Laughter is the Best Medicine

I had a wonderful conversation with two of my cousins this evening. We spoke of so much loss, recent and past that I may have shed a few tears. But we also laughed. There is nothing that compares to laughing with those that know you best and have walked through this life with you from the beginning. Some of those walks were through valleys, but many more were through incredibly happy days. The daily stuff that makes up life. The stuff we don't realize is so important until it's in the past. Those days. How I miss those days.

A few things really struck me after we hung up. The first is how family stories are so different depending on who is telling them and what they heard plus who they've heard it from. All three of us took turns sharing the story of our grandparents, Pedro and Ascencion Casas; how they met, their life in Spain and then later in Mexico, the children they had and where they were born, and more. I haven't laughed this well in awhile. Three very different stories and I loved it! We all obviously loved it by the laughter that followed after each telling. Bits and pieces matched up. I mean, we all agreed on our grandparent's names at least! But the telling of the rest was pure delight and I am so grateful for this time.

The one thing we all know for sure is this. Our grandparents loved one another and we are who we are because of who they were. I grew up feeling sad that I never knew my grandmothers and only had my one grandfather for a few short years before he died. It has affected my entire life, wishing I had what I saw others had with their grandparents. Until tonight. Tonight, I realized for the first time how very present in my life Pedro and Ascencion have always been. Our family, beginning with our parents, made sure they were very much a part of all of us. Now, we're doing the same thing. Keeping them alive in the family with our mismatched stories and faded photographs. Recipes and jewelry, rosaries, and prayer cards continue to be passed down to the next generation just as they were passed down to mine. I am so grateful and proud to have grandparents. Life is good, even when it isn't. 

                                           Pedro Casas and Ascencion Prieto ~ Wedding Photo 

                                                   We believe the date is 06/28/1909 in Spain

                                                                         Pedro Casas

                                                                    Ascencion Casas

                                                   Pedro Casas and Ascencion Casas~1927

                                                                  Corona, California

                                                       Ascencion Casas and Pedro Casas

                                                       Pico St in Los Angeles, California

                                                        Ascencion Casas and Pedro Casas
                                       Fishing in Mexico with Uncle Pete and Aunt Charlotte

                                                         Ascencion Casas and Pedro Casas

                                                     My favorite picture of my grandparents!

                                                  I use to hide this under my pillow as a kid.

                                                 Pedro Casas and Ascencion Casas~1950s
                                                                    

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?

I Might Be Moving!

 So, funny story. I might be here illegally. 

My grandparents, Pedro and Ascencion, came by boat from Spain to Vera Cruz, Mexico in 1912. This newspaper clipping I found in my mother's "treasures" says so. Actually, it says Pedro and Beatriz but I have never, in 62 years, ever once heard my grandmother referred to as Beatriz. Her name was Ascencion but her family called her Conchita. So my dad said anyway. He also said he held back 200 Japanese soldiers single-handedly in WWII and the hole in his t-shirt was where he was shot through the heart during his heroic effort to save the world from speaking Japanese. But I digress.

Anyway, my dad, Carlos Francisco, also known as Charles but never "Charley" because, per Carlos Francisco, Charley was his horse, not his name....what was I saying? 

Oh yeah, my grandparents, Pedro and Ascencion Casas settled in Mexico in 1912 after immigrating from Spain. Eight years later, on June 11th, 1920, their youngest child, my father, Carlos Francisco, was born in Douglass, Arizona. I have always known these facts. What I couldn't ever get a clear answer to was how did they get across the border? I'm digging through the ancient treasure trove of paperwork right now to see if I can find anything that would clear this up, once and for all.

I've got to be honest, I'm hoping I'm here illegally. I'm ready to do the right thing and turn myself in. Once I'm officially deported back to Spain, come visit. I'll be in a little villa with room for visitantes. 

This is another little blurb from the newspaper article on Don Johnson from yesterday's post. Just in case you were wondering. You're welcome.

The Sapphires is a Gem

 I watched a really good movie today. The Sapphires is based on a true story, so I already liked the thought of spending an hour and 38 minutes of my life on it. It was also about racism and Vietnam and love and Australia, also subjects I find worth my time. So, I watched and I'm glad I did.

For some reason, this movie made me think of my parents, especially my father. I thought back on how we were raised in a home that was consistently filled with people from all over the world. Our house was a Catholic home that not only welcomed all faiths but also housed any in need. I lost track eventually of all the folks my parents had living with us at one time or another. My parents were not saints. They would tell you that. They were decent human beings. It was that simple. I could tell you so many great stories of people that passed through their doors but tonight, I'll tell you about just one.

