Free Advice Friday

 Tonight's Free Advice:

Keep family traditions alive.

Pass them on to your children and grandchildren.

Throwback Thursday Because I'm Living In (Remodel) Hoarder Hell Right Now And Can't Find Anything

 I wrote this eleven years ago to the day. Not much has changed. We don't live with a twelve year old anymore however we both still act like twelve year olds and one of us still does most of the talking. Oh well, some things never change. 

Wanted: One Talkative Cabana Boy

So, after my last post, I noticed people requested to hear Bob’s side of the story. I, for one, loved the idea. Think about it. Bob giving his side of the story would mean he would actually have to share what is going on inside that brain of his. This was going to work out better than I could have even imagined. Or so I thought.

When Bob walked in the door Tuesday night he was laughing as he asked,


“So, are you ready to apologize?”


That’s when I started laughing.


“Apologize? For what? For telling the truth?”


Ok, so now we are both laughing hard enough to make it difficult to speak but not too difficult to chase each other through the house pushing one another. Yeah, we are quite mature like that. Of course, our twelve year old is also laughing and running with us by this time even though she has no idea why.


Anyway, when I told the Great Orator that people were requesting his side of the story, he was thrilled. He promised to let the entire blog world including “all those blog people of yours” know the truth once and for all.


Waiting.


Waiting.


Waiting.


Finally, last night when I asked him when he planned on responding to my post, I got this shockingly uncharacteristic reply. (sarcasm most definitely intended)


“Sorry. I got nuthin.”


Point proven. Case closed.


One last thought. This may be why middle-aged women leave their husbands after 35 years for talkative Cabana boys. I’m just saying……

Swiss Cows Are My Favorite People

So, if you know anything about me at all, you know how much I love cows. I mean, yes, I love all animals but there's something about cows. I was thinking about it the other day and trying to figure out where this obsession with cows started. I did grow up around all the cows on Aunt Meta and Uncle Lorin's ranch. Was it there? Then, my dad did have the drop calf operation that I was around during my teen years. Maybe then? I just couldn't pinpoint it until I found these photos and it all became clear.

These are Swiss cows. Real Swiss cows in the Swiss Alps. Look at them! Don't you just want to grab those little faces and kiss them? I absolutely turn into a baby-talking idiot looking at these two Swissies. I love them! They are my favorite people. One day, I'm going to return to Switzerland and go to the festival that celebrates these beauties.

And here is the why. Bernice Corina Walter-Casas. My Swiss mother who loved everything Swiss because nothing was better in this world than being Swiss. This picture is of my mom in the Swiss Alps at her cousins house. All the cow pictures tonight are from one of the trips my parents took to Switzerland to visit family. My mother's obsession with everything Swiss including Swiss cows was assimilated by me from before birth. I'm convinced. It was obviously passed through the umbilical cord probably along with some Toblerone. 

Even my dad got caught up in being Swiss and he was a full-blooded Spaniard. So, please take note of the massive bell around this gorgeous cow's neck. My mother fell in love with this girl and couldn't get over the big bell she wore. My mom would go all geeky around animals just like I do. So, turns out, the owner of the big belled cow thought my mom was so "special" in her full bodied Swiss cow, baby-talking geekiness, that he actually took the bell off of Bessie (that's what I'm going to name my Swiss cow when I get her home) and gave it to my mother. No joke. True story. Wait, what? You don't believe me?

Would I lie? This is the very bell that hung around Bessie the Swiss cows neck in the Alps of Switzerland. Then, hung in my parents den in Fullerton for decades.

And now it hangs on our closet door in Jacksonville where it shall remain until my Bessie comes home. And yeah, that's a real barn door we use for our closet door. From a real horse barn that was being torn down. What can I say? I'm a Swiss farm girl.

How Am I Even Related To These People?

My family seemed to have this weird addiction to everything Vegas. It was nothing for my parents and/or Kelly and her gang to head to Vegas for the weekend. I mean, a lot. I've been there three times and all I can say about going back is, thanks but I'm good. I just don't get it. Sure, I had fun when I went. Great food, fun things to see, lights and live music, hookers, street people, drunk street people, a week's worth of grocery money down the drain, shall I go on. But not my family. They loved the place.

To prove my point and answer the question, why is there a slot machine in my living room, I have selected some photographic evidence to go along with my ranting.

Exhibit One: This is my parent's living room. They emptied the joint and brought in a bunch of casino games because my sister wanted to host her company Christmas party at mommy and daddy's house. Weirdo.

