Life 

Time, with its all its complexities and vicissitudes arrives, passes, and carries us incessantly forward, leaving in its wake either a treasure-trove or a Pandora’s Box of memories; mostly a mixture of the two. As time takes me on this journey and I travel further along the path, it becomes quite clear to me that, yes, all we really have are memories - after all, we really can’t take anything with us, furthermore what we leave behind is the impact we’ve left in other people’s lives; more memories. 

 Amongst the misty remembrances of my earliest childhood, one clearly shines through, never losing its brightness. I’ve come to appreciate it as a true jewel that extends its light from that distant point in the beginning to the present; this life long companion is the earliest memory that I have of my Father.  

Mountains 

The scene of this vignette takes place in Quito, the capital of Ecuador, the South American country named after the discovery of the equatorial line that divides the southern and northern hemispheres.

Traveling through this strikingly beautiful country, spectacular landscapes are routine. The roads that pass through the Andes mountain range take you beside some the world’s highest mountains and through rolling fertile volcanic valleys; where the black topsoil is at times more that four meters deep. Volcanoes abound, necklaces of waterfalls adorn the descent into the tropical rain forest, where giant and multicolored butterflies flutter through curtains of dense greenery, broken by the colors of innumerable species of wild orchids. The head gets light and dizzy with the dense fragrance of jasmine and heady perfumes of wildflowers. Then there are deserts and canyons and as you reach the seashore, extensive white sandy beaches appear. Off the coast lie the famed Galapagos Islands. All of this neatly packed into a piece of real estate roughly the size of North and South Carolina. 

The weather of the region is extremely varied, from steaming hot to freezing cold. Due to its location on the equatorial line the climate is also very stable, varying mostly according to elevation, not so much affected by the season of the year. There is no true winter, spring, summer or fall – just rainy season (called winter) and dry season (called summer). 

Quito, located within a volcanic valley at the foot of an active volcano and surrounded by snow capped mountains, rests at almost 3,000 (9,000+ feet) meters above sea level. The center of the city is 15 kilometers south from the equator; the combination of altitude and location results in spring time weather all year round, similar to summertime in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, At that altitude the sky is a brilliant blue and colors are exceedingly bright on warm days when the sun is out, it feels melancholic and chilly when clouds hide the sun, nights are always cool and the clear night sky is ablaze with the brilliance of the milky way. 

At the heart of the city lies the historic colonial center, built between the 15th and 16th centuries by Spanish settlers after the conquest of the Inca Empire. Its architecture transports you to colonial Spain. The rest of the city and the largest part by far is “Modern Quito”, currently the center of business and where the majority of the population dwells. “Modern Quito” resembles a modern metropolis like many that exist in the southern hemisphere. Altogether it is an enchanting place full of culture and history, situated in a breathtaking setting. 

At the time of this remembrance old Quito was still the business center; the majority of the population lived, worked and studied in it or nearby. Modern Quito was barely a thought. Where the modern city now stands, then were farms, country estates, empty fields and eucalyptus forests. 

Our family lived in a colonial home in one of the most prominent and historic plazas of the city, “La Plaza de San Francisco”, its main feature being the beautiful church and convent which were built between the 15th and 16th centuries. Its large stone paved plaza has been the scene of countless cultural and political events throughout the nation’s history.

The storyteller

We were a family of seven at the time, three brothers and two sisters, my Mother whom we called “Mamita” or “Mami” and Father whom we called “Papito” or “Papi”. Mami was and still is one of the most creative people I have ever met. She is a to this day a prolific painter and poet. At bedtime, once we were all in our pajamas and nestled between the sheets, Mami’s bedtime story ritual would take place. She would weave intensely exiting stories with numerous characters; elves, princesses, ogres, dragons, heroes, wizards, witches; they all battled, loved and lived in fantastic magical kingdoms of her creation.

Mami’s stories developed all sorts of plots and subplots that she would invent on the fly as one by one we fell asleep; this kept us enthralled until we settled into the sandman’s warm embrace. However if dad came home during story time, at the sound of his arrival Mami would twist the tale and bring forth a magical spell that suddenly solved all of the problems and brought the princess and the hero together, meanwhile all the bad guys either disappeared or changed their evil ways and everyone lived happily ever after.

Disregarding the vociferous protests of those of us who had not yet fallen asleep - mother would rush off to greet her man and serve him his supper. We knew that there was no turning back once Papi got home, she was his then. Nevertheless I remember the feeling of warmth and security I felt, lying in bed while in the background I heard the muted speech between them, and I felt that everything was just as it should be.

The Crabs

 On this occasion my father had gone on a trip to the coast, to the port city of Guayaquil; we were left eagerly awaiting his return. In the early eve after my brothers and sisters had fallen into a deep sleep, I had also began my descent into a sleepy trance, induced by one of my mother’s creative bedtime stories. I unexpectedly felt myself nudged by my mother’s glee at Papi’s arrival. The whispered debriefing of his trip, delivered in his customarily lively manner and my mother’s muted laughter, slowly brought me out of the sleepy trance; I became fully awake.

