An Ethnic Textile Love Story: Part Five

 It took courage to contact her grandparents out of the blue, having never met them or corresponded with them before. Juanita didn't even know if they were aware of her existence. But she wrote to them and hoped they could read english. Fortunately, a cousin close in age to Juanita - her name was Gloria - lived with her grandparents and answered Juanita's letter. Juanita learned that her grandfather, Martin, had been ill, but her grandmother, Joaquina, seemed keen to meet her and invited Juanita to visit them. 

The train trip from California to El Paso, Texas was brutally long and hot. Even though Juanita traveled in September , the heat bore down like a hot iron on her body. The further south the train rode, the greater the humidity grew, and so did Juanita's trepidation. How would she be received? 

After two days and two nights, the train reached El Paso. From the station Juanita took a taxi cab to the address of her grandparents' home. "Are you sure this is the right place?" she asked the cab driver.

    "Yup", the driver replied, pulling Juanita's suitcase from the cab.

It wasn't what she expected. She had envisioned some sort of Spanish-style hacienda with multiple stories and balconies dripping with flowering vines. Instead, she was confronted with a single story  dwelling, plain, with a barren front yard surrounded by a low iron rail fence. A gate opened onto a walkway that led to a wide porch. All of the house windows were covered with closed curtains. The place seemed very quiet, as if uninhabited. Juanita paid the cab driver and he promptly departed. 

A curtain over the window in the front door parted slightly and a face peered out at her. The door opened, creaking, and a heavy set woman with silver hair pinned up in a chignon called out, "Quien eres?" (Who are you?")

"I'm Juanita...from California". For a moment Juanita thought they'd forgotten she was coming. She hastily added, "I'm Mercedes' daughter". She stood still as a post, gripping her purse with both hands. A bead of sweat ran from her temple to her chin. The woman looked Juanita up and down, then settled her piercing eyes on Juanita's face. She turned and uttered to someone inside. Juanita could just make out the words, "La hija de Mercedes." The woman turned her face back to Juanita, nodded her head, and waved Juanita toward the door.

The interior of the house was like a small museum, cool, dark, immaculate, and full of stiff, formal furniture. People emerged from all parts of the house to greet her: two uncles, one aunt, her cousin, Gloria, who was just seventeen years old and pregnant, and her grandfather, Martin, a sweet-faced, soft-spoken man of short stature who was the complete opposite of his imposing wife, Joaquina. In her ankle-length, floral print dress and pearl earrings, Joaquina had a regal air about her. Everyone there spoke english except for Joaquina, who immediately criticized Juanita's "American" spanish. But Joaquina was eager to learn about Juanita and all her siblings. Juanita communicated in her halting spanish, telling the story of her mother's life and death, and how all her siblings now lived their lives. In hearing the details of their daughter's death, Martin buried his face in his hands and wiped tears from his eyes. Joaquina's response was to shake her head and sigh, "Que lastima. Que tragedio."

During her two-week visit, Juanita shared a bedroom with her cousin, Gloria. The two became fast friends, gossiping and laughing together. One night, sitting up in bed chatting, Gloria confided that she'd been sent to live with their grandparents while her husband completed his stint in the army. "I got pregnant before we were married. My parents said I should live with abuelo and abuela . That way no one where I come from will know". Gloria lowered her eyes and pulled the fringed shawl she wore tightly around herself. 

Juanita patted her cousin's hand and told her, "It's no shame. You're married now." Juanita touched the soft fringes of Gloria's shawl. "This is so pretty. I love the bright colors in it". 

"Oh, this." Gloria shrugged. "It's one of those old rebozos that abuelo Martin's mother used to make. I wear it just to cover up my big belly." Gloria giggled. 

"You mean our great grandmother made this? " Juanita drew in her breath and tugged on the shawl to examine it closely. Its intricate pattern was woven in brilliant hues of blue, pink, green, and cream. Juanita tried to imagine the clever hands that produced such a glorious cotton garment. She recalled the woven blanket her mother used to wrap herself in against the cold Oregon winters. "Are there any more of these around?"

"Sure. Up in the attic. Abuela Joaquina calls them peasant cloths. She put them away in a trunk."

"I want to see them!" Juanita couldn't contain her curiosity. 

Coming next, the conclusion of this Ethnic Textile Love Story 

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An Ethnic Textile Love Story: Part Four

 By 1942, the world was consumed in war. Juanita was sixteen, and took a job as a live-in nanny for an affluent family in the Oakland hills. She attended high school every day, and after school she babysat the couple's two young children. Her younger brother and sister were sent to live in the house hold of their eldest sister, Angela, in Stockton, California. This arrangement served Juanita well enough. When she graduated high school at age 17, she was hired by the Southern Pacific Railroad Company to work in the ticket office of their Stockton depot. Now Juanita was able to support herself and live independently, while also being near her siblings and young nieces and nephews. 

During a visit to the home of her elder sister, Juanita noticed a pair of framed photos on a shelf. One of the photos depicted a stately gentleman dressed in a formal suit with waistcoat and a bow tie. He sat in an ornate parlor chair and held a book in his hand. The other photo was of a fair-skinned woman with fine features. She wore an elegant dress in a fashion popular in the 1920s. A large-brimmed hat adorned with feathers and flowers crowned her head. The woman posed beside a velvet-curtained doorway. An  ornately beaded handbag hung from her wrist. 

     "Who are these people?" Juanita asked.

     "They are our grandparents," Angela informed her in a matter-of-fact tone. Juanita was incredulous to hear this. Never had either her father or mother made mention of their parents. She always assumed they were dead. 

     "They are Mama's parents. They live somewhere in Texas," Angela added. 

     "Where did you get these pictures? 

     "Mama gave them to me when I got married. She thought that maybe someday I might write to them. But I never did. Read what's written on the back sides."

Written in a beautiful cursive script on the back of the gentleman's photo was a brief note: "To my dear daughter, her husband, and family, I say this humbly. Remember me." The note was signed, "Martin Negrete, June 21, 1928, El Paso, Texas." The back of the woman's photo was dated November 1927 and was addressed to Mrs. Mercedes N. de Rosales and family. It read: "My dear daughter, receive this humble memory so you know who is fond of you, and don't forget your mother." This note was signed by Joaquina A. de Negrete. Both notes were written in Spanish. 

     "Why didn't Mama ever tell us about her parents?"

     "Because they weren't on speaking terms." Angela proceeded to tell Juanita about their grandmother disowning their mother for marrying their father. "I guess our grandmother eventually forgave Mama and tried to make up with her. Too bad Mama never had the chance to see them again before she died."

How heartbreaking for poor Mama, Juanita thought. To be estranged from her parents for so long; it must have hurt Mama deeply! Juanita would have given anything to be able to see her Mama again. But even though that was impossible now, there was no reason why she couldn't try to contact her grandparents. She made a plan. Within six months, she had saved enough money to purchase a round-trip train ticket from Stockton, California to El Paso, Texas. Juanita fully intended to meet Martin and Joaquina Negrete. 

#storythreads #ethnictextilelovestory 

The next installment of this story will come soon. 

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