Exhibit Two: My parents obviously thought hosting Kelly's company Christmas party Vegas style was such a good idea that they threw Kel a suprise Vegas birthday party. Yeah, her yearly surprise birthday parties always surprised me. I mean, come on!

Only this time, they didn't clear out the entire downstairs, only the dining room for the craps table and the den had I don't know what other Vegas shenanigans happening.

Oh sure, my parent's even had a sign made so everyone would know it was Kelly's Casino. I mean, did they ever make a sign for my birthday? Ok, maybe they did but it had a big old donkey on it saying something about an old gray mare. Come on! Kelly gets gaming tables? I didn't even get a cow.

Exhibit Three: So, of course, not to be outdone with all those surprise birthday parties, Kelly decides we girls are going to throw a big shindig for our mother for her 80th birthday. Which means, we have to write checks made out to Kelly and she decides everything that's going to happen at this blowout. Which also means all ideas coming from Char, Debi and I will not only be completely ignored, they will be mocked and ridiculed. See why I miss her so much?

So, this cake which was nothing like the chicken shaped cake I suggested, cost as much as one mortgage payment for me. Not even kidding. Who does that? I mean, did Kelly think we might actually win big with this sucker? Did she assume those were real gold doubloons pouring out the front of this thing? The girl lost her mind. At least she hired a personal chef to cook for the bazillion people she invited. And the coat check/cigarette girl she time-warped in from the 1940's was helpful when it was time to serve the cake. Yeah, totally my kind of shindig. But wait! That's not all!

That is exactly who you think it is. He's not dead. He came to my sisters house for Bernie's 80th. 

This is at the end of his completely inappropriate performance where he gyrated those infamous hips at my mother, the woman who birthed me. The woman who hid around every corner ready to pistol whip any boy she caught us with. The woman who lost her mind and had to put her oxygen back on over this guy. I blame all her trips to Vegas for this senior lapse of Catholic decency.

Then, finally, once Elvis had left the building, my sisters informed me I was to give a speech honoring the old bat we all loved and adored. Not one to miss an opportunity, I called upon all those Dean Martin Vegas-style Roasts I watched as a kid. Oh, I roasted her. I roasted her well-done. Did I have the last laugh? Not even. For every zinger I produced, Bernie had a comeback that would have ensured her top billing in Vegas. Dammit!

Closing Argument: So, how did I end up with a slot machine in my temporary hoarders living room? After so many Vegas parties at my parents house, my sister Kelly's boss thought it would be a great idea to buy my parents a slot machine for Christmas one year. So he did. When my parents passed away, the slot machine went to Kelly's house because as I have proven, she started this whole ridiculous Viva Las Casas trend. Then, Kelly died and somehow, recently I ended up with the thing. Me. The farm girl living on a farm. With pet pigs. Sometimes life just doesn't make sense.

I did save my mothers sweaty sash from Elvis though because it came with her favorite chicken blanket, so in a way....I won!

PS....I think I know what I'm giving my sister Debi for Christmas. Nobody say a word. 🎰

He Knows A Guy

So, I was working on a post for tonight regarding the slot machine in our living room when I ran across this little beauty of a photo. Of course, the memories started flooding my brain and well, I just have to tell this story first before I lose it. No, seriously, I can't remember why I walked into the kitchen so believe me when I say, I gotta write this down or it's gone like the wind.

Ok, so I have no idea who the dude on the left is but I'm betting he's a friend of the dude on the right. The dude on the right is my brother-in-law, Ron. The gal in the middle is Elke Sommer, the actress. I have no idea where this was taken but probably some fancy shindig with my sister and parents. It wasn't really unusual to see movie stars because my parents knew quite a few through boxing. Actually, I have a lot of photos with my parents hanging with these folks. I even have my dad's address book with some phone numbers and addresses of fancy people. All that to say, it's not that weird to stumble across a picture of Ron schmoozing with Elke Sommer.

It's absolutely not weird to see Ron busting up with Elke Sommer. That's what Ron does. He's a schmoozer extraordinaire. Ron is one of the most fun people I know and hanging out with him is a guaranteed good time. So why am I telling you all this? Because the Elke Sommer pictures reminded me of the time Ron introduced me to one of his closest friends, Mayor Tom Bradley.

