Summer Memories

I was paying SamuraiFrog a visit when one of his posts made me get all nostalgic about how the majority of my childhood summers were spent. His post was about the upcoming film Planet Terror by Robert Rodriguez.

I know what you're thinking: What in the world does Robert Rodriguez have to do with my childhood memories? Well, if you're willing to let me ramble on about something that has absolutely nothing of interest for you, but means a great deal to me, then by all means read on.

I spent every summer from the age of 5 to about 13 or 14 with my grandmother in south Texas. A very small city called Rio Grande - as in the now non-existent river that once separated the Texas/Mexico border. I never had the chance to meet my grandfather, he died about a year before I was born. I only know him from the memories of my family and from a few pictures that he actually allowed someone to take of him. They all tell me that I have many of his mannerisms. My dad told me that my grandfather was like the Indians, he didn't like having his picture taken because he thought that it would take away part of his soul. The one picture that he actually posed for was his wedding photo. He looked so handsome. He was wearing a mariachi suit, and he wore it well. He struck a tough pose with his head tilted ever so slightly back, a gleam in his eye that said he was ready to take on the world. My grandmother was looking beautiful in all of her 16 year old innocence. A simple, elegant long white gown. A bouquet of flowers being held to her stomach with both hands.

My grandmother was an amazing woman. She taught me many great things that resound in my everyday life. She was the one who taught me how to speak Spanish after about the age of 6 when I got tired of always asking her what other relatives were saying during their conversations. She taught me how to cook, and you better believe that after raising 11 of her own children that she was phenomenal. She made the best tortillas and tamales ever! And I'm not just saying that because she was my grandmother, she really did. It didn't matter what she cooked, it tasted great because she made it with love. She taught me about our family and where we came from. The hardships, yet simple way of life that was lived when she was growing up and then later raising children of her own.

Every morning after my grandmother and I ate breakfast, we would walk through the yard and water the plants. We would make our way to the back yard to feed the birds, chickens, cats and dogs. Along the way we would stop and chat with other neighbors that happened to be out in their yards as well. My favorite neighbor was this couple who my grandmother grew up with. As children they lived down the street from each other and as adults they were next door neighbors. His name was Chemita, his wife's name was Henarita and he was the local baker. His bakery was connected to his house. He was always up before the crack of dawn baking his orders for the day and for those who just stopped by. There was no way that you could sleep in late with those wonderful smells making their way into the house. He would always be waiting for us at the fence with some of his freshly baked breads or with some cherry tomatoes from his garden. He grew other things in his garden, but for some reason I always remembered those tomatoes. I remember the way he use to just pop them in his mouth for a quick snack while telling me stories about all of the things that my dad, aunts and uncles did as kids. One of the most amazing things about this man, to me anyway, was that he was born in 1898. As I grew up I came to appreciate him even more, for the fact that I was fortunate enough to have met someone who had lived through so much history. It was my wish that he would live to see the year 2000. My wish didn't come true. He was a healthy man, he worked every single day of his life. In the end, it was a freak fall down a short flight of stairs while going to work on a stove that did him in.
He was 100 years old.

As a child, most of my summer days were spent outside playing with who ever else I could find. Most of the time it was with one or more of my endless supply of cousins (11 kids, remember). Other times it was spent with this boy who I met over the fence through one of our backyard conversations with a friend of my grandmothers. I don't remember her name, but I do remember her grandson Robert.
He was older than me and wouldn't have anything to do with the 'baby' who would follow him around asking to see his drawings.
My persistence paid off one day though, or it could have been that none of his friends were around and he was just bored. Whatever the reason, I now had my first older friend (I thought I was so grown-up and cool) and despite our age difference we got along just fine. When the sun would get too strong, we would go and sit under one of the pomegranate trees and eat till we were full and were left with red mouths and red fingertips. We would lay under those trees looking at his drawings, he explaining what they were. Everyday was filled with ridiculously exaggerated stories of different kinds of monsters and people. I looked forward to those days spent with him. At the end of that summer we said our good-byes. I went back home to Dallas and he went back home to San Antonio.
I spent a couple of more summers with him before puberty hit and he couldn't be bothered with wasting time at his grandmother's house, much less a kid like me, but I'll always remember him as the boy I shared pomegranates with.

Whenever I see or hear about Robert Rodriguez, it brings back a forgotten innocence for me. Not necessarily about him, though I am fond of the times we shared. The innocence it evokes are of the cherished memories of time spent with my grandmother.
The laughs, the tears, the stories, the time spent in the kitchen with all of its wonderful sounds and smells. The memory of her.