Spanning three generations, 'Share The Moon' is the family saga of one girl, one moon and three lives; one Spanish, one English and one Finnish. Blended together into a captivating life journey and infused with tenderness and humor, each post can be read as an individual stand-alone piece. To read the complete adventure start from the very first post, 'Share The Moon', and simply work your way upwards. Welcome to my journey on the first Sunday of every month!

Sunday 26 February 2017

Columbus And The Missing Gravestone


Six long weeks have elapsed since Papa passed away, and once more I have returned to Tenerife, my childhood Island home to oversee the inevitable mountain of paperwork that comes when a family member leaves for The Other Side (see post  Share The Sorrow and Goodbye Mercedes Man). As well as this, I also want to see how Mama is bearing up without the presence of her beloved soul mate, Papa. Mama is most fortunate to have her English grand-daughter living with her and providing much needed company after the void left by Papa’s passing. Zara is indeed blessed with the beauty that the Spaniards so admire, but the part I value most is the inner variety, and she possesses this in plentiful abundance. Outer beauty is transient and with the passing of the years will wither and fade, the inner sort however never leaves your side and is with you to the end of time. When the reality of Mama's loss hits and the valley of tears return as if from nowhere, she need not bear it alone, she has this gentle and noble grandchild by her side to help her swim through the river of pain. And I see this inner beauty in action, as I observe them from a short distance away, harmoniously interacting with one another in the kitchen of Mama's apartment, one speaking English, the other Spanish. Both intertwined with the link to Papa.






Today is a day with no pressing responsibilities, so Mama, Zara and I decide to visit Papa’s grave at the cemetery high in the mountains overlooking our village of San Juan. I am seated in Mama's lounge and Zara has now come in from the kitchen and joined me. I tell her that I am looking forward to seeing the gravestone that Sis and I selected for her grandfather's grave a few days after the funeral (see post Goodbye Mercedes Man) and in doing so allowed Mama to grieve undisturbed. From the kitchen, Mama overhears our conversation and interrupts to inform me that there will be no headstone to admire as it has still not yet been put in place and she is feeling rather cross about this delay: Papa passed away on the 17th October and the gravestone was promised for All Saints Day on 1st November, yet she tells me that she has visited the cemetery twice since All Saints Day and there is no sign of any gravestone, anywhere and Zara confirms this. No headstone. Can I please call the funeral office and follow it up, Mama asks so I do exactly that. 
  

‘Madam’, the professional sounding man at the other end of the line tells me, ‘the headstone was put in place on 31st October in time for All Saints Day as agreed. Respectfully, ask your Mother to look again’, and he proceeds to give me the precise coordinates of Papa’s grave, level two, grave number four-hundred-and-seventy-one. ‘How can this be possible?’, Mama tells me. ‘Zara, her father and I were there just two weeks ago, laying flowers and I can vouch one hundred percent that there was no gravestone. Have they put it on the wrong grave?’  Mama asks with a look of horror. ‘Have you perhaps visited the wrong grave?’ I reply. ‘Impossible!’ Mama shoots back with a look that could wither the freshest of daisies. ‘I do not get my husband’s grave wrong!’  Prudently, I choose not to elaborate on the subject any further. 





Uncle Fernando is coming by inside the hour to drive us to the cemetery, so we had better hurry, Mama informs us. Somehow, she still finds the time to review the outfits Zara and I are wearing and pass her expert opinion accordingly; Zara is wearing micro shorts, which as far as Mama is concerned are so disgracefully short that when she bends over, Mama does not know where to look for shame. My outfit on the other hand receives the opposite review; 'Get rid of those dowdy, long shorts!', she urges me. She is referring to my stylish capri trousers. 'For goodness sake, you are divorced and newly-single, still young-looking and have fabulous legs. Show them off while you still can, and get yourself a pair of tiny shorts just like the other women on the Island!' This is too much for Zara, who exasperated by what she has heard, interrupts Mama mid-flow and throws her hands up in the air and then turns to me laying out her take on the matter

'This whole conversation is a complete farce! I am eighteen-years-old and Nanny wants me to wear shorts down to my knees, whereas you, my middle-aged Aunt,' by now she is pointing an accusatory finger at me, 'cannot be found shorts that are skimpy enough! It's completely unfair'. This heated outburst is soon concluded, but not before the entire topic has been duly summarised in a most astute manner; 'Nanny is basically saying that my shorts are too short, and that yours aren't short enough!' And we cannot both but see the comical side to Mama's way of thinking. Mama's opinion on the matter will not budge.