I had a great picture of Ron with Mayor Bradley but I must have already sent it to Ron. Anyway, this is Mayor Tom Bradley. Our family had great respect for Mayor Bradley, so much so that my father invited him to the World Boxing Hall of Fame dinner as his guest one year. Mayor Bradley, who was quite the popular public figure at the time, graciously accepted and my dad made sure he and his guests had the best table at the front of the ballroom. Mayor Bradley was seated within ten feet of the inductees who were some of the best of the best boxers of our time. Our family table where Ron and I were seated was maybe twenty feet behind Mayor Bradleys.

I have met quite a few famous people through my dad. I rarely geeked out because it's just not my thing. However, when Mayor Bradley walked into the ballroom and was seated at his table, I was geeking. I thought so highly of him and was so pleased that he would support the WBHF, I could hardly contain myself. Ron, noticing my excitement, offered to introduce me to Mayor Bradley. Our conversation went something like this, as I recall:

"Hey Mar, you wanna meet Tom? We're personal friends."

"Ron, you are not personal friends with Tom Bradley."

"No, really, I am. We golf together sometimes. Do you want to meet him?"

" You're lying! You do not golf with Tom Bradley."

"Ok, I'm going to prove to you that Tom Bradley and I are friends."

With that, Ron gets up and makes his way over to Mayor Bradley's table. When Mayor Bradley sees Ron approaching him, he stands up and reaches out to shake hands with Ron. I am watching the two of them smiling and laughing, completely shocked. Finally, they both look my way, Ron is waving me over and Mayor Tom Bradley is smiling at me. I can't even believe this is happening as I make my way over to his table.

As soon as I reach the two men, Ron introduces me to Mayor Bradley who warmly shakes my hand and says something nice which I don't remember because I was in full blown geek mode by now. We say our goodbyes and as we're walking back to our table our conversation goes something like this:

"Oh, my gosh, Ron! I can't believe you really know Tom Bradley!!"

"Mar, I've never met the guy before in my life."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my brother-in-law.

This Is Why I Don't Do Drugs. Usually.

I have these weird goals and I always remind every doctor I see. I want to live to be at least 100 and be drug-free. It's not that I'm against medicine, I just have to really need it. I mean like, I'm dying and I have to take something. Oh, and I would have also tried all my weird hippie cures first. I'm just a big believer in the idea that we are over-medicated. Every doctor I have ever had knows, don't give me drugs because I probably won't take them. Unless some creature bites me.

I am one of those super lucky folks that is allergic to just about every damn thing that bites. Of course, this means that the biters love me and seek me out. I can't count how many times over the last 45 years, I've ended up in the ER with an allergic reaction. It's ridiculous. One time, I woke up early in the morning, I think somewhere around 5 AM, and I had the strangest feeling. Like something just wasn't right. I got up to use the bathroom and when I turned on the light and saw myself in the mirror, I had a full-blown panic attack. My bottom lip was so swollen that it hung down like the African women that wear plates in their lips. The entire bottom half of my face was out of whack. As I held my face, jumping around screaming for Bob to get up, my normally low blood pressure did what it does when I do my panic dance. It dropped even lower, I passed out and came around to Bob standing over me asking what I was doing on the floor. So helpful. 

So, this morning when I woke up and had that weird, oh crap something bit me on my lip feeling, I jumped out of bed, checked my lip and sure enough, I was starting to swell up. Having decades of experience with this nonsense at this point, I grabbed a Benadryl and kissed the day goodbye. Yep, one stupid little pink pill and I'm done. I am not joking when I say, I literally slept all day today. I'd wake up for 30 minutes and try to accomplish something then have to go lay back down and I'd be out again for hours. It's ridiculous but this is my reaction to Benadryl every single time. It's better than being a fathead.

I don't think Bob hated today either. Maybe this is God's way of giving the guy a break now and then.

I have a love-hate relationship with this little pink pill. 

Sometimes, I Just Can't Help Myself

Our house looks like hoarders live here at the moment. Not that I'm judging any hoarders. You do you, boo, as I've heard them say. Ok, I've never actually heard anyone say that but you get where I'm going. Anyway, we decided to paint our kitchen. No big deal, right? Wrong. Because it seems the right thing to do, if you're going to paint your kitchen, is to also paint your dining room. And hallway. Plus the front bathroom. So, after schlepping all the crap from those rooms into our living room and the two back bedrooms, our house looks like it could get us a spot on one of those hoarding shows. Which actually isn't a bad idea if it will help pay for this fiasco we're living in.

