Roundtable con Mis Abuelas

If I was lucky enough to have a roundtable conversation one more time with mis abuelas, which would be difficult by the sheer fact that they were completely opposite women, but indulge me here, it's my fantasy, it would go something like this:

We would be sitting around mi nona, or abuela Francisca's wrought iron courtyard patio in a house that was claimed long ago by 3 deadly earthquakes until none of her children could help rise again one more time. It would be the three of us with a tetera of hot mate and tortitas de chicharrones that my abuela Francisca made so well, at the center of the chairs. The family would all be gathered but like a picture where the background is fuzzy, they would just enhance the ambiance without interjecting.

I would ask them how they did it. How did they handle it all without going crazy, without allowing depression or anxiety to take over their days. Both women were totally different. They were of different classes, mi abuela Juanita came from a very poor background with divorced parents, both of who gave her away to be raised by different relatives that treated her to in servitude (her and her 3 other sisters), until being reclaimed by their loving, yet alcoholic father. Mi abuela Francisca, married well to my grandfather who provided a house in Mendoza City, and through his traveling salesman positions provided well for the family, until he died young. Both women were very busy - Juanita had 3 children (two girls and a boy) one of whom is my mother, and Francisca had 4 children (3 boys and a girl) one of whom is my father.

Personality wise, Juanita was a melencholic, lamenting woman, always sighing "Ay Dios Mio" under her breath, regardless of what she did and for whatever reason. Francisca on the other hand, was a strong stoic woman, rigid and harsh in discipline with a very stern eye. Both were really hard working and loved their kitchens. Both loved to sweep and keep impecable households. They both loved their children and meddled in their lives, in some more than others. But what I really remember now about them was the manner in which they went about their days, from the eyes of a 9 year old girl. While I remember the happy times of familial joviality during weekend get togethers, I am drawn now to the body language and their facial expressions which are so vividly sketched in my mind.

I remember Juanita always over her kitchen counter what essentially was the smallest, humble kitchen ever- just a stove, sink, and barely any space to cut up vegetables, but she seemed to manage. I remember always sitting at the small two by three-foot kitchen table watching her as we talked with mate or tea, bread and butter and maybe some cheese. She always slaved to make the healthiest and most aeromatic soups I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, day after day. Making every penny, or moneda stretch was her forte. While she was cooking she was also hand washing clothes, always with a large basin on a sink near between the small bathroom and the kitchen, and a wooden washing board. Until of course my parents bought her a new washer when my dad came to the U.S. Although she was short, I remember her always hunched over, as if beaten by life, her head would barely raise from what she was doing, but her eyes were the conveyer of emotions. They were eyes of a little girl in an old, worn by life woman. So much suffering and pain in them with a tiny glimmer of light, that I think my sister and I provided her. We truly were her "mis princesitas," "my little princesses." I just wonder if what made her so sad, now looking back, depressed, was her horrible past that she seemed to never come to terms with or was it something else. But even before her children were grown with their own life disappointments, how did she get through those days. The days of cooking, ironing, cleaning, stretching pennies. What were her thoughts, illusions, dreams? How did she handle the childrearing? I know she ruled them far stricter than us, she was putty with us. Gave us anything that was at her reach, albeit, little, the love and cherishing that made up for that was immeasurable.

What went through her mind as she routinely peeled those potatoes, carrots, cut up squash and onions every day for her soup when her hands moved in the exact same way they had the day before and thousands of times before, surely she must have been thinking? She always murmured under her breath things we couldn't hear. There was the shaking of her head as she murmored as if she was placing her complaints to the universe only to pray to God later, thanking him for his blessings, maybe hoping he hadn't heard her complain.

Then there was mi abuela Francisca - a tall, big boned woman of Italian descent. I remember her in two ways, either with a broom in her hands sweeping the patio a million times a day or laboring over a kitchen table while something was cooking on the stove and something baking in the oven. Her kitchen was a large, standalone kitchen separated from the house by a hall from the open courtyard in the middle of the house, much like an Italian house. Women, her daughter and 3 daughter-in-laws, always congregated in there for meal preparations, the men never entered. It was a woman's domain, that I remember being nice, especially when you could sneak in there to taste one of her pasta sauces with some of her white bread, freshly baked and warm from the oven. This while women were loudly fighting for talking room about whatever afflicted them at the moment, passing the mate around. Always mates around. But sometimes, when she was alone in there as the others were enjoying their time together or when she watched us, I saw a different side to her, the same as when she swept. It was as if she was trying to solve an insurmountable problem along with the quick, harsh strokes of the broom or the steady, strong kneading of the bread, which she did so evenly, without a thought about it, just repetition. The same strong, dark, now age freckled hands with which my father kneads his bread at the bakery. I wonder though, what was she thinking, trying to solve? One of her childrens' afflictions or one of her own's, buried deep inside. She also sighed, but she never seemed to tire or wearied. She carried herself strongly, as 'tomorrow is another day, we will see it, we will live it.' But I wonder how she did the raising of 4 kids practically by herself with a traveling husband and one who also had his own demands, being traditionally raised Lebanese. Did she tire and suffer in silence, did she aspire to anything else or did that never cross her mind?

I wish I knew this for both women, even if I know that they both were destined for the traditional women roles in a very macho Hispanic culture, where keeping home and raising children was their sole expectation. But they must have had their own dreams, no matter how small. I just wish I could sevarles un mate and ask them what they were for each of them. Seeing their kids grow up happy with family, sure, but what else? Had Francisca loved her husband, I know Juanita had, at least in the beginning, clearly evident from their courting letters later given to me by my grandfather as a gift. But I know nothing of my grandfather and just like his office door remained locked ever since his death, so did any speaking of him by everyone in the family.

I admire both these women greatly. They both raised great families in each their own way, successfully. And while each have their faults and strengths, they have given me fortitude. I just wish that I could be the age that I am now with both of these two wonderful women alive, around a table, listening to their stories, learning from their wisdom, feeling their heartbreaks. I can hear them now, laughing, preparing yet for another day.