Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

My parents have been gone for many years now, but for some reason, I never forget their wedding anniversary.  Perhaps it's because through them I had such amazing proof that love exists and endures, despite trying circumstances.  My parents' marriage wasn't perfect, but even at those most difficult moments, there was a light that would appear on each of their faces when they spoke of the other. 

Here's a short excerpt from one of my father's letters to my mother:  “[By] writing about my feelings in these brief lines, I mitigate somewhat my desire to tell you these things in person; I live in hope of having you next to me, to squeeze your beautiful hands, and to take refuge in the oasis of your love.”  That has to be the most fitting caption for the photo below.

This photo isn't dated, but from my mother's hair, and the background view, I think this was taken while they were living in their first apartment in Old Havana, probably around 1954.

Mother's Day at Carmela's House

This was the Dining Room in the house where I grew up, but I wasn't born when this photo was taken. Most of these folks left Cuba in the early 60's. I loved the windows in this house. Notice where the children are standing. There was a deep ledge beyond the shutters, and then iron bars for security as well as decoration. All the kids in the family played Hide and Seek in this house, and we all hid behind the windows at one time or another.

This was just the immediate family gathered on a Mother's Day Sunday in the mid-1950s. My grandmother, the white-haired lady, third from the left bore eleven children, eight of which reached adulthood. This is the clan: Kids, spouses and grandchildren. My parents are immediately to the right. My father is the gentleman with the moustache, and my mother is the lady next to him.

I'm told my grandmother ran a tight ship. The day began early in this house, and the soup kettle was set to simmer before breakfast, preparing chicken, beef or fish stock for the noon meals' first course (the main meal of the day was taken at noon). She had a housekeeper and a cook, but she supervised all the work herself. Even the adult children that didn't live here, would stop by for the noon meal, so this crowd was not at all unusual.
With so many mouths to feed, food was simple, but plentiful. Besides a clear broth soup, there was always a bean potage (heavy soup) which was served over white rice, chicken and beef dishes, fried plantains and . . . Carmela's salad. You can see her special salad on the photo below. I was so thrilled when I discovered this photo!
My grandmother claimed that this salad was “strengthening” and everyone was encouraged to take at least a small portion every day. My father really liked it, so my mother learned how to make it. When I started helping in the kitchen, this became one of my regularly assigned tasks. My father didn't like lettuce, so my mother never included it in the salad. It wasn't until I was visiting an aunt in Florida about 15 years ago, that I realized that it was left out because my father didn't like it! Since then, I've added lettuce back in the salad, as Carmela would likely have done.

The salad is quite simple: Butter lettuce, hard boiled eggs, white onions, boiled potatoes and green beans cooked crisp-tender. Then the salad is drizzled with a good quality olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper.

It makes a great lunch all by itself. For a little extra zing, I sometimes make an herb vinaigrette dressing instead of using the traditional oil and vinegar.

And whenever I make it, I think of my father, looking over my shoulder as I assembled the salad, giving me pointers: “Not so much oil!” “A little more onion, please!” “Did you cook the beans enough?” “Why are you using this vinegar?” “Are we out of the other vinegar we had last week?” He could be as annoying as a little kid sometimes! But I wish he was still around to tell me how to make his mother's salad.

A letter to knock the socks off any woman.

Here are my parents on their wedding day, November 20, 1953. I just love the hat my mother is wearing - and she could carry it off with such panache!

This was my father's second marriage, so they were not able to marry in the Catholic Church, to my mother's everlasting sorrow. If there was ever a couple that ought to have been allowed the religious wedding of their choice, it was this one. To my mother, the sun rose and set with my father, and I think it was the same for him. They were married 32 years until her death in 1985.

Here is one of the letters he wrote to her while they were dating, I hope my translation does it justice. The letter was not dated but I think it was written in 1952:

"Dear Enriqueta:

'To tell you that I love you, that I adore you and all that you mean to me, I have sat down in front of the typewriter, hoping to be able to crystallize my feelings in words. You are the sweetest of brides, the most beloved and the one who has been able to understand me and give me ease. Aside from an immense love, I owe you a debt of gratitude, because you have returned to my spirit the tranquility that I so need."

"Sometimes, the shadow of doubt comes upon me, and then you, with your sweetness that touches me so deeply, with your beautiful words that caress me, with a look that penetrates the deepest recesses of my soul, you return my coveted calm."

"For this, and for all the good things you possess I adore you."

"I kiss your beautiful hands, "

"Alberto"

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

—W.H. Auden

Remembering my father who passed away on November 2, 1986. He was my North, South, East and West. My true compass for perseverance and moral rectitude. He taught me to appreciate literature and history. He demonstrated to us daily what it meant to love unconditionally. He sacrificed for me, although he would have taken deep umbrage at my suggestion that it was a sacrifice. He loved me and he understood me. I miss him.

Father's Day

This photo was taken on Father's Day 1993. We went to church, and then to breakfast at The Paddle Wheel, a local Greek diner where we knew we could take the boys and no one would frown on the crumbs left in our wake. They also served pretty good pancakes. Now they weren't Daddy's pancakes, but he deserved a break on this day.

"To her the name of father was another name for love."

— Fanny Fern