See that narrow little pathway? That's in our living room. It leads to our couch which is the only place to sit at the moment. Yes, we have a lot of booze, which is spread all over the house right now. It looks like we need an intervention which we probably do but just not for drinking because we actually don't drink that much. That's why we have so much booze. If we drank it we wouldn't have it. Logic, people. Besides, if you're going to judge me, it should be for having a slot machine in our living room with a picture of Jesus over it. But, you would be wrong to judge me for that because it's actually my way of reminding myself there is no such thing as luck. You're welcome.

My sister-friend, Patty, started this entire nightmare we're living in.

This is our kitchen. Well, it was our kitchen. I loved this kitchen. I had a big pantry built and added a cool door like the one our kids bought us when we lived in Oklahoma. I hired a guy to tear out the microwave, move an island to open the kitchen up and change the location of the stove. Speaking of the stove, it went out on our back porch so the vintage 1953 stove could go into the kitchen. Yes, the stove on the back porch worked. No, the vintage 1953 stove did not work. But it was all good. We just cooked out on the back porch until we could find someone to restore the vintage 1953 stove. I know it didn't work but it looked really cool in our 1953 kitchen. Whatever. Think Green Acres. Then, I had the guy paint the kitchen John Deere green and yellow. No, seriously, I actually said to the Florida painter dude, please paint my cabinets John Deere yellow to go along with the John Deere green countertops and crappy, peeling 1953 linoleum floor. And since I had a checkbook in my hand, Florida painter dude complied with my wishes. 

This made perfect sense to me at the time. Then Patty came to stay with us for a few months a few years ago. She and Mark were moving to Florida and Patty came ahead to get their brand-new just being built house done while Mark sold his business. One of the first things Patty asked me when she saw my kitchen was if I had painted it those colors on purpose. Um, yeah! They're John Deere yellow and green. Then she asked about the stove situation and that's when I knew I was in trouble. Because anytime your sister comes to stay with you and she acts real sweet but is using psychological warfare on you in the hopes of bringing you back to reality, you're in trouble. I've been in this rodeo before, usually as the clown in the barrel. I pretty much knew I was going down for the count eventually so instead of fighting it, Patty, Bob and I went and bought a new stove for the kitchen. I kept the vintage 1953 stove however, as my act of protest and it now sits next to my washer. I use it for storing detergent and bleach in the ovens and folding on top of the burners. It made sense at the time.

Anyway, fast forward to now and the ceilings that were painted less than five years ago which are now  peeling plus the John Deere yellow cabinets were somehow starting to cheer me less and annoy me more. I found myself asking if I painted it those colors on purpose. So, we're painting.

I had the new and improved Florida painter dude use black on the bottom cabinets and gray on the top. The walls are a creamy white and the ceiling is finally perfectly textured. Of course, I FaceTimed with Patty when Florida painter dude go started to make sure I wasn't making another unfortunate life choice. She approved so I am happy and hopefully, the painting will be done soon. The new and improved Florida painter dude is actually a contractor so he mentioned now would be a good time to finish tiling our kitchen and dining room floors to match the rest of the house we'd already updated. I told him I didn't think we could afford it at the moment. The tile was delivered today. 

A new John Deere would have been cheaper than this mess. 

Free Advice Friday

Tonight's Free Advice:

You know who you should really try to be like? 

Yourself. 

Otherwise, you're just allowing others to mold and shape you.

You're not play doh.

Bernice Walter Casas

Sometimes, there are no words. Tonight, was supposed to be about my mother, the last child of my grandparents, John and Corina Walter. I thought about this all day, planned it in my head, and put it off because the closer I got to it, the more I lost all the words. 

I spent hours tonight, going through photos of my mother, trying to put together wonderful stories of her life to share here. And there are wonderful stories. So many. But they were all lost in the shadows today. All I could hear was the silence of her absence. It can be deafening at times, even nineteen years later.

I realized, I don't have anything to say tonight, other than to my mother. I hope she's listening.

Hey Mom,

I'm so thankful you left all the photos to me. You knew the girls would have thrown everything in the trash, but I would go through each piece as if they were gold. You were right on both accounts. Finding the pictures of you as a kid has been one of the best gifts you could have ever given me. I like to look at you in them and imagine what your life was like. I can hear the stories you told me about your childhood and now I can picture you in them so much better because of these photos. Even though your shared memories are shadowy to me, thank you. For every word.

Seeing the pictures of you and Dad when you were dating through high school has been hilarious. It's also been eye-opening. You weren't as sweet and perfect as you had us girls convinced you were. I like that. We were more alike than I think I ever realized. I don't think you really liked that about me. Sometimes, it felt like you didn't like me at all. Was it because I reminded you of yourself? 

You were always so beautiful. Not just when you were young. Always. You never saw that though. You were so freaking hard on yourself all the time. Then you were hard on me. What was going on with you and why couldn't we just talk about it? Did I do the same thing to my kids? I think I did and I hate it. You were such a great mom who was convinced she wasn't. I hope you know the truth now.

Of all the guys in all the world, how did you end up with this Spaniard?  You always said you didn't like him because he was arrogant when you met and he beat up local boys that liked you. Then you marry the guy. You two were always a lot to handle but I'm so glad it was the two of you. I can't imagine it any other way. How could I? I wouldn't be here. Unless I was actually adopted like I always thought I was. Remember Aunt Sisi telling me Despot was my dad and I could have been Marla Minetti? You did not think that was funny at all. Sisi and I laughed like hyenas over it. Why was it so much fun to annoy you? I really want to apologize but do I have to mean it?

I love this picture of you and Dad so much. It always hung in the hallway in South Gate. What an odd place to hang it, in a tiny, dark hallway where it was difficult to see. It's such a fabulous picture of you both but especially you. The war bride, before her fella heads overseas. You never said much about those days. Maybe because Mr. CFC did most of the talking. He was always center-stage with his crazy Big Fish stories. But I know the truth. I can look back and see it was you all along that kept this crazy train on the tracks. He might have been the locomotive but you were definitely the steam. 

I will never forget the example you set for us girls about what it means to live a life to be proud of. You didn't just say it, you did it. You loved Dad's parents even when yours were gone, you made a small house in South Gate seem like a mansion to us because of all the living that went on there. You loved your husband through some trying times and never gave up. You also never gave in. I was never anything but proud of you as my mother. Why didn't you believe that? Do you believe it now? I sure hope so.

I loved the way you and Dad always danced. Not just at weddings and parties but at home. You could be not speaking to him and I'd put on Glen Miller and beg you two to dance and you would. It's pretty much how you did life, right? Everything could be going wrong and you'd just keep dancing through life until everything was right again. I'm like that. I think it's because we're stubborn and giving up is not an option. Not that you didn't want to give up sometimes. I know you did. I remember. I feel the same way now and then. But you didn't quit life and I won't either because I'm your kid. 

One question. How could you be so fancy and think you weren't? What did you see when you looked in the mirror? You were so good, Mom. On the inside and outside. I never once heard you accept a compliment. Not about yourself, or something you'd done, or your cooking or your kids. Why is that? Did you think you weren't good enough so nothing else was good enough? You were more than enough. You were everything to us. To me. 

I laughed so hard when I found these pictures. Do you remember? You wanted to own a restaurant so Dad bought you one in Maywood. You named it The Mighty Taco and spent forever getting the inside and outside fixed up and ready to open. Then, you spent every day there, cooking and making friends with every patron. I don't think it was but a few years when Dad said you had to close the restaurant. Do you remember why? You had made so many friends and wouldn't charge them for their meals. The restaurant was going broke with your friends eat free program. So, The Mighty Taco closed and your regular customers started showing up at our house, where you fed them and gave away all of Dad's booze and had parties. And my kids wonder where I get it from.

Your smile. You had the best smile. Seriously, the best out of anyone I have ever known in my entire life. And your laugh was infectious. My best days were making you laugh. Whenever I made you laugh, I felt you liked me. Isn't that strange? It wasn't until your last year on earth that I knew you weren't always disappointed in me, like I thought. Why did we wait so long to talk about things? You taught me a lesson though, Mom. I don't wait anymore. I tell my kids how much I love them and how proud I am of them. When they piss me off or I'm disappointed in their choices, I still love them and tell them so. I work really hard to not let my crap become their crap. I don't always succeed but I'm trying. This mom gig is hard. You made it look so easy.

You had the weirdest sense of humor. Like pretending to stab Dad at your 50th wedding anniversary party. We all laughed but we also knew it was a miracle you never snapped and ended up on the lamb. Like you always said, "You girls have no idea what it's like dealing with your father." I always thought you were really mean to our poor, perfect father. Then he came to live with me after you died and I swear, I could hear you laughing sometimes when I was ready to snap. That Spaniard was a lot of fun but he was a handful. I miss him. I miss you both. 

                                                                                                  Love,

                                                                                                          Me

                                                                                        

Uncle Archie

These are the only two photos I have of my Uncle Archie. He was only sixteen years old when he died. My mother was thirteen. It's a very short, sad story but the only one I ever knew about him. My mother would periodically tell the story out of the blue. I think it bothered her for her entire life.

Aunt Zora, Aunt Meta, Aunt Hazel (Back Row)
Kelly Mederos, Bernice (my mom), Uncle Archie (Front Row)
Joey Mederos (Bottom) Approx 1925

Bernice Walter (my mother) in the backseat
Archie Walter is the passenger
Driver is ranch hand, Dan Encinas
approx 1934, the year of Archie's death

When my Uncle Archie was sixteen years old and attending Coast Union High School in Cambria, he wanted to join the football team. My grandfather would not hear of it and refused to sign the consent form. My mother always said she loved her brother very much and hated to see him sad so she agreed to forge her dad's signature so Archie could join the team. Archie did join the team and was able to keep that fact along with his uniform, hidden from my grandfather. 

Back in the 1930s, football helmets were made of leather and didn't offer the same protection as helmets of today. During one of Coast Unions football practices, Archie was tackled and accidentally cleated in the head, his helmet of little help. My understanding from my mother was he tried to hide the fact it had happened at first but quickly became ill to the point of having to go to hospital. Within three days of the accident, Archie was septic and died. 

The newspaper articles I've read say his body lay in wake at a funeral parlor however my mother always said she remembered his casket in their downstairs parlor. I'm not really sure of the details and I suppose they don't really matter, in the end. I do know, it was always a sad shadow over my mother. Tonight, as I type out this story, I have to smile thinking they are back together again. 

Aunt Hazel

I never knew my Aunt Hazel. She was only thirty-nine years old when she passed away from cancer, three years before I was born. I grew up hearing some wonderful stories though, about her and her husband, Uncle Homer. I'll share what I've heard and hopefully, if I get any of it wrong, my cousin Maureen will set me straight. 

Paning, Norman, Uncle Homer, Aunt Hazel, Nonna?, Bernice (my mom) with Beverly, and Barbara

I really love this picture for so many reasons. One of those reasons is Paning. He was from Switzerland and would come out to Aunt Meta's ranch while I was there as a little kid. I remember his thick accent and the fancy cookies he would bring Aunt Meta. He always reminded me of one of Santa's elves because he was small and happy and loved all of us kids. I really liked him and have often wondered what happened to him. He seemed to just disappear one day, so I wonder if he went back to Switzerland. Or maybe, he's at the North Pole. Hey! It could happen.

I only have a few photos of my Aunt Hazel and Uncle Homer but this one is extra special to me because it includes their children, my cousins Barbara and Norman and my mother. I have quite a few pictures from this Easter day with so many of the cousins, aunts, uncles and friends. Whenever I look through them, I'm bummed I wasn't there. I can imagine how amazing it must have been to be a part of it all in the late 1940s/early 1950s. 

My sister Char, has told me so many wonderful stories of staying at Aunt Hazel's house. She said the house was always full of people and food, wine and music. I love hearing how Uncle Homer had a barrel of homemade wine in the basement along with sausages hanging up to dry. Upstairs, my uncle and his band would be playing music as people danced and sang. One of the best gifts I ever received was from my cousin Maureen. She sent me a recording of one of those parties at Aunt Hazel and Uncle Homer's house. I haven't listened to it in awhile but I plan on getting it out this week. If I remember correctly, even my Grandma and Grandpa Casas are on it. Just thinking about it has me pretty excited to give it another listen. I might even let you know what I hear. 

Barbara, Maureen, Norman, Charlene, Marvin Paolini, Mickey

This picture is framed and hangs on my bedroom wall. I love this picture of my sister Char and our cousins along with family friend, Marvin Paolini. Speaking of Marvin, I have a picture of him as a pre-teen riding his horse through Cayucos while he's holding me. I couldn't be six months old. This is what happens when you have a sister twelve years older than you. She drags you along on her adventures and passes you around like a doll. But that's another story for another day.

Aunt Hazel's daughter Barbara, is my first cousin. There is a nineteen year difference between us but honestly, I adore Barbara. She has always been really good to me and later to my husband and children. I doubt she knows this but there have been many times, when we're together, that I find myself staring at her wondering if she got her mannerisms from Aunt Hazel. Barbara has a great laugh and I wish I knew if it sounds like her mother's laugh. Either way, I'm so grateful that even though my aunt was never a part of my life other than through memories, her wonderful daughter has been a very important part of what has made my life really good. 