Uncle Fernando arrives and the four of us begin the drive up to the mountain cemetery. Zara is still wearing her micro shorts and I am in my beloved capri trouser. We have both chosen to ignore Mama's fashion pleas. Fernando is Mama's older brother and they are both in their seventies, but sat next to one another in the front of his own Toyota SUV 'Tank' ( see post Tanks And Treasures) they are talking boisterously over one another and squabbling like the children they once were on the neighbouring island of La Gomera. For Mama and her family are not from my Island, I am the first generation of Sanz to be born in Tenerife and claim it as mine. Zara and I smile as we silently observe Mama and her brother from the comfort of the back seat. Fernando has been paralysed from the waist down for the past twenty-five years after colliding into an oncoming car with his motor bike, and we have nothing but admiration for the tenacity of this man who will not let his disability stop him from living life. The vehicle is specially adapted for him with all the controls on the steering wheel so that he can easily access them. On my numerous return visits to the Island, he gladly acts as driver.Tio Fernando, as we call him feels immensely useful chauffeuring us ladies around the Island and we women are grateful to him for his kindness.   





I start to feel nauseous from the numerous bends along the winding mountain roads, so ask Mama to swop places with me. She come to sit in the back with Zara, whilst I slip into the front seat with Uncle Fernando. I was not wholly truthful, when I said that on my visits to the Island, Uncle Fernando acts as our driver. He actually covers very three important roles; as well as chauffeur, he is also local historian and poet, endowed with a mind bursting at the seams with priceless stories, general knowledge, poems, historical facts, and whatever else one can imagine. And while the girls amuse themselves in the back seat, we happily spend the remainder of the drive sharing our treasure trove of historical knowledge with one another and the winding road with its nauseating curves are temporarily forgotten; The conquest of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards between the years 1402-1496; Our own indigenous, pre-colonial Guanche history, stretching back centuries before the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores; The naval battle fought by the English Admiral Nelson against the Spanish fleet in July 1797 off the coast of Tenerife at Santa Cruz harbour and known as The Battle of Santa Cruz. The Spaniards won and Nelson lost famously lost his arm. Spain one, England nil; Christopher Columbus and his historical voyage of discovery to the New World. On 6th September 1492, Columbus set sail on the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria vessels from Mama and Uncle Fernando's own island, La Gomera, still known to this day as 'The Colombine Island'. In the capital city of San Sebastian, it is still possible to visit the home where Columbus stayed during his time on the Island, the location of the church at which he prayed for safe deliverance, as well as the well that he drew water from for ships' provisions and to consecrate any new lands he might stumble on. And stumble he did, on soil eventually christened, 'America'. 







One singular fact puzzles me amongst all these gems of historical facts that we have just shared; why did Columbus choose La Gomera to stop off on his voyage of discovery? Why not another Island, a bigger one such as Tenerife? Fernando will surely know, he seems to know pretty much everything else. Well, for a start, the conquest of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards had not yet been completed by the time Columbus set sail on his historic voyage of 1492. It would still take another four years before the Guanche Kingdom of Chineche or Tenerife, would bow down before the Conquistadores as the last of the Canary Islands to submit to Spanish rule. Plus of course, there was also the little matter of a certain Lady named Beatriz. ' Beatriz who?' I ask. 'Beatriz de Bobadilla!' Fernando divulges with one impacting phrase and proceeds to momentarily take his sight off the road ahead, gently turns towards me and sighs with the imperceptible exasperation of a teacher faced with a pupil who has clearly not paid attention to classes. And once again, I am converted into an errant seven-year old school girl. 'My dear child, did you learn nothing at your fancy school in England?'  'I learned lots', I reply, 'but I have never heard of anybody called 'Beatriz'. Who was she? And what did she have to do with Columbus?' I ask. But Fernando cannot answer me, for we have now reached the cemetery in Guia de Isora and our important mission of searching for The Missing Gravestone supercedes the mystery of, 'Who was Beatriz?' She will just have to wait until later.



