Olga Casas Perez

Perched atop one of my kitchen shelves, is a little wooden frame. It holds one of my favorite pictures of my Grandfather and one of his daughters, my Aunt Olga.

Grandpa Pedro Casas and Aunt Olga. Yes, she is holding a big, fat hen. Why wouldn't she?

Sadly, I don't remember my Aunt Olga. She died when I was very young but I grew up hearing stories of her life and death repeated many times throughout the years. This is what I know of her.

My Aunt Olga Casas married a Mexican man, John Rios. They had four daughters and lived in Corona, California. My Aunt is said to have been a woman that cared deeply about people. My father always spoke of her with such love and respect usually ending with him choking back tears. She was known in Corona for caring for the less fortunate, especially women and children. I don't remember the year she died but I believe it was in the early 1960's. I do remember how she died. There was a mother with a child that had no food. My Aunt and her youngest daughter, a 5 year old, drove to the woman's home to take her and her child to the store. Aunt Olga was intent on buying them groceries. On the way, the four of them were hit and killed by a train. It was a tragedy that would loom in the background of our family to this day. My father always said that he wasn't surprised she would die while helping someone else because she was always helping someone else. Though I don't remember her, I have pictures of her around my home because I always wanted to be like her. She is my reminder of what is good in the world.

Although I don't remember Aunt Olga, I do remember my Uncle John very well. He was a giant of a man in every sense of the word. He was loving and kind, soft-spoken and an important part of my life. I loved going to Uncle John's house. There was a massive fig tree in the backyard that still stands to this day. There were also freshly made tortillas. My cousin, Rosemarie, one of Uncle John and Aunt Olga's daughters, made them for us. We kids would crowd around the stove as she patted them flat and perfectly round then flipped them back and forth on the gas stove burner. Once cooked and crispy in just the right spots, Rosemarie would butter and roll them before handing them out. I could eat a dozen as I ran in and out of the fig tree canopy, chasing my sister and cousin. 

Anyway, I guess all that to say, how we live our lives matters. Sometimes, it even matters to those that never knew you but feel your presence none the less. Live a good one.

                                       Yes, I'm holding a big, fat hen. Why wouldn't I?