I crawled out of bed; ambling into the kitchen I interrupted their intimate tête-à-tête. I made my way into my father’s arms, he picked me up, hugged and kissed me; I felt like the most special person in the world. The sensory and emotional content of the experience was overwhelming to me. Papi’s arrival brought with it a profound feeling of relief, of safe mooring. His sweet caring demeanor, his strong arms, and his Clark Gable good looks assured me that all’s well in the world. He was finally home and like my mom, I was overjoyed.

On return from this particular trip he had brought a special treat for Mom, one of her favorite foods and a most interesting new discovery to me; a bundle of live crabs from the coast. Since we lived in a high mountain valley a day’s trip from the tropics - crabs were a very special and unusual delight. Despite their spider like appearance and their large menacing claws, nothing associated with this wonderful occasion, could be anything but good to me.

So it was that as I found myself contentedly held in Mom’s arms, sharing her exited heartbeat and immersed in our shared emotion. I beheld my dad’s masterful performance as he prepared the gift he had brought for his woman. The love and the intimacy between those two permeated the room and infused the memory with such power as to have it seared into my toddler’s mind.

Dad

Papito was a whirlwind of perfect movement as he effortlessly unwrapped and untied the bundle of live crabs, all the while sharing stories and anecdotes that kept mom smiling and commenting. He handled the crabs with a dexterity that comes only from repeated practice – he spent a lot of time on the coast and lived parts of his childhood and early maturity there – he rinsed the crabs under fresh water and prepared them to be cooked. While he busied himself with his chore, mom, using her free arm filled a large pot with mountain water and set it a boiling with just the right pinch of salt. Then Dad carefully deposited the hapless live crabs into the steaming container, always maintaining his controlled and carefree composure. In a magical way he avoided the crabs’ desperate flailing and the snapping of their massive claws.

My paternal grandfather, who followed the family’s military tradition, reached the grade of coronel before his untimely demise. I have heard some of my relatives tell that he was a very demanding and ruthless man; rumor has it he was killed in a skirmish during a rebellion of his own soldiers. At any rate he passed on when Dad was a baby, we never knew him.

According to family lore, in grandfather’s house food was a very important affair. Grandmother used to say that he insisted that a restaurant type menu be prepared, so that he could choose between a number of meats and diverse dishes on a daily basis. These had to be ready for consumption precisely at lunch or dinner time - since his home was the center of his very large estate, this was not a difficult task for the kitchen staff and farmhands to produce. Grandma told us that the house employees ate the dishes that he did not choose, so nothing was wasted.

Born into that household, my father developed a delicate, gourmet’s palate. He was an extraordinary cook who left us all a legacy of good cooking and a finer culinary taste; judging by the empty plates at the end of the meals and the laudable remarks offered by our dinner guests, a few of us seem to have inherited this trait.

I do not remember whether or not he prepared drawn butter to go with the crab; I do remember the aroma and delicate sweet flavor of the meat, seasoned by the deliciously conspiratorial manner in which we three partook of that intimate moment, sucking out and enjoying the delicate flesh - while the rest of the family soundly slept.

Of Mexico and Republicans

From there the story takes many turns, Papi’s dream of giving us a better life and opportunities eventually brought the whole family to the US, by that time there were eight of us; all arrived as children and have since grown up, we have our own families and friends.

On occasion Papi would be home at bedtime, we would get a very special treat. He read us the classics - as I lay in my bed I got to know Ulysses, the heroes of Troy, Moby Dick, Captain Nemo, Oliver Twist and so many others. Without knowing it I was introduced to philosophy, politics, romance, religion, war, peace and life in general. He induced and abetted in us a deep appreciation of literature, art, classical music, politics, dance and the theater; it is no wonder that after being living apart for years now we have, separately, all become avid listeners of NPR.

Papi was a proud liberal, tolerant and fair. He never judged anyone by color, race, religion, nationality, wealth, education, sex or culture. He taught us to judge each man individually, according to his own characteristic actions. He believed in the concept of family and he believed in togetherness. He loved this Country and relished his right to vote. Papi never had an enemy; he said that he had no use for them. He was thick skinned and did not easily take offence and he taught me not to hold a grudge. He only held contempt for two things: The institutionalized corruption in Mexican society and the Republican Party platform as a whole, however he had quite a few Republican as well as Mexican friends whom he hosted and held dear and who held him in the same high esteem.

The gift

Papi left this existence a few years ago but he still lives in all of us, his children and intimate friends. He is present in our thoughts, actions, meetings and relationships. I don’t really know whether Papi really understood just how much he meant to all of us, I suspect he did. His most precious gift to me was and still is the one he repeatedly gave me, especially during Christmas or New Years. He would come up to me and after giving me a hug, he would place his hands on both my shoulders, he would then look at me square in the eyes and would say: “Son, no matter what you do, no matter where you go, whether you become a scoundrel or a hero, a doctor or a maintenance man, know this and know it well; I will always, always love you”. What a gift indeed.   

The Storyteller and Papito