 To be continued....

Next post 5th March : Gravestone Mystery Resolved

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

Sunday 19 February 2017

Meet The Family



Papa, Mama and I are now on 'The Other Planet', as I call mainland Spain, visiting papa's Andalusian Papa's (see  post The Other Planet). We have already met with Grandma Maria and Grandpa Eduardo, the rest of the Garrido family is still ahead of us.

Uncle Eduardo, Papa's brother, also comes to greet us with his wife, Josefina or Aunt Pepa as we call her. She has a warm smile and Mama and I like her right away. Eduardo is a small man with an infectious laugh and he soon introduces me to my two Andalusian cousins, Eduardo and Maria Dolores who are roughly my age. Eduardo is named after Papa's Papa and Maria Dolores after Papa's Mama, just like me and my little mind wonders to itself, ‘why are we all named after two people?' Later that evening Papa tells Mama that uncle Eduardo had to marry Aunt Pepa because she was in the family way and I do not understand what this means but I am happy that the family way is with our family because I like Aunt Pepa and I like my Andalusian cousins, Edu and Mari as everybody calls them. We are all named after our immediate relatives, but it’s only a formality. As soon as the ink has dried on the christening document, we all revert to pet names. Eduardo becomes Edu, Maria Dolores becomes Mari. Even Aunt Josefina does not stay Josefina for long, for everybody calles her Aunt Pepa. Papa is called José, but everyone calls him Pepe, and Mama is called Francisca, but nobody uses that name for she is known as Paca. 





My name is easy, I am christened Maria del Carmen and everybody calls me Mari Carmen. Except when I am very naughty, then Mama and Papa call me by my full name and I know that I will have something to answer for. But being called by my full name no longer fills me with trepidation, for I am a wise beyond my years and have already worked out that when a Mama or Papa smack you on the bottom for being naughty, you just theatrically yelp and cry as loud as possible after the first smack, that way they think you have learned your lesson with just one smack and stop at that. Mamas and Papas don't really want to smack you, but they must, and if one smack is enough to teach you a lesson then they are relieved. And so am I. You just have to be careful to time the first wail with the smack, for if you wail too early, then the Mamas and Papas realise that you are making it all up and then you will get an extra smack for wailing before the actual smack has been administered. Since a young and tender age I have been honing my acting skills to perfection, and I rarely get more than one smack, which is just as well as I try to be a good girl most of the time but don't always succeed. My little three year old mind tells me I need to share this gem of information with my Andalusian cousins, Mari and Edu.




One of the Andalusian Mamas comes by to meet Mama and I am offered a toffee whilst the adults talk. I greedily unwrap it and shove it into my little mouth to enjoy the delights of this treasure. Not so fast, says my benefactor, ‘Have you not forgotten to say something ‘she asks with a hint of irritation at my lack of manners. I too suddenly realise that I have forgotten something of importance and through a mouthful of teeth clamped shut with sticky toffee, I respond accordingly, stretching out my little chubby three-year-old hand and say a most important thing I had completely forgotten in the ecstasy of devouring my glorious toffee: ‘Can I have another one for my Mother?’ Both Mamas burst into fits of laughter and soon they have forgotten about my imprudence, but most important, I achieve my goal and am given my second toffee. Slowly I am beginning to like life here on this Other Planet; I have nice cousins to play with, we all speak the same language which I am now finally beginning to understand, and even the toffees seem to be distributed with boundless generosity. When your are just three-years-old, that's important.