I've already told some stories about my cousin Norman in earlier posts. There are so many more I could tell but the thing I want to say tonight about Norman is this. He was a good man. Norman had his issues just like the rest of us, but down in the very core of who he was, there was a wounded little boy who lost his mother way too soon. I can't even imagine what he went through. What I knew of Norman was that he was always there for Bob and I anytime we needed help with something. He wasn't a lovey dovey dude. When I would force him to hug me and give me a kiss, he always acted embarrassed but I didn't care. I loved him. Oh sure, he locked me in the closet when I was little and pinned me under the kitchen table with his feet at the ranch but Aunt Meta took care of that. He never did it again. Ha! 

Uncle Homer's Band

As I was digging through my mother's treasures, I found a small stack of these original posters. I can't even tell you how excited I was to have these in my possession. I was not only able to send one to my cousin Sergio in Switzerland, I also had enough to share with Aunt Hazel's grandchildren, and a few nieces including the one I kept. This will soon be framed and hung on the wall in our home. I can't help but smile every time I look at this poster. I can almost hear the music and taste the salami and wine.

Aunt Zora

Tonight I'm going to tell you about a very special person, my Aunt Zora. She was one of the sweetest, kindest, craziest people I ever knew and we all adored her. Aunt Zora was the life of every party and didn't know what it meant to be embarrassed. She was who she was and made no apologies. That made her an amazingly strong woman in my eyes. I miss her terribly and think of her often, wishing I could stop in at her house for a visit and coffee. What I wouldn't give to spend one more afternoon at her kitchen table in San Luis Obispo. 

Back Row: Aunt Zora, Aunt Meta, Aunt Hazel    

 Front Row: Kelly Mederos, Bernice (my mom), Uncle Archie

Bottom: Joey Mederos

Approx 1925

I'm so happy I found this photo. Although it's definitely tattered and torn, I still recognize the faces of my dear aunts and mother. This is also one of only two photographs I have of my Uncle Archie. When I look at my Aunt Zora in this picture, I have to laugh because even as a child, I can see the mischievous aunt I love so much. I can only imagine what she was thinking and saying as she poked her sister and friend in their heads. Aunt Zora was always up to something.

My dad, Charles Casas and my Aunt Zora 

approx 1939

My dad loved Aunt Zora. Finding this picture of the two of them made me laugh remembering a story Aunt Zora loved to tell. I may have some names mixed up but you'll get the gist of it. It seems Aunt Zora and some of her siblings were horsing around on the ranch they grew up on one day. Only this time it wasn't with the actual horses but horsepower. My grandfather wasn't around but there was a car, possibly my dads, I don't remember, at the ranch. My Aunt Zora decided to get in and try to drive which I don't believe was wise considering her age and ability at the time. One thing I do know for sure though, Aunt Zora loved to show off especially if there was an audience and she could make them laugh. I would wager the idea to drive had something to do with showing off and laughing about it. Anyway, in the midst of all the horsing around, Aunt Zora accidentally ran over one of her sisters, maybe Aunt Hazel? I just remember Aunt Zora telling this story more times than I can count and laughing about it. Nobody was seriously hurt and it made for a good story especially as it grew hair through the years. It was absolutely something I would do. Ok, maybe something I actually did do, driving cars when I wasn't supposed to. At least I never ran over any of my sisters. That I know of, anyway.

Bernice (my mom), Aunt Zora and Aunt Jeannette

Out backyard in South Gate, 1982

I loved it when my mother's sisters came to our house. It was always so much fun to see them all together, interacting. My mother, being the amazing cook she was, would prepare favorite meals for her sisters visits. We'd all gather to eat together with so much loud talking and laughing, and enough wine and food to feed a Swiss army. And without fail, no matter where we were or who we were with, as soon as we finished and dishes were being cleared from the table, my Aunt Zora would announce, "I'm as full as a tick!!" Of course, I thought that was hilarious and would egg her on every time as my mother and Aunt Sisi would be cringing and telling her how gross they thought that saying was. It never got old to me. After my Aunt Zora died, I went to see my mother. She was really sad losing her last sibling. It was hard for her to be the only Walter left of their family and it broke my heart for her. I still remember my sisters coming over to my parents and all of us girls taking our mother to Mimi's Cafe for lunch. This was my mother's favorite place to go and we thought it might cheer her to get out with her girls. We had a nice time although I could feel the weight of sadness resting on my mom. As our waitress cleared our dishes and prepared to bring coffee and dessert, I announced a bit louder than planned, "I'm as full as a tick!!" It got very quiet for a moment, followed by laughter and my sister Kelly declaring how disgusting I was. We spent the remainder of our time telling the best Aunt Zora stories we could remember over coffee and dessert. It was a good day.

Aunt Zora, Aunt Sisi, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Swiss, Aunt Meta, Aunt Jeannette, Bernice (my mom) 

This was one of our family reunions. These get-togethers when most of the aunts and Uncle Swiss were alive were the best. I can think of one particular party Bob and I hosted at our house when our Swiss cousins came to visit. There was eating, drinking and dancing. Some of that dancing involved Aunt Ruth and Aunt Zora in a trash can. I don't know. The old bats had a few too many and thought it seemed like a good idea at the time. And lord help anyone that tried to leave because the two crazy Walter trashcan girls were going to sing the party pooper song to you, like it or not. Those two were insane and I loved every minute of it. They left some big dancing shoes to fill and we're doing our best to fill them and embarrass our children every chance we get. So far, so good.

Aunt Meta

I know I've already written a lot through the years about my Aunt Meta, but the truth is, there aren't enough words to describe the amazing woman she was. I used to wonder, when I was a kid, if my mom and her sister Meta swapped me at birth because I was so much like Aunt Meta. I'm not sure what my mom would have swapped for me but it would have been something fancy because Bernice Casas was all that. Aunt Meta, on the other hand, was all ranch. She didn't have her hair and nails done or wear fancy clothes. Her hands were rough from all the ranch work she did and I don't remember her wearing makeup or perfume. She was perfect in my eyes. 

Aunt Meta's clothes were usually dirty from calves or chickens or gardening. She cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner in her kitchen and I honestly don't remember ever going out to eat all the years I stayed with her. Her yard was always full of cats, dogs and sometimes chickens, calves or lambs. She didn't get wound up when we were running in and out dragging an animal with us. She was usually right in there with us, enjoying the moment. I can't recall Aunt Meta in front of the television ever but I have so many memories of being outside, all over the ranch with her.

When Bob and I lived in town in Cayucos, we had a pet rooster named Tut. He was the biggest, most beautiful boy you'd ever want to see. The only problem was, we lived in town and the neighbors didn't love his early morning crowing. I was really sad to have to re-home Tut but I hoped Aunt Meta would take him. I walked the mile out to her ranch on the morning I promised Bob I would find Tut a new home. Baby Matthew was in his carriage and Tut sat quietly in the carriage with him, enjoying the ride. As I walked up the long dirt drive to the ranch, I saw Aunt Meta hanging clothes on the line. As soon as I reached her and explained what was happening, she grabbed Tut and started cooing at him. We spent the rest of the morning sitting at the patio table snapping green beans for lunch while Matt slept in his carriage and Tut did his fancy strut around the yard. Aunt Meta not only took my pet rooster but she loved him for me which made me love her even more. 

One of the crazy things about Aunt Meta was that she was legally blind from the age of twenty-eight. I don't think most people would have known that about her especially when she was on the ranch. She functioned better and worked harder than anyone else I had ever known in my entire life and that's the truth. I trusted her with my kids a thousand percent, more than I trusted most full-sighted people. She was my person.

Luis Casas, Meta Walter, Charles Casas, Bernice Casas, flower girl, Delores Blair. 

I don't know the couple on the end but I'm digging to find out.

I always knew Aunt Meta was in my parents wedding. What I didn't know is that she was actually living in Los Angeles at the time. This was actually mind-blowing to me because I have never pictured her as a city girl. Not even for a minute. I need to talk to my cousin Maureen and see what she can tell me about her mother, Meta, living in the city. That's only the first part of what I want to know.

This was the wedding party held for my parents later that day. My parents are sitting on the ground and Aunt Meta is standing right in the middle next to her father, Grandpa Walter wearing the sombrero. Don't ask me because I don't know the answer to why there are so many sombreros in Casas photos. It's just our thing. Obviously, the Swiss side picked up on that and joined in the tomfoolery.

Anyway, here's the second question I have for Maureen. Did she know that her mother was dating my dad's brother back in the day? I found a letter that spilled those beans. Interesting stuff. Our family was a little international soap opera. I can hardly wait to read through some more of these letters. That's going to be a whole post in itself.