wanted whenever we came to visit.
I can picture him watching his old westerns, laughing softly to himself, or the time he handed me a snake and told me to go show my mom—just to make her scream. Of course, I screamed too and ended up tossing the poor snake. I remember their enormous garden stretching across the land below the house, and the hours I spent outside helping shell peas in the warm sun. My grandpa loved his cigarettes and always carried a small lunch cooler with a six-pack of Budweiser tucked inside—one of the many little things that made him who he was.
I asked my uncles and aunts to share some of their favorite memories, and my Uncle F told me a story that stood out to him. He recalled when the family was building the house, and Grandma M would tell Grandpa J, “This is what I want,” then start dragging her right foot along the ground to outline her vision. Grandpa J would look over at Uncle F with a grin that clearly meant, oh no, here we go. She’d zigzag her foot through the dirt, stop to evaluate, then zigzag some more. Uncle F and Grandpa would glance at each other, knowing what came next. Grandpa would say, “Okay then,” because no matter how ambitious the request was, it would be done—usually before the weekend was over.
My mom added that Grandpa used to tell Grandma, “Veja, you’re a wantin’ woman,” teasing her with that familiar smirk. That smirk still brings smiles to their faces, just like the sound of his whistle as he worked—a sound they can still hear in their hearts.