His name was Don Johnson and he was beautiful, inside and out. It was the 1960's and my dad was his manager. Don was a featherweight boxer, a Muslim, and Black. When my dad first brought Don home, I must have been about seven or eight and I instantly loved him. He was soft-spoken and kind but also carried a strong presence. He would read to my sister Kelly and me and have conversations that made me feel important. I can't remember what he said but I do remember how he made me feel seen. I asked him to read our family Bible to Kelly and me one night and he declined. He spoke about his faith and God and I was in awe of someone that wasn't a priest or a nun but loved God so much. I didn't know that was a thing that was possible, to love God so deeply, without being "married" to Him like a nun or a priest. I don't remember how long Don Johnson lived with us but I was happy for each day.

I remember him coming home with my dad one night after a fight at The Grand Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. My mom had dinner waiting and we all sat down to eat. Don sat next to me on my left. As I looked over at him, I noticed a sutured cut above his eyebrow. I asked what happened and when my dad explained the other boxer had landed a punch, I started to cry. My dad wasn't having any of that and sent me to my room. He was very protective of his boxers and the sport and didn't allow anything he saw as negative towards either. After dinner, I saw Don in our living room reading. I went and sat next to him wondering, in my childish way, if I should say I was sorry for feeling sad someone had hit him. I never had to say a word. Don looked down at me, smiled, and told me stories about kindness. I don't remember the words. I do remember the feelings. 

Don Johnson went on to win a Champion's Belt. He gave it to my father and then quit boxing to follow God. I heard he left the country but I don't recall where he landed. My father was disappointed to lose a boxer he believed would go all the way to the top. Don Johnson was already at the top from my point of view. After my dad died, I found Don Johnson's Belt among my father's possessions. I decided to donate it to the World Boxing Hall of Fame Museum, an organization my dad had co-founded. I suppose it still lives there. 

It had never occurred to me until today, that Don Johnson living with us in the 1960's was an act of resistance by my parents. Resistance to the hate and division that permeated the very air of our nation at that time. Don and my father traveled together, stayed in hotels together, ate, laughed and worked together. They were a team. Most folks don't know that my dad never took his cut from his boxers. He felt they earned every penny and so he made sure it all went to them. He always said when he found the next World Champ, he'd get his cut then. He thought he never found that World Champ but I would beg to differ.

I never thought we had a life that was very different from anyone else. Looking back, our lives were amazing because of who our parents were. Not saints. Just decent human beings.

Speaking of Mexico

While we're on the subject of Mariachis and my crazy parents, allow me to share a few additional photos. Yes, I must. You can thank me later. You're welcome.

This is my Uncle Ray however I'm not sure who the senorita is. Next, my mother in her giant sombrero with my WWII Navy uniform wearing dad. This was taken in 1940. It was the beginning of yearly visits to Tijuana for our family. We loved the place. I seriously grew up visiting several times a year. It's where I learned how to bargain like I was the queen of the bedouin gypsies. My mother taught me that. Thanks, mom! It's come in handy through the years. 

This is my honorably discharged from the Navy daddio in the 1950's. Back in Tijuana because, hey, it's what we Casas' did for a good time. My dad was always up for a good time and that meant making sure everyone with him had just as much fun. He was hilarious. I miss him but I see that crazy, fun-loving part of him in our son, Andrew. I'm grateful because the party continues.

See the Senora with the big smile in the middle? That's my mother. She's usually pretty easy to find in a photo because of that smile. It's the smile I inherited from her. I'm so thankful for that. Anyway, this was from the 1980's. The gal sitting next to my mom was a family friend. I say was because her family did my dad dirty in a business deal so obviously, we no longer consider them friends. That's how it works. You mess with one, the whole family goes Godfather on you. That's another story for another day. Anyway, that's my cousin Elvira sitting on the donkey. She was visiting my parents from Spain so obviously, my mom had to take her to TJ to sit on a donkey, right?

This is my dad in the 1980's in Tijuana with some of his business associates and a shoeshine boy. My dad did a lot of business in Mexico and loved to have his shoes shined at every opportunity. He also loved photo ops so what better idea than to buy hats and have a photo taken on a local bench with a local shoeshine boy with that silly smirk on your face. Old people were so weird when I was young. I get you now, dad and I'm following in your footsteps, smirk and all.

Finally, a picture of my mother and our cousins in the 1990's. Alma and Elbio were visiting from Switzerland. My mother wasn't able to get them to TJ due to time constraints and such so she brought Tiajuana to them. I mean, come on! What good Italian Swiss doesn't want to wear a sombrero in public?