We are now living on the Calle Ancha, Wide Street, and it is early morning and the street outside is strangely quite after the noisy bustle of the night before. I have already noticed that the people from this Other Planet are noisier than from my Island: as well as talking in strange tongues and eating unfamiliar food, they break into bouts of spontaneous singing and dancing, and I have no idea what sets them off. They call it Flamenco. Papa does it and I am transfixed listening to him singing this soulful, melancholic music with people around him clapping hands, dancing or playing the guitar. This is a flamboyant side to Papa that I have never seen back on our Island and I like it. I am already awake but Mama and Papa are still fast asleep and I am bursting for a wee-wee. I do not want wake them, so pull out the potty from under my bed and sit on it, on this new day of our stay on The Other Planet. Now the wee -wee is done, I decide to be a big girl and empty the potty all by myself so that Mama need not do that. I take the chair from the corner of the room and push it up against the window which has been open all night so that the stifling heat of the Andalusian nights somehow dissipates. And I climb up onto the chair with the potty in my hand, and throw the contents out into the street. I do not have time to climb down, before I hear the screams of a woman coming from the street directly outside the window. She is shouting in such a loud voice that Mama and Papa are now awake. ‘What’s’ going on?’  Papa drowsily asks, ‘what’s going on, is that your daughter has drenched me with the contents of her potty!’ and the voice from the other side of the window is now standing before me in our bedroom in the form of a very angry-looking lady. 





‘Carmen!’ Papa says, but Papa has no time to add anything else, for Carmen has already interrupted him, ‘How would you like it, to be walking past somebody's house minding your own business, only to be suddenly soaked with a potty full of urine! Just let me get my hands on her!she screams at the top of her voice and directs a chilling look at the three-year-old girl culprit in room; me. ‘Carmen, relax, it was just an accident, she is just a child, these things happen.’ Mama and Papa are now out of bed, trying to calm the irate lady, and I take advantage of this to run behind Papa and skilfully place him between myself and this angry person, peeking out every now then from behind the safety of his legs, not sure of what I have done to warrant such heated exchanges. These people from The Other Planet are indeed strange, I think to myself. I can see that Carmen whoever-she-is, is in no mood to be pacified and she storms out of the room and abruptly as she arrived, telling Mama and Papa that she will now have to go home and change her clothes, and all because of a three-year-old who has not been brought up with the most basic of manners. Once Carmen has left, Mama and Papa start to laugh the laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Papa tells Mama that Carmen is his cousin, and that she will calm down, but it will not be today. And as for me, Mama tells me to wake them the next time I want to empty the contents of my potty. One urine soaked cousin will suffice for this trip. And they both look at one another and smile.




It’s soon the end of our time on The Other Planet and Papa takes Mama and I to the Feria, the Fair. It’s a magical place with rides, light and toys that I have never seen before in my short life. It's a hot Andalusian night and the three of us walk there together. I hold Papa's hand and notice that he has half a finger missing and I ask what happened. Where is it? Gone, Papa says, a donkey bit it off when he was a young boy and he cannot now bear to see the animal, not even in a photo. The mystery of the missing half finger is however quckly forgotten, for I am soon assailed by an unquenchable thirst and ask Papa to, 'please buy me a Coca-Cola, my throat is parched'. He smiles at the eloquent request of this three-year-old before him, and the refreshment is duly purchased. Now we move onto the lottery stalls and I want more than anything to win a blonde doll that I have spotted. She has captivating hair the colour of gold, and nobody I know has hair like that. Even on this Other Planet, everybody has hair the colour of ebony just like me. Papa buys consecutive lottery tickets, one after the other in a vain attempt to win me my doll and countless tickets have now been purchased, but the doll still sits unattainably on the shelf. Finally, Papa asks the stall holder the price for purchasing the doll outright. He empties his pockets of all the money he has, hands it to the stall holder who in turn picks up the doll and then puts it into my ecstatic little arms. Papa tells Mama and I that all our money has now gone so we must go home and to bed. But I have my doll and happily walk back to our home clutching Emilia with her golden mane of hair, for this is what I have named my precious find. Emilia will follow me on all my life journeys, back to my Island and eventually one day onto England. But for now, she is the Andalusian doll that Papa sacrificed everything for so that I could have her. And I know that Papa did this because he loves me as much as I love Emilia. Sleep comes effortlessly once we are back home, and I clutch my treasured doll dreaming of the faraway places we will visit to together. But our first journey will back to my Island home.




To be continued...

Next post 26th February : Columbus And The Missing Gravestone

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.