I have more photos of Mexico, many with me striking the same poses as my mother and father above. I think I'll save those for another day. Adios!

Mariachis Make My Eyes Water

 So, today Bobbity and I decided to watch this amazing documentary. If you like Linda, you'll love it.

Most of it was information we knew about her already. Well, I knew. Bobbity talked through the whole thing, as usual, letting me know he didn't know most of what was well known to a true Ronstadt fan. I guess we now know who that fan is in our family. Anyway, there were two specific parts that pretty much wrecked us both.

When LR began singing Blue Bayou, we both began to weep. Not so much at the beauty of her voice, although it was truly beautiful, but rather, remembering how much my father-in-law loved that song. He would play it over and over, like a kid with his first 45 record. 

As the documentary continues, it gets to my favorite part of her life. The part where she records in Spanish, with full mariachi accompaniment, in honor of her father. I loved it then when it actually happened. I love it now, remembering. 

Mariachis have always held a special place in my heart. They were important in my family. If there was a party at my parent's house or my dad's office, you could almost bet there would be mariachis. Wedding in the backyard? Mariachis! Call me Mama Coco but plan on a fiesta funeral when my time comes.

Did I mention the time Oscar de la Hoya brought Mariachis to my parent's house for my mother's birthday? He really liked my mom and knew she really liked Mariachis, so there ya go. 

Anyway, I started digging through boxes again and came up with a few more gems from my family.

My dad surprised my mother with a 25th-anniversary party in their backyard.

With Mariachis, of course!

Ok, that's all for tonight. I'm getting out my boxed set of Vicente Fernandez CDs and having a proper cry in my cerveza. 

Happy Freakin New Year, Ya Filthy Animals

I was thinking about my mom today, as I do most days, and decided to dig through some old photos. I was pretty sure I would be able to find at least one picture of her from a past New Year's Eve. I was not disappointed.

 Louie Casas, Pete Casas, Charles Casas, Ray Casas

Helen Casas, Charlotte Casas, Bernice Casas, Lillian Casas

Yep, there she is, with her tongue sticking out and her face all Lucile Ballish. She was so hip even before it was cool to take a picture with your tongue hanging out like a freak flag flying. Just imagine if she was still alive. She'd be leading the selfie pack of duck lipped weirdos or whatever strange face contortions are in at the moment. Boy, I miss her.

It makes sense that she would marry into the Familia de Casas. I mean, seriously, just look at my grandparents.

 

Pedro Casas and Ascencion Prieto Casas 

My Grandmother, Ascension Prieto Casas died two weeks before I was born, and yet I've always felt connected to her. How could I not? Check out her side-eyed smile. It says everything I say when I make that same face, like, "if you people only knew the crazy going on in my head right now." I may have never met my father's mother, but I have always loved her. She and my mother got along beautifully, or so the stories go and I could understand why. I'm pretty sure they were both hilarious. I know my mother was, for sure. 

Then there were my dad's brothers. These are the two that were more, shall we say, colorful?

                                                            Pete Casas and Louie Casas

Oh, the stories I could tell about just these two alone. I miss them so much and all their shenanigans and tomfoolery. They were bad boys in the best sense. If you don't understand what that means, I feel sorry for you because you've missed out on something special. 

How I wish I could have just one extra day to transport back into their lives. I wouldn't cry. Much. I'd eat and drink and laugh and do my best impressions. The ones that always made my mother laugh while calling me ridiculous. I'd ask my grandpa to twirl my name on his tongue like he always did in his thick Spanish accented English. I'd dance with my dad until my feet couldn't take anymore. I'd smile while Uncle Louie pinched my cheeks and told me Big Fish lies that were better than any truth. Then, while Uncle Pete and Aunt Charlotte surrounded me with their godparent love, I'd ask for advice on how to talk to animals the way they could. Pretty soon, Aunt Helen would give me one of those amazing hugs that made you believe you were the favorite and she'd tell me one of her hilarious stories that were always true. I'd play scrabble with Uncle Ray and tell him what he always meant to me and I'd hugged Aunt Lil and try not to cry while she spoke sweetly to me, as always, with that hint of the South decorating her words. 

And finally...finally...I'd plop myself down next to Ascencion Prieto Casas and tell her how much I've always loved her. I'd let her know her wedding picture hangs on my wall because I like to look at it and see my face in hers. I'd ask her to tell me, in her own words, how she met my beloved grandfather on a ship headed for America from Spain. I would hold her hands, and kiss her cheeks and smell her familiar smell. The smell of home that I always imagined a grandmother that belonged to me would smell of. Then we'd smile that side-eyed smile together and it would all be